The Purple Potion

Disclaimer : Harry Potter and the world he lives in is not mine.

A/N: The Purple Potion is my second HP fanfic. Like the Cardinal Curses it is a Pre DH Post Hogwarts Mystery loaded with angst. I wasn’t sure about posting this on PortKey until I could see how I was going to end it. Some who have read it would probably disagree that I have posted it but here it is anyway!

Much of it will be unchanged from the original, particularly the plot, although I am planning to ‘fix’ some scenes that I know I definitely botched!

For those who have read it and would like to leave a note I only ask that you put spoiler warnings if you intend to comment on future chapters to not ruin it for those who like figuring things out on their own.

Warnings :

Harry and Hermione are OOC but had to be for the theme of sin, consequence and all the rest that follows that.

There will be some Heron and some Dramione – a full plate! But Portkey Rule compliant of course.

If you hate angst don’t even start reading it.

It’s long, really long - 65 chapters and counting. I admit that the story got away from me. There are parts of if that I never intended to write but can’t go back to cut out because a lot of them are HHr. So if you need help getting some sleep… LOL!

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Prologue.

February 14, 2006, 11:03P.M., The Alpha Chelsea Hotel, Gerrard Street, Toronto

It was supposed to be an act; a pretence.

He was working a case; traveling from London as Roy Hunt, the slippery, clever crook he had trailed for two weeks and arrested not forty eight hours ago. His entire being was loaded with Polyjuice Potion to disguise himself so he could do the job he was supposed to do.

But what he was doing with her at the moment was not part of the assignment.

Their lips had been on each other, hot, steamy, even before they got off the lift. There was the groping and fondling, as his hands caressed parts of her he would have never dared touch before.

He should stop; he was her best friend.

She should stop; she was getting married in two weeks.

She was getting married in two weeks to his other best friend.

His treacherous act would definitely earn him a good beating and then some, unless he could convince both friends that he was trying to keep her safe from harm.

A tall, greasy dark haired man scowled as he walked past them kissing passionately just outside her tenth floor room. Just as he suspected, 'Greasy' would try again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man disappear into a lift.

Good. He was going to leave her alone, at least for now. Once he got her inside he could tell her the truth. Maybe.

He battled with his conscience. Lying was not right but the truth would be so hard to explain. He received specific orders not to blow his cover, particularly not to her. And besides, not only was it out of character for him to pass on an attractive woman wanting to have sex with him, he didn’t really want to stop even at the expense of continuing to lie.

His senses swirled around as he got a whiff of her soft flowery scent while he left a trail of languid kisses along the length of her neck. Greatly encouraged by her involuntary positive vocal responses, there was now no denying him of the need she had stirred within; his need to hold her in his arms and do more.

Fumbling to unlock the door with her card key, they stumbled into her hotel room and she shut the door behind them, leaning on it. There was the thud of her purse as it found the floor. The momentum of their uninhibited intimacy spilled over inside the confines of the dimly lit space. His mouth quickly sought and crushed hers with a longing he never knew he had, surprised by her equally lustful response. Her arms were around his neck, clearly not wanting them to cease what they were doing. Her lips parted under his request and their tongues found each other, engaging each other, caressing each other, giving and taking, and neither seemingly getting enough. His lean muscular frame was pressed up against hers eliminating what was but a sliver of air between them. His pounding heart was going fast and he could feel the thumping of her chest against his. He reminded himself to breathe, but to do so would be to risk having that moment of sanity that was sure to put an end to what they were doing. Not only did he not want to stop, he really couldn’t.

She broke it off by necessity. He could feel her laboured breathing, as short and as shallow as his. Her shoulder length brown hair was quite dishevelled from his handling. Her brown eyes were glazed with the same raw desire he saw a few minutes ago. She was searching him, like he was her, for some sort of direction on how to proceed.

Are you sure this is what you want?

They had talked about this, earlier that night. It was a suggestion of a last fling, so she could at least experience being with someone else other than the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. Preferably someone she did not know and someone who she would never have to know. No attachments. Just sex. Far away from where her real life was. Maybe he should remind her.

“You’re getting married in two weeks,” he finally said as he traced the outline of her face lightly with his fingers, looking deeply into her eyes. He wanted her so much but was saddened by what she doing.

She replied as she continued to look at him, “I know.”

He could hear her think and wondered what was going through her mind. Before he could ask, she slid her fingers down from his neck and began loosening his tie, determined yet trembling. It came off and disappeared from view.

She had made her decision. It was so confusing, feeling disappointed that she had compromised her ideal for something so fleeting as the casual contact she was about to engage in, but ecstatic that it was with him. Only, he knew he could have been anyone else.

“You’re getting married in two weeks,” he repeated softly into her ear, closing his eyes, shutting out the yelling voice in him that was commanding him to stop.

“Twelve days actually,” she corrected him almost whispering, slowly sliding his jacket off his shoulders and arms onto the floor. Her touch seemed to easily make it through the material of his shirt, driving him crazy.

She continued, “I don’t know you…”

Not true…you actually do…

“You don’t know me…” she said as her hands began working on the buttons of his shirt, helping him get out of it.

But I do know you…

She nibbled on his lower lip. He nibbled back; who wouldn’t? He slowly caressed her shapely body. She was as nervous as he was. Shoes were unnecessary as they made their way closer to her bed.

“No one else can know…” she reminded him as he watched and assisted her out of her black dress, revealing a most provocative lingerie that left not much to imagination, a magnet that made him want to touch her even more.

“Of course not,” he replied as they deepened their kiss, his hand, finding its way up her thigh and over her soft lacy underwear. She shivered and moaned against his lips as he slipped his fingers in and touched her. Words were not necessary beyond that.

If only she knew that since announcing their engagement six months ago, he had wanted her like this, with unimaginable lust. Not really understanding or knowing why, he couldn’t confess or do anything about it. He didn’t know what it meant; he didn’t know where this was going; he didn’t want to say anything he would regret.

He lifted her with his strong arms and took her into bed. In no time at all, she had unfastened his trousers, allowing it to come off, and saw to the loss of the remaining piece of garment he had on. She threw away all inhibition and allowed herself the pleasure of another man’s body, a stranger.

For a fleeting moment, as he pulled her lingerie off to reveal her striking nakedness save for the small black covering between her legs, a question in his mind begged to be acknowledged. How could she do this?

But it seemed that at that point, what mattered only was that she was doing it. He could lie to himself and say that this was for her, so she could get what she wanted. Or that his best friend did not deserve to marry her. But truthfully, this was now all about him; his want, his need. She was getting married in twelve days. This could be his one chance to be with her, the one time she would let her guard down and allow it. He had to quench his thirst or risk feeling this way about her for the rest of their lives.

And besides, they promised each other. Whatever happened in Toronto would stay in Toronto. She would never see Roy Hunt after tonight and there would be no need for her to know that the man she was making love with was someone else.

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Chapter 1. Murder in the Kitchens

February 7, 2007 – somewhere in the United Kingdom

It was three in the morning.

Within the hallowed walls of Hogwarts, undeniably the most prestigious school of witchcraft and wizardry in Europe, a figure in a grey cloak and hood walked in the shadows through a long corridor, coming to a halt in front of a painting of a bowl of fruit. Looking both ways and convinced that the coast was clear, a gloved hand emerged from the cloak and tickled the pear. It giggled and transformed into a door handle. He was in.

Stepping into the vast Hogwarts kitchens, he found the house-elf beside the massive brick fireplace where she usually slept in her soiled tea-cozy surrounded by bottles of butterbeer. Without hesitation, he stood right beside her and pointed his wand at the diminutive drunken figure.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The lazy orange light from the fire was briefly overpowered by an intense green flash that illuminated every crevice in the huge room of high ceilings. The figure on the floor was dead. Very dead. Working feverishly and frantically, the task was done in no time at all and he got what he came for.

It would be two hours before the death would be discovered and if he was lucky, nobody would think that it was murder.

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Ring…ring…ring…

An arm reached out onto the bedside table from within the heap of blankets and covers, trying to locate the source of the obnoxious ringing sound. She hit the snooze button on her alarm clock.

Ring…ring…ring…

Wrong one.

Reluctantly, her brown eyes peered from beneath the pillow, her bushy brown hair partially obstructing her line of sight in every direction. After several more annoying rings she finally found the wireless telephone beneath a stack of research articles.

Hermione Granger did not get much sleep.

“Hello,” her still sleepy voice said into the mouthpiece.

“Where are you!” a female voice screamed into her ear so loudly she had little doubt it had punctured her eardrum, even as she instinctively held it as far away from her as she could.

“Obviously at home where you called me,” she answered. “Did you take a dumb pill today?”

She was joking and Ginny Weasley, the person who just caused her temporary deafness, was her best friend. At the moment, Ginny had no sense of humor.

“You’re going to be late!”

Hermione looked at the clock. It was just before nine.

“I’m on holidays. How can I be…oh Merlin!” she exclaimed as she realized what she was late for.

“I’ll get him to stall but get your butt here right away!” Ginny barked like an army sergeant and hung up.

Scrambling out of bed, she went into the bathroom of her two-bedroom Downtown London flat and did the best she could to make her appear more appropriate for the occasion she was about to attend. She slipped out of her pajamas, grabbed the first clean business ensemble she could get her hands on, and took her green dress robe from the closet, donning it. She ran to her office desk and grabbed the stack of papers she had worked on last night just before Disapparating to an alley very close to the dingy street where the Ministry Visitor’s Entrance was located.

Getting into the red broken down phone box, she quickly dialed 62442. A sweet welcoming voice from within the booth said, “State your business.”

“Hermione Granger, witness for the Centaur trial.”

She took the silver badge with her name on it, disgusted as she read the purpose of her visit that was printed on it. Some things were just difficult to change.

Half-breed Trial Witness.

As she got to the 8th Level Atrium, she registered her wand with security and got on one of the lifts to take her to Level Nine. She passed through the Department of Mysteries, waved back briefly to a seemingly daydreaming witch she knew from Hogwarts and hurriedly went down the flight of stairs to Level 10 through the dark corridor. At the very end, she finally reached Courtroom Ten and saw her red-headed friend pacing nervously.

“It’s about time,” Ginny quickly ushered her through the packed courtroom and sat her right behind a familiar tall, blonde man. He turned around briefly and she met his warm gray eyes. He smiled at her. She smiled back. Hermione felt Ginny roll her eyes up towards the ceiling. They will have to talk about this later.

“Magorian, it doesn’t matter that you do not recognize the authority of this court,” Draco Malfoy explained. He was the Wizengamot appointed counsel, which was now required in any proceedings involving non-magical or non-wizard beings. “They will decide your fate.”

“No. My fate has been decided long before any of us in this room was born,” the fair haired centaur said calmly, looking at the ensemble of wizards and witches that made up the Wizengamot. “It is foolish for humans to think that what they do actually affects destiny.”

One of the members, an old witch who looked like she had not slept in ages, spoke up, “Mr. Malfoy, if you have no further witnesses…”

“I do have one more,” Draco looked at Hermione with a look of desperation in his eyes. She guessed that things weren’t going their way. “Healer Hermione Granger.”

“The Wizengamot acknowledges the presence of Healer Hermione Granger,” announced the witch who was taking notes on the proceedings.

Hermione stood up and walked to the podium right beside Magorian, who merely shook his head. Magorian, leader of the centaur herd in the Forbidden Forest, was accused of murdering fellow centaur Firenze a week ago. The trial before the Wizengamot was to decide whether or not he was guilty and if so, whether or not he should be sent to Azkaban or receive a Dementor’s kiss.

“Miss Granger, in what capacity are you involved in this case,” one of the younger wizards asked.

“I was approached by Society for the Protection of Magical Beings to review the forensic evidence surrounding the death of the centaur Firenze,” she replied, leaving out the part that she was allowed access to Firenze’s remains only for an hour late last night and the trial had been moved up two days. “My findings are clear. Magorian is innocent.”

A neckless, squat witch with a high pitched voice spoke, “Our own forensic wizards have gone over the evidence. What qualifications do you possess over and above them that make you better?”

Her temper flared as she saw Dolores Umbridge emerge from the shadows. In ten years, Umbridge had managed to climb her way back up the Ministry ranks and into the Wizengamot. With Magorian there, throwing in some trees would probably bring back some scary memories. Hermione did tell Draco she could be discredited as a witness because forensics wasn’t her field.

“Common sense,” she retorted, civilly, hoping Umbridge’s objections wouldn’t gain support from the rest of the Wizengamot. She signaled Ginny to give the report she had written up early that morning to the courtroom recorder, who distributed it to the members. “The details are all on the report but there are three main points that proves Magorian did not murder Firenze.”

Hermione came up with the points at three in the morning and it took a couple of hours to put a report together. She looked around the packed courtroom. No, not in public, not yet. Draco had just read her report and agreed.

He spoke to the Wizengamot, “Before Miss Granger goes through this report, I most humbly suggest that in the interest of protecting the integrity of future investigations, the remaining proceedings should be sealed from public access.”

There was considerable malcontent within the courtroom as a lion like figure, the Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour, pounded a gavel briskly until some order was restored. After hushed discussions among the elders, it was decided to clear the courtroom.

“Proceed, Miss Granger,” Scrimgeour said to her after the front doors were closed behind the last spectator.

She took out her wand and conjured a white screen to illustrate her points better, projecting a picture of Firenze’s dead body zooming onto the bruising on his torso.

“Point one. The hoof marks found on the victim do not belong to Magorian or any centaur for that matter. Notice that patterns on the victim are much bigger than the hoof print taken off Magorian. They were not caused by centaur hoofs but are consistent with that made by the hind legs of a Thestral, maybe two.”

As drawings were superimposed onto the picture of the mark on Firenze’s chest, there were murmurs of agreement amongst the body of elders.

“Point two. The arrow that pierced his chest was not centaur in origin. There was an attempt to conceal it with magic but it took no time at all to make it reappear. Notice the markings on the wooden shaft. Definitely Muggle.”

In fine print, the arrow had on it Made in China.

“And point three. Your expert identified cause of death as internal bleeding due to the arrow head puncturing the heart. That’s impossible,” Hermione said matter-of-factly.

“And why is that?” it was Umbridge who was now red in the face.

“Because when I examined the victim, he did not have a heart. As a matter of fact, he did not have lungs, or liver, or kidneys, or intestines. Even his brain matter was missing.”

There was uproar in the courtroom. The Minister pounded the gavel repeatedly. Hermione looked over to Ginny and Draco. Both had puzzled and surprised looks on their faces. Even Magorian looked at her with keen interest.

“What happened to them?” an unidentified witch asked from the back.

“That’s what the Ministry needs to find out,” she replied, or at least someone else with more intelligence. “There were no other scars or injuries on the victim which would only mean that someone used magic to take his organs out. I suspect a killing curse was used on him. A wizard or a witch should be the one on trial here. Magorian should be released.”

The buzzing amongst the Wizengamot made it necessary for the Minister to bang his gavel again.

“Order!” he finally calmed them down. “Let’s put this to a vote.”

The show of hands that followed was overwhelmingly in Magorian’s favor with the notable abstention of one really malicious witch. The elders started filing out of the courtroom.

“Young lady,” Magorian addressed her just before he left, “I would thank you if not for our belief that I would have been set free regardless of what you and your friends have done for me.”

Hermione nodded, understanding that it was as close to an appreciation as they would get.

Magorian paused briefly and continued, “We do not get involved. Despite our differences, Firenze was one of us and he was a dear friend. I trust that you will do what you can to find his heart, even if just a piece of it, and put it back where it belongs. He would want that.”

“Of course,” she replied as the centaur trotted out.

“What did he mean by that,” Ginny asked her.

“A few centuries back, centaurs were subject to a lot of human scrutiny. Healers were tasked to document their anatomy for study,” Hermione explained, “We did it the only way we knew how, take them apart. Anyway, to make a long story short, it is their belief that the centaurs who were used for those experiments never made it to their rightful final resting place in the heavens because they were without hearts when they were laid to rest. The dimwit who examined Firenze’s body, knew not to cut him up, but he should have looked more closely. This could have been easily missed.”

“Why would someone want his organs in the first place, and try to cover it up?” Draco asked.

“That is the question, isn’t it,” Ginny said sarcastically. Hermione knew that Ginny, despite needing to work with Draco on this case, had only utmost distrust for him.

Of course, Hermione could understand why Ginny couldn’t trust the person who, at Hogwarts years ago, stood for a lot of the things they fought and continued to fight against. If not for Draco being the only volunteer counsel available for appointment by the Wizengamot, Ginny would have refused to work with him. Actually, never in Hermione’s wildest imagination had she thought she would ever exchange sincere smiles with the individual who had a lot to do with the murder of Professor Albus Dumbledore.

But Draco Malfoy had changed a lot since Hogwarts. At six feet tall, he had filled out quite well and had an imposing presence in any room he walked into. His pale blonde hair was cut short in a way that made him look almost ordinary and his grey eyes were no longer cold or clouded, but unguarded and inviting. Hermione had been able to see his each and every genuine emotion through them in the days that they spent working on the case.

The change was not just physical. It was as if he was a different person altogether. After Voldemort’s defeat, he lost his father to the Dementors and his mother took him to the United States for a couple of years. Hermione guessed the transformation started then. Since working with him more closely on the Magorian trial a week ago, she was surprised at how he was able to turn his whole life around, no longer living and breathing hatred but showing compassion and understanding. As a testament to this, Ginny’s caustic comment was met, not with anger, but with self restrain and, she could sense, frustration at him.

She was about to attempt to deflect the tension by pointing out that their team had just freed an ungrateful centaur when they were interrupted by a distinct recognizable sound.

“Ehem,” she knew it was Umbridge even before they turned to the voice. What could she possibly want from them.

“Miss Umbridge,” Ginny started in a mocking tone, “I see you’re still on your campaign against the inhabitants of the Forbidden Forest.”

Since getting her position back at the Ministry, Umbridge had taken every opportunity to rid Hogwarts of its non-human residents; a personal crusade.

“And I see you and Miss Granger are still wasting your time trying to protect them,” she replied back and turned to Draco, “As for you, Mr. Malfoy, I am sorely disappointed that you have fraternized with such poor company. I was reading the Skeeter article about you and Miss Granger yesterday. I must say, your poor mother must be rolling in her grave. It’s truly tragic.”

Ginny interjected so only Hermione would hear, “Yeah, tragic indeed. She’s not the only one rolling in her grave.”

Draco replied, “I apologize for disappointing you. But I am surprised. I certainly didn’t think someone as busy as you had time to engage in gossip.”

Hermione swore steam was blowing out of Umbridge’s ears as she walked away. They laughed and as it died down, Draco turned to her and said, “I have to go, Muggle hearing in an hour. I’ll pick you up tonight to celebrate. Dinner. Is seven okay?”

“I’ll see you then,” she answered him, ignoring Ginny’s glare.

“What are you doing?” Ginny finally asked to release some of the tension from her obvious disapproval of what was happening.

“It’s only dinner,” Hermione replied. It was, really.

“And the other night was only a kiss.”

“Yes. I would have preferred our first one not being displayed on the Daily Prophet but unfortunately I can’t control everything.”

The other night after their third date, she thought it considerate of him to ask her if he could, before leaning over and kissing her. She could tell he was nervous; she was too. And the three second or so kiss they had, having no expectations whatsoever, was enjoyable.

“Knowing Malfoy, he probably had something to do with that,” her friend, a skeptic forever.

“Now, stop that,” she chastised Ginny. That was really a low blow.

“How do you do it, anyway? How can you look at him and not remember his past?”

That was a really good question. It was not easy but she had to do it to be able to work with him on the case. First, she had to get rid of the images of him calling her ‘Mudblood’. Then the memories of him leading up to Professor Dumbledore’s death had to be set aside. Finally, she decided not to think about him as the Draco they knew at Hogwarts. It was like trying to get to know someone new.

“He has changed. He’s not the same person. That’s how.”

“I just don't buy it. This isn’t another one of your lost causes, is it?”

Ginny was referring to the fact that the Malfoy name had lost considerable influence in the Wizarding community and that no wise witch would choose to be with a nobody like Draco.

“No. But if it is, so what? It isn’t that I have anything else to do.”

“You’re going to get hurt,” that was Ginny’s warning ever since she told her about going out with him.

“There is always that possibility if you put yourself out there, right? You shouldn’t worry,” Hermione tried to play it down. “If I do get hurt, it can’t hurt as badly as it did the last time.”

With that last thought, a sudden deep sharp pain came from within her chest, like an old scar being forcibly ripped apart, lemon juice poured all over the fresh jagged edges.

Well, she certainly hoped not.

February 7, 2007 – Somewhere in Toronto, Ontario, Canada

He saw him. It was definitely him. There was no mistaking the back of his slimy black hair as the tall, lanky man turned the corner into a blind alley just east of Dundas and Spadina.

Weaving in and out the sidewalk, he tried to avoid bumping into the mostly Asian crowd of pedestrians going about their usual Chinatown shopping and the vending carts that overflowed from within the stores. He was determined not to lose Greasy this time.

As he got to the alley he broke into a sprint; his heart pounding and his wand ready in his hand. He had waited months to do this. Not ten feet from where he stopped was his adversary with his back turned, facing high walls all around him. Finally, he had him cornered and he could give this lowlife what he deserved. There was no way out except through him.

“Turn around, slowly,” he commanded, prepared for anything that might come his way.

Then he heard laughter; mocking, uncontrollable laughter. It soaked the air and filled his head. And as Greasy turned around he transformed; black to flaming red hair, grey to blue eyes, freckles cropping up on his face.

He heard him say in a chilling voice, “Quid pro quo, Potter. Consider us even.”

Beep…beep…beep…

It was just the usual nightmare. A hand reached down on the floor and grabbed a pager from amongst the pile of clothes, shutting off the alarm. It was 4:00a.m.

Harry Potter was in a strange place, with a naked woman whose name escaped him at that moment. He wished he could explain the memory loss to the blinding pain coming from the faded lightning shaped scar on his forehead. But it wasn’t that; he remembered now. Last night, they dispensed with the formality of introducing themselves to each other.

As he was dressing himself she woke briefly and asked him, “Am I going to see you again?”

He was clear about this last night but sometimes, they still asked. He looked at her, and answered truthfully, “No.”

She nodded, understanding, not upset by his answer, “Please lock the front door on your way out.”

A cursory okay later, he stepped out of her bedroom and Dissaparated to his leased Downtown townhome, knowing the Muggle locked the door herself the night before.

Inside his bedroom, he undressed again, stepped into the shower and turned it on, but not before glancing over at the now dated Daily Prophet laid out on the marble kitchen counter just as he had left it last night, on the Socials Section.

It was accidental, his stumbling onto the article by Rita Skeeter. He normally did not read the Socials but as he was turning pages the image of her caught his eye. Seeing the rest of the picture made him see blood red.

So, she was going out with Malfoy. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around that idea. The beautifully written piece by Skeeter about her and their changed former Hogwarts classmate in the Daily Prophet was, well, surprising. Actually so shocking it blew his mind out and ripped his already tattered heart into smaller pieces.

Why Malfoy?

Dean had been cryptic when he called on him by Floo, quite unhappy that it was midnight his time. Dean Thomas was a Hit Wizard, his ex-partner and was the only person he had regular contact with from his previous life.

While Harry and Dean spoke or owled each other as needed and talked about almost everything and everyone, they almost always never talked about Hermione. That was Dean’s conscious choice, telling him that he should Floo or owl her himself.

“Harry? Do you have a clue what time it is?”

He was whispering, no, hissing, at him.

“Sorry. Do you have company?”

“Don’t even ask me as if you really care if I do! This better be good!”

“I read the Prophet Socials.”

“Why? Did somebody tear off the Sports Page?”

He was often funny; caustic but funny.

“You never told me she was seeing Malfoy.”

“I never thought you’d be interested.”

He is so funny.

“Is this for real?”

“No, it’s one big prank and that’s why they featured it in the Prophet.”

“Dean!”

“Look, I’m tired, I’m sleepy, and I have a woman in my bed who still wants to cuddle. Let me be quick. I know this must seem like an urgent matter to you but you should have seen it coming. How long has it been since you last spoke to her? When you left for Toronto,right? She did not take a vow of celibacy.”

“But Malfoy?”

“They’ve only been out three times! And he’s changed man.”

Harry took a breath. Once was one too many. Sure, it was now ten years after Hogwarts but he would be the last person to believe Malfoy was a changed man. His entire being was revolted at the thought of Malfoy touching her, much less seeing that picture of them kissing just outside her flat.

“Can I give you some advice?”

No need to answer. He was getting it anyway.

“Write her, talk to her, and ask her how she is.”

He had one problem.

“She won’t talk to me or read any of my letters.”

“When was the last time you tried? Months ago?” he was getting impatient with him.

“Last week, actually. Muggle Post.”

He did not share with Dean that it came back unopened with ‘return to sender’ in her handwriting.

“Oh,” Dean replied, surprised, “Well, you’ll just have to try harder. I don’t know what exactly happened there in Toronto and I know not to ask anymore but whatever it was, it can’t be that bad.”

Harry didn’t think it was that bad either but it was a matter of opinion. And besides, it wasn’t so much about what happened in Toronto but more about what happened after.

He sent her that letter last week. It was a long winded apology, something he had said to her before, but hoping that she would be more receptive to it after all this time. No such luck. He could not believe that it was almost a year now since it happened. He could not believe she was seeing Malfoy of all people. And he couldn’t understand how she could allow that to happen. After all the evil things Malfoy had done, he was baffled that she could even consider talking to him, much less allow a picture of him kissing her in the Daily Prophet.

Incensed and hurt, he somehow found his way to a nearby Muggle bar and picked up the first brunette just interested in a one night stand. It was either that or smash in some poor blonde man’s face.

Harry was too late. With her, he was always too late. She was moving on and he really should let her go. And as the warm shower continued to roll down from his jet black hair onto his face, it masked and washed away the tears that erupted from deep within him, fuelled by an overwhelming despair that there were things he could not fix and events he could not change. It was excruciatingly painful knowing that he was about to lose her, and lose her to such a scumbag; a scumbag that in her eyes was more deserving of her company than he was. That spoke a lot about how she still felt about him.

It took him a long time but he finally realized that he loved her. He never really knew how much he needed her everyday of his life until she wasn’t there for him anymore. It was simple, really. He loved her. She hated him. Rephrase that; she didn’t actually use the word ‘hate’. It was more like she would rather not have him around and not talk to him. And she had good reason. It was a hard lesson to learn that in life, sometimes, you don’t get an opportunity to redeem yourself.

He was delusional. There was no chance in hell he could be with her. His ‘act of chivalry’ made that a certainty. He had no right to be jealous. Revolted maybe, because it was Malfoy, but not jealous. Right now, he could settle for her forgiveness and her friendship. Indirectly, he hoped that if he succeeded in what he was in Toronto for, it would bring about the prospect of redemption and make it conceivable for her to be able to stay in the same room with him. He missed talking to her and he missed talking to Ron.

After some time, he finally got out of the shower, emotionally spent and feeling a tad better than before he went in. His pager went off. Good. Work, to get his mind off it. He was on-call for Muggle related emergencies.

Normally not part of an Auror’s job description, reality was the Toronto Magical Law Enforcement Agency was perennially short staffed due to migration south of the border, where pay and weather were generally better. There was also the fact that the resurgence of Dark Arts in the recent months resulted in early retirements. The Ministry needed more staff urgently. The Ministry knew this and unfortunately, so did the witches and wizards who embraced the Dark Arts. Toronto was fast becoming the magical crime capital of the world.

Harry’s official status in the Toronto was visiting Auror. In actuality, it was more like overstaying foreign Auror. The staff shortage allowed for an oversight of the fact that he should have left after six weeks. His work permit, initially renewed every ten days, was now extended indefinitely. It was approved on his insistence by the Head Aurors of Toronto and London, the latter signing with significant resistance.

Harry read the information on his pager.

A Muggle loony bin, he thought to himself as he read the address. The last time he got called to one he and his partner ended up having to Obliviate half the night staff. Hopefully this was a false alarm.

He dressed quickly and Disapparated to the Toronto Centre for Mental Health at Queen and Ossington. He was met at the sidewalk by a woman in her early thirties, with long blonde hair under a red toque and blue eyes peering through the top of a flowing red scarf.

Andrea Marsh was the person who had the misfortune of having to put up with him for the past year. At five feet ten, Andy was almost as tall as Harry, and had a most disarming smile many have been fooled by their disbelief that she was an Auror. There was a rumour in the office that a younger version of her had won the Miss Canadian Witch title years ago. Anyone caught repeating said rumour was definitely a dead wizard or witch if she found them out.

An expletive greeted him. Did he mention the foul mouth that she had under stress or with sleep deprivation? She was not a morning person. It did take some time before he got used to hearing such colourful language from someone with her good looks. Like him, she was bundled up in layers of winter clothing. It was minus twenty degrees Celsius outdoors and he felt every bit of the biting cold as they walked toward the entrance.

“A good morning to you, too,” he replied.

“No. A good morning at fucking four o’clock is only appropriate if you’ve had sex with the person you’re saying it to and it was good.”

“Okay,” Harry actually enjoyed her company; he found her amusing, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Did you memorize the article by heart?” she jibed seeing that he still had the same expression she left him with at the Auror Office hours ago. She knew he was that pathetic.

“Muggle Lawyer-Solicitor and Magical Being Rights Activist Draco Malfoy has finally cured celebrated Healer Hermione Granger of her year old heartache,” he recited the first line to her from memory.

Not by choice, Harry had to tell Andy about Hermione a few months ago. Sick and tired of his constant foul mood, his partner had taken matters into her own hands and started forcing him to go on dates. It was funny really, that after all his five dates reported back to Andy that Harry was a perfect gentleman, the sixth one she had him date was a man. He definitely had to put an end to that. She was the only person in Toronto he ever discussed his past with and did not approve of what she termed as his ‘laid back’ approach. Harry did not tell her the entire story.

“Take some time off and see her,” Andy suggested a common theme with his former partner. “She can’t not talk to you if you’re there.”

She could if she chose not to. Andy did not know Hermione well. In his six trips to London since he started working in Toronto, she made sure their paths did not cross once.

“I’ll talk to Jack,” he answered, referring to their boss, Jack Muller. Harry did decide after his conversation with Dean that he had to try something else and it would mean going against her wishes. At their last conversation she was clear when she asked him to leave her alone. Yup. Give her something else to be pissed about. And, of course, it had to be done soon, hopefully to get some sense into her head about why she should stop dating Draco Malfoy. How he was going to convince her of that he had not figured out yet.

They walked the remainder of the path to the hospital entrance in silence. Having been there before, they knew exactly where to go on the 5th floor where the page came from. Harry and Andy had an understanding that he was lead on any call before ten in the morning and after ten at night.

“Hi,” he said to the night nurse at the station as both he and Andy unzipped their coats. “I’m Dr. James, this is my associate Dr. Lillian. We were paged.”

The night nurse, Doris, surveyed them with suspicion for a good couple of minutes before buzzing them into the high security area.

“Room 538.”

“Geez, somebody should get Doris some medication,” Andy said to him from the corner of her mouth as soon as the nurse was out of earshot, causing him to smile.

The long hallway was dimly lit by a few fluorescent bulbs. The rooms they passed were mostly occupied by sleeping patients, and on occasion, sleeping hospital staff. Room 538 was at the very end of the corridor.

A stocky elderly man with thinning grey hair in a white lab coat greeted them in a hushed voice.

“Dr. James?” the man inquired. Doris must have informed him of their arrival.

He nodded, extending a handshake. He introduced his partner.

“Dr. Smitherman,” he shook their hands, “I’m so glad you could come.”

Without wasting time, he led them into the room and at the bedside of the lone patient occupying it. Sitting on the bed in a somewhat reclined position was a young woman, probably no more than eighteen years old, with pale skin and curly brown hair, brown eyes wide open and seemingly in a trance. Her arms were on her side, her fists were clenched tight and she did not blink or turn to them when they entered. Brown hair and brown eyes and aptly named.

“She’s our resident Jane Doe, been with us for almost a month. No one has come to pick her up or ask about her. She was found in a somewhat similar state just a couple of blocks from here and was brought in by a Good Samaritan because we’re the closest hospital. To make a long story short, she’s been turfed around the city, nothing seems physically wrong with her, but she does meet criteria for catatonia so she ended up here.”

Andy had been fidgeting throughout this monologue. Harry nodded to her so she could ask her question, “If she’s been here for weeks, what’s the emergency?”

“I was doing some tests on her, trying to measure electrical activity in her brain as familiar objects are placed in her hand,” Smitherman explained, “When she suddenly responded for the first time to one of the objects amongst her personal effects.”

“Next time, best test her when the rest of the normal world is awake,” Andy muttered under her breath, still quite unhappy being dragged to what seemingly was an unimportant call.

Harry, on the other hand, was eyeing a polished piece of reddish brown wood, about ten inches long, sitting on top of her bedside table. A wand.

“Is that the object she responded to?” he motioned.

The doctor nodded, “It looks like a drum stick but missing its pair. She must be a musician or knows one. A lot of struggling artists from across the country sometimes find their way in Toronto seeking fame and fortune and end up with nothing. I’m not surprised if she’s one of them.”

Andy caught on and asked, “What exactly happens when she touches it?”

“This.”

Smitherman placed the wand in Jane Doe’s right hand and a sudden gust of cool wind filled the walls of the windowless room. There was also unmistakably a faint light at its tip. Andy looked at him. They were in agreement. Jane Doe was a witch.

There was a definite need to alter a memory and persuade the good doctor to part with his patient. Harry slowly reached into his jacket pocket and took his wand out.

“Dr. Smitherman,” Harry spoke, after muttering an incantation, “You’re going to release Jane Doe to us tonight and will have no recollection whatsoever of us ever meeting.”

“Of course,” the Muggle doctor signed the release papers which magically appeared on his clipboard and left them with Jane Doe.

Harry quickly gathered her personal belongings as Andy magically dressed her in warmer apparel, in preparation for Apparition to the Downtown Toronto Hospital for Magical Illnesses and Injuries. With Harry being the more magically endowed between the two of them, Andy knew Side-along Disapparition would be safer for Jane Doe if she travelled with him.

“What about Doris?” he asked Andy.

“Let’s leave her. She seems batty enough to not be believable,” she replied.

As Harry took a hold of the young woman’s right arm which still held her wand, Jane Doe suddenly grabbed his hand, her entire body shaking, her eyes rolled up with just its whites visible. And a deep, earthy voice came from within her sending shivers up his spine.

“Help…Ron…waiting…forest…hill…four… five…five…hurry…no time…must haste…set him free…save her…”

And her grip loosened as the words stopped. Harry and Andy stared at each other in silence, trying to think about what just happened. Further attempts to get her to talk failed. This was bizarre.

“A seer?” he asked his partner, right in front of their expressionless and immobile company, thinking about his similar experience with a former Divination teacher. But what she said was not a prediction. It was more an instruction. It was confusing.

“Maybe. Or maybe, momentarily possessed,” Andy suggested and continued. “Four five five and she said to hurry. It is 4:40 now, if she means this God forsaken hour. But what forest is she talking about? Maybe High Park, that’s the biggest one close by. Do you know any Ron who could be in trouble?”

Harry was deep in thought, still trying to dissect Jane Doe’s message. He was hoping that after all this time, he finally had a break. Maybe the gibberish meant nothing but he was at a point when he was willing to go after any lead, no matter how crazy it was.

“I only know one Ron so I don’t think she means right now.”

His partner fell silent, now as perplexed as he was. She knew the one Ron that he meant. And because she did, she knew that Ronald Weasley was not in any imminent danger because he had been dead for close to a year.

Chapter 3. The Tale of the Fruit Smoothie

Officially, she was on holidays but Hermione spent the rest of the day working away in her office at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. There was tedious paperwork to complete, research papers to write, grants to submit, proposals to review and going ‘away’ on vacation was about the only way she could get most of it done.

After Voldemort’s demise it was quite clear to her what it was she wanted to do for the rest of her life. It was peacetime; life for wizards and witches was back to the ‘good’ kind of normal. After graduating from Hogwarts, Hermione chose to attend the Dilys Derwent Academy of Healing and in three years time, she was staff Healer at St. Mungo’s.

While healing was her duty and she was adept at it, research was her passion. Early in her tenure, she quickly established herself as a forward thinking Healer who recognized opportunities to improve curative practice. Her most recent work of redesigning common potions in use was known through out the world and garnered her accolades from the International Healers Association (IHA).

She was invited to the Annual Symposium of Magical Researchers in Toronto, to speak about her work but had to decline for personal reasons. The Chief Healer of IHA, Lana Hama, sent her a personal note mentioning that the Healing Mission she had signed up for that was booked months ago and to take place at the same time as the conference was indeed more important than any speaking engagement. The invitation to speak was extended to the following year.

Actually, several fellow Healers had volunteered to go to the Mission instead of her. She wondered what lame excuse she could come up with for next year’s meeting. Hopefully by then, the organizers would have gained the common sense to move the conference somewhere else. In her opinion, the crazy person who came up with the idea to hold the meetings every year in Toronto during winter ought to be sent to Azkaban for cruelty to fellow researchers.

The absolute truth was Hermione would rather not go to Toronto ever again.

A knock on her door interrupted her. A short, mousy haired man appeared from behind the door. It was her research assistant, a Hogwarts schoolmate and fellow Gryffindor.

Dennis Creevey looked younger for his young age. He looked not a day over twenty and while elsewhere this may have been a good thing, this was a bane because a lot of witches and wizards in research thought him too young to take his ideas seriously. Unemployed and desperate, he came to her begging for work. She hired him a couple of months ago for his bubbly exuberance and unlimited energy, to replace her former assistant who had gotten married and decided the hustle and bustle that was the pace Hermione worked at was not going to work for her.

“Strawberry and banana,” Dennis said as he came in with a tall glass filled with a pinkish concoction and gave it to Hermione.

“Thanks, I was about to get one,” she said to him, taking and sipping from it. Fruit smoothies, she found out, was their shared vice. In her lab, they had set up a blender in their mini-kitchen and their fridge was stocked with fresh fruit all the time. Dennis made sure of that. They would sometimes joke that that was the real reason she hired him. She figured she could work and get along with anyone who had a passion for fruit smoothies.

“Are you sure you’re not going to Toronto?” he was one of those who thought her insane to decline.

“Toronto or Mexico, should I really take time to think it over? I’m packed for warm weather and I leave in three days.”

Aside from the three afternoons she was to spend in clinics for the underprivileged, she was actually looking forward to some mornings on the beach, under the sun, reviewing research proposals…

“If you change your mind…”

“I won’t,” she interrupted. Definitely not.

“Mexico does sound like more fun,” Dennis replied. He was going to Toronto. “I have to meet Colin at the theatre. He found us dates. You don’t mind if I leave early today, do you?”

Colin Creevey was his brother, also a Hogwarts alumnus.

She shrugged, “Not if I’m not really here.”

“Thanks!”

A blur later Hermione was certain he had left. His interruption had forced her mind to go into a break, no compulsion to continue until she had savoured the last bit of the smoothie in her hand. Strawberry and banana smoothies used to be her favourite and it had been a while since she made one.

She remembered exactly when and where she made it last. It was about a year ago, in his kitchen.

xxxxxxxxxxx

February 11, 2006 – The Phoenix Towers in Downtown London

In pink pyjamas and bunny slippers, she walked without a sound down the corridor and settled in front of Suite 1808, a grocery bag in one hand and a wand in the other.

“Alohomora!”

Hermione let herself into Harry’s apartment knowing he was working the night shift and quickly disabled his home magical security devices. It was six in the morning and she needed to borrow his blender, emergently. The one she and Ron had in their place three doors down had processed its last smoothie and had gone to blender heaven.

She started emptying the ingredients into his blender, going through the recipe in her mind.

Vanilla yoghurt…

Skim milk…

Ten pieces fresh strawberries…

She paused, thinking she heard something. After a moment of silence she continued.

Two bananas chopped in small portions…

As she was about the peel the second one, she heard a noise again and it was coming from within his bedroom. This time it persisted.

Her pulse quickened. A burglar? But it sounded like someone was in agony. She grasped her wand tightly in one hand as she approached his bedroom cautiously, praying that she could still remember how to duel. She had not been in one since the day Voldemort was killed millenniums ago. Hoping to find out more about what she was going to be up against, she leaned and lightly pressed her ear against his door and heard something she really didn’t expect.

“Harry, oh, yes…yes, right there…”

He was in there, with a woman. A moaning and groaning woman. There was more panic within her than earlier. This could be very embarrassing, for all of them. At least it would be for her.

“Ahhhh…Harry!”

She hastily pushed herself away from the bedroom door, already thinking about a quick exit, only to realize too late that what she was leaning against had been ajar all along. The door flung wide open, causing her to loose her balance and fall on her hands and knees onto the floor of his bedroom, startling Harry and his companion on his bed in a, um, compromising position.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” her face felt flushed as she quickly apologized, trying her best not to look at him as she got up. It was hard. No, she didn’t mean his…, though she kind of looked and it was. What she meant was it was difficult, considering it was simply bad manners to not look someone in the eye when apologizing, but where else does one look…

“Hermione, what are you doing here?” Harry sounded miffed and had grabbed one of the fluffy pillows to cover himself as the woman had taken all the sheets and pulled them up against her chest.

“So you’re Hermione,” the woman said, as if she discovered the answer to some mystery.

Hermione did not notice as she continued to talk to Harry, still unable to look him in the eye so she stared at the pillow in front of him instead, “I just wanted to borrow your…”

No, don’t look there either! He must think you’re a pervert trying to see through that! Try somewhere else, like your hands. Why are you holding a…

“Banana.”

Huh? In her haste to check out the noise she had forgotten to put down the banana that she had in her other hand.

What did you just say?

“You wanted to borrow my what?” she heard him ask, not noticing he was as red in the face as she was.

The woman, who she hoped did not know her at work or socially, was laughing hysterically.

“I meant your blender. To blend…the banana with some strawberries…Harry, pillow…lower please. But I’m going to leave now,” she was rambling on, backing up and just become acutely conscious that she was brandishing the banana, “Again, sorry for the interruption. Um…continue…I mean, if you’re not done yet… unless you are done but you want to do it again…in that case, you should, but…”

Harry kind of saved her but a bit too late, “Hermione, it’s okay. Don’t say anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” she waved at the still laughing woman who waved back.

Stop waving the banana! She left his bedroom, shutting the door behind her, exhaled and tried to tidy up his counter top as quickly as she could so she could leave. Before she could finish and just as she was about to empty his blender, Harry came out from his bedroom and joined her.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” he stated the obvious.

He was barefoot, clad in worn out jeans and an orange shirt with a Chudley Cannon’s symbol on it. It was probably one of his team issue ones from when he was their Seeker some years back. An image of his nakedness just a few brief minutes ago replaced the real Harry and she wondered if that was going to be a recurrent problem.

“I think more so for me than anyone else in that room,” Hermione stopped cleaning up and replied sheepishly looking into his emerald eyes, which hopefully would not be as distracting. They were always warm and kind but lately guarded, especially when they talked. Even their talks since her engagement to Ron six months ago were few and far between.

Sometimes she wondered if there was something troubling him and was tempted to ask. She would eventually talk herself out of it. He did not need a mother. She wasn’t his mother. He made that clear years ago. He said he would ask for her help if he needed it. And she was probably imagining things. They were probably just too busy.

She continued, jokingly saying in a low voice thinking the woman might overhear, “My God, Harry, what were you doing with that poor woman?!”

“Actually, I was just asking myself the same thing,” he answered her rhetorical question and Hermione felt a sudden sorrow wash over him. Whatever it was it was painful. His eyes momentarily said it all.

Before she could ask him what he meant, footsteps made them both turn to his girlfriend who was now fully clothed.

“I’m going,” she said to them, more to him.

With the brighter lights in the living area, the woman did not look like what Hermione expected. She was about a head shorter than Harry, a decent but imperfect figure, with dark brown hair and black eyes, and from how she dressed, a career person. She was not the leggy beautiful model type he usually went for. Maybe, he was aiming for a bit of variety last night.

“It was nice meeting you, Hermione,” the woman said.

She couldn’t really say the feeling was mutual. It bugged Hermione that she knew her (Hermione’s) name and without knowing her name, there was only one thing to say.

“Bye.”

Meeting a Harry Potter girlfriend was among her least favourite experiences as it almost always brought about a mixture of contrasting emotions within her. There was hoping that he finally found the one that he was going to stick with; that was a long shot knowing Harry chose ones he knew would not last. Then, she always thought whoever it was they were not good enough for him; she was always right. There was also the frustration that Harry did not seem to want to change his ways and her feeling insecure each time she found out he had a different girl. The latter was an emotion carried over from years ago that she dared not introspect too much about, preferring to let sleeping dogs lie.

Hermione watched as Harry walked her to the door, feeling sad for him. Maybe it was pity. Maybe both. The fact that he had not introduced them confirmed she was a one-nighter.

She objected to Harry’s risky dating practice and that was not the only thing she disliked about the Harry that came back to London after a year with the Cannons. For if somebody asked her what went wrong with Harry Potter after Voldemort’s death, she would answer, ‘Quidditch’. Or more specifically, professional Quidditch.

With Voldemort no longer in the picture and Hogwarts a thing of the past, Harry and Ron had the same decision to make about the rest of their lives as she did. While it seemed that both were waiting for the other to decide what to do, it was a harder decision for Harry to make. The attention around his career choice was overwhelming and it worried her at that time that he would just get fed up with everything and not make a decision at all. If only everyone would leave him alone.

The choices available for a hero was boundless and he could have done anything that he wanted. Ron did too by extension. It came down to attending Auror Academy, which was thought to be the natural choice for someone who defeated the Darkest Wizard of their time, or joining any one of the fifteen professional Quidditch teams interested in acquiring the biggest draw in history imaginable. They went after him and Ron. It was really pathetic what grown wizards and witches are capable of doing particularly if it had something to do with Quidditch.

Ron and Harry had asked for her opinion and her answer was always to follow their hearts. Sure, she could have listed for them the pros and cons of all the choices, but ultimately, they had to trust how they felt.

Finally, they chose Quidditch. She did not feel they made the wrong decision. There were not a lot of Dark Wizards to catch anymore and Harry pointed out that after seven years of Voldemort, he needed a break at least. She totally understood what he was saying. Despite that, Hermione had a feeling that Harry was swayed towards Quidditch because of Ron; they were being offered unimaginable salaries and Harry was very sensitive of Ron’s family not having enough all the time.

And of course, it was a no-brainer that they would sign up on the same team. Their choice was Ron’s favourite, the Chudley Cannons, the worst team in all of Europe for a number of years with naturally the worst spectator attendance. They had a new owner and their revamped motto was to ‘win a cup at all cost or if not, get rich trying’. Having Harry Potter on the team was a guarantee the latter would happen. And to make the offer difficult to refuse, both Harry and Ron were going to be starters for the new look Cannons.

The downside was she would not get to see much of them as they trained, travelled and competed all over Europe. After years of tension and seemingly pushed by their impending separation, Ron finally confessed his love for her. Why he would pick such a time to do this was beyond her but she had been expecting it for quite a while. Harry’s seemingly annoyed reaction to it was a bit unexpected but then she figured that what they crammed into the one week they had together before Ron was to leave would have robbed anyone of their sensibility. They were probably less shy about the physical aspect of their relationship around Harry.

After three months at training camp, their rookie season finally started and was fraught with challenges, to say the least. First of all, with six teenagers on the starting team, they were really no good. They were overpowered and outwitted by the more experienced teams. It took five games for Harry to catch the Snitch and he was just so happy he found it, he did not realize that they were so far behind, they actually lost the game. They lost their first ten games by huge margins.

Hermione tried to be at their games as much as her schedule would permit to be supportive and Ron had always said having her there made a lot of difference. Of course it would to him because that was the time when they started sleeping together. They lost their virginities after one particularly nasty game, which on hindsight she wished happened under a more pleasantly memorable circumstance. She was there for Ron, for comfort and to talk with, and between Ron and her studies, she did not notice that Harry was not doing well at all.

The team loses affected Harry more than anyone else, including the owner. As angry witches and wizards lambasted him with ugly comments about wasting their hard earned money and how terrible a Quidditch player he was, his confidence and self-esteem took a real beating. The Cannons management had hyped the team up; season tickets were sold out years in advance and they got what they wanted at his expense. He felt responsible for the robbery that was taking place each and every game they played. His conscience did not give him much respite.

If there was one thing in his life that he had never thought he would fail in it was Quidditch, and his belief of that all came crashing that first year with the Cannons. He felt he failed Quidditch when in truth Quidditch failed him. Harry discovered ways to cope with the frustration and to break the sinking feeling of always losing. With his other young immature team mates, he turned to women and alcohol, both being ubiquitously available in professional sports.

She was so incensed at Ron for not telling her about it until it was too late. Harry resigned. Actually, he was forced to retire from Quidditch two games before that first season ended. A major sporting accident left him in serious condition at St. Mungo’s for weeks. And more tragic was the fact that he had lost the ability to fly a broom despite wanting to.

While the truth was kept away from the public by the powerful wizards who wanted to protect Quidditch, his inner circle knew that the reason for the accident was because Harry was so drunk during the game he fell off his broom from a mile up, and if not for Ron seeing it happen, the fall would have been fatal. It was described in the Prophet as Ron Weasley’s best save of the season.

As Ron rejoined the team the year after, Harry was sent home from St. Mungo’s almost physically healed but emotionally a mess. He was no longer the Harry she knew at Hogwarts, not really.

Hermione had expressed her disapproval of his Quidditch off pitch lifestyle when she first found out about it as he started dating again. Never in her mind did she imagine he would be capable of having sex for the sake of sex. Because that was what it was really about, wasn’t it? She had to say something about what she considered was his moral decay. That was when he told her she was not his mother so she should stop acting like she was. Again, that was new.

Deeply offended, she let him be. And besides, at that time, there were other more pressing concerns about him than his preference to have meaningless sex with any consenting woman. He needed her as a friend, not a judge, to battle his ongoing depression and help him overcome alcoholism. Really, he could only fight so many battles at once and those were the two he chose to fight. Since being told off, she never said another reprimanding word about it to him again.

Yes. Quidditch was to blame for the significant change in her best friend.

As Harry walked back and sat in front of her, she asked him, curious, “How can she possibly remember my name just from hearing it once?”

He shrugged. Little did she know that across the counter Harry was answering her question in his mind.

You would too if the man you were having sex with whispered that name in your ear and it wasn’t yours.

Harry steered the conversation elsewhere, “I don’t know about you but I could really use a smoothie.”

He smiled at her and she smiled back, unashamed as she asked him, “Can you wash your hands?”

There was no point arguing with her that he already did. He had to laugh.

“I thought you were working nights this week?”

She was finishing what she had started and talking to him with their backs turned away from the other, as he washed his hands in the sink. Years ago, after a brief role as an overpaid Quidditch player, he joined the Ministry as a Hit Wizard.

“The guy we’ve been following turned in early last night so we figured at least one of us should go home,” he replied. “Dean was with him last night.”

He dried his hand on the hand towel hooked up to the fridge beside him and turned around. His kitchen was small, having no real need for it because he rarely cooked. He found himself standing about a foot behind her, checking her out.

It was Saturday, and if she wasn’t dressed at six that meant she was not scheduled to work. Her bushy brown hair was tied back casually and he liked it that he could imagine this was where she lived. His eyes followed the stray brown locks that fell on the back of her neck, finding the sight of her usually covered flesh stimulating. And she was in pyjamas this morning, which meant Ron was not home.

He wondered if she realized he could tell from how her breasts looked she wore nothing else under the pink printed top that she had on, and that her dark-color lace panties were visible through the thin pyjama bottoms. He felt his jeans get tighter and fought off the impulse to step closer, kiss the length of the back of her neck, feel her body against him and make love to her right there on his kitchen counter. He did ponder if she would allow him.

His mind answered him quickly enough. Of course she wouldn’t. She loves Ron. Not you. She’s marrying Ron. Buzz kill.

She had placed a glassful of the strawberry and banana mixture across from her where he was before. He walked around and immediately used a chilling charm. As he drank most of it, he felt some needed relief.

“I heard you’re going to Toronto,” he had to keep his mind off wanting to have sex with her.

“Research Conference starts today,” she replied, giving him a refill and without hesitation took some bagels and cream cheese from his fridge. She magically toasted the bagels lightly and spread a thin layer of cream cheese on them, handing him one, as she continued, “I’m hoping that Ron’s quarter final match tomorrow will be short. Win or lose we’re having friends over after the game. With the time difference, I figure I can stay until five a.m. Monday morning, Dissaparate to Toronto and get some sleep. I can catch the last three days of talks. You are coming tomorrow, right?”

“I’m working but I’ll try,” he wasn’t quite sure what the Squib’s plans were but hopefully he would be in prison by then. They ate and drank as they talked. “All set for the wedding?”

A lump formed on his throat and no amount of smoothie could get rid of it.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be ready,” she answered. He knew how stressed she had been lately. She wanted everything to be perfect. “When I get back from Toronto I’m taking time off before and after the wedding. Really, we should have just gone to a planner.”

He smiled, teasing, “Maybe next time.”

She smiled back, saying, “Ha, Ha. Very funny.”

I wasn’t trying to be funny.

Out of the blue, a frown formed on her face. He had to ask her.

“What?”

“Nah, never mind,” she wanted to say something but backed out. Intrigued, he pressed her.

“It’s me you’re talking to. Just go ahead.”

“I had a question and I need a man’s opinion.”

“Is Ron not man enough?” he chuckled.

“Harry! It’s one of those things I can’t ask Ron about,” she explained.

You’re marrying him. What question can’t you ask him?

“What is it?”

“It’s all hypothetical, of course.”

“Of course.”

It took a while, as Hermione seemed to search for a way to ask the question. After quite some time, he noisily snored feigning sleep.

She was laughing at his antics. He was going to miss this. They were moving to a house in Richmond after the wedding.

“Okay, I’m ready but don’t take this the wrong way,” she finally said, “Say, you’re about to get married. You know your fiancée has never been with any other man but you. She comes to you and asks if it’s okay for her to have one meaningless fling before your wedding. What would you say?”

Harry had to concentrate as the words came out from her mouth, not really expecting such a loaded question. Here he was thinking she was going to ask him his male perspective on whether she should wear black lingerie on their wedding night. The answer would have been a definite ‘yes’.

Somehow, that answer would not work for the hypothetical question she just asked.

Chapter 4. The Hypothetical Answer

“I would say, sure, go ahead. Now, where do I sign up?”

Harry was so blindsided by her hypothetical question he let go of the first thought that came and it was somewhat unedited.

She burst out laughing almost immediately. Obviously, to her, the suggestion was that ridiculous. He ignored the slight twinge in his chest and tried his best to join her, forcing a smile.

“Forget it, Harry, it was really a bad idea”, she said, probably thinking, and rightfully so with the ‘fun’ he tried to poke into it, that it was a mistake to even ask him about this.

“No, no let me answer it,” he insisted as he wondered what would make her ask such a question.

The notion of one last fling was definitely not hers to begin with and he had one good guess who suggested it to her. Though, thankfully, they never talked about her sex life, Harry knew Ron was the only man she had ever slept with. She was not really asking a what-if question.

As a testament to how stressed out Hermione was about getting married, she was actually considering this but the good thing was she was not impulsive. He was part of research and he had to be very careful about his answer.

Their conversation took a more serious tone. He took a deep breath in and told her honestly what he thought.

“Hypothetically, if it was you and you asked me that question knowing I was the only man you’ve ever been with, I would say, ‘If you really want to, do what you have to do’.”

“Which really means what?”

“I’d rather you didn’t because it would hurt like hell if you did, but it seems important to you so I would let you decide,” he clarified and then asked her, “How would you feel if your fiancé asks you the same question?”

“I would call off the wedding,” Hermione replied quickly. She had a frown, realizing just how much more there was to her question than she originally thought and perhaps thinking that she should hold herself to her standard.

“It’s personal; Ron might think differently, if hypothetically, we were talking about you,” Harry added, hoping it would make her feel better.

“Harry…”

“Don’t worry, I won’t mention anything to him,” he interrupted, reassuring her that her secret was safe. “It’s a huge step getting married. I can understand why you’re a bit tense and thinking crazier than usual. But do you want some advice?”

“It seems I could definitely use some.”

“You have Ron. Don’t do it. It’s not worth it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Meaningless sex isn’t what it’s hyped up to be. Doing it with someone you care about is loads better.”

“And this coming from a guy who does this all the time?” the irony of his answer did not escape her.

He said to her once that he did it out of necessity, not choice. She did not see it that way.

“So you know I’m not lying.”

“Then tell me, and don’t lie. Have you actually made love with somebody you really care about to know this for a fact?”

“Geez, you and your loaded questions today! Of course I have!” Harry answered her truthfully.

I have, hypothetically.

And before she could even think of asking who with he quickly added, “Besides, face it Hermione. There are some things that you are not capable of and this is one of them.”

“You really think so? Why not?”

“You’re just not the type. You’d never be able to live with yourself,” he explained to her, believing this to be fact. Her conscience would gut her out from the inside, particularly because she was with Ron.

“You’re right,” she replied, and seemingly relieved, perhaps deciding to put the issue to rest. She then looked him in the eye and said something he knew she wanted to tell him for a long time, “But then, I thought that too about you and I was so wrong about that.”

“Please don’t hold back now,” he was joking, again. He had to, because she was about to turn this whole thing to be about him and he was stupid enough to walk right into it.

“Well, it’s true,” she had that look that she was about to go on a mission.

“I know. I have to repent and mend my errant ways. Somebody, get her some holy water, quick!”

She ignored his attempt to distract her, taking his hands in hers. Fighting reflexes to pull away, he looked at their hands, savouring the moment. Hers were so soft; the pressure just right. He missed this, the touch of someone who in his heart he knew truly cared about him. Yes, as a friend but still, truly cared about him. Hugs, kisses, soothing caresses. They were so few and far between now. He had taken all this for granted and it hurt so bad to realize it was all likely about to go away. For the first time in years he felt like he needed a drink.

“Harry, look at me,” she said to him quietly, and she waited, and she waited. Did he really have to? Taking a moment to wipe the last painful thought from his mind, he did as she asked and hoped she would not see the loneliness that was starting to plague him again.

“I wasn’t going to say anything but I know something’s wrong. You’re feeling the same heaviness you felt years ago after your accident.”

It wasn’t an accident. It was mere stupidity.

“It’s so hard to watch you like this.”

“Then look away. It will go away, like the last time,” he said calmly into her worried brown eyes.

“And then it will come back. You need someone to love who will love you back. And you can’t have that if you don’t allow anyone into your life. I told you this before; the risk of getting hurt is part of any worthwhile relationship. You can’t go on forever with these one-nighters, Harry.”

She was right but there wasn’t a witch out there who had not heard of Harry Potter and he was determined not to get used again. And he had yet to find a Muggle he could share his past and present with. He had difficulty trusting and that was part of the problem.

“I’m trying,” he lied, and she saw right through that.

“You’ve worked so hard to get out of that valley, Harry.”

Back then, I had you to help me get out.

“You can’t allow yourself to get on that slippery slope again.”

I know. It was such a long way down.

“Talk to me, or someone. Maybe your therapist.”

Who, Dr. A.J. Hyde? The fictional therapist I made up years ago so you would stop worrying about me? Not intentionally, Harry overheard Ron arguing with her about how he was sick and tired of her constantly giving Harry attention. After their row, Harry told her to quit acting like his mother. He still remembered how that deeply hurt her.

“Tell me how I can help.”

Hmmm…what would Dr. Hyde say?

“It’s the wedding,” he withdrew his hands from hers.

“The wedding?”

“Your wedding,” he said to her, candidly. It was true, her engagement brought about this emotional upheaval in him, “Dr. Hyde said friends’ weddings are tough because they change and threaten the continued existence of emotional supports. They also make one think about their own lives, and we both know that thinking about my life is not good for me.”

“Harry…” she chastised him for his self depreciating comment. After Hogwarts and Voldemort, his life had not exactly turned out the way he and everyone else hoped it would. “But Dr. Hyde does make sense.”

“Dr. Hyde is the best.”

“What did he say you should do?”

Any more brilliant ideas he was going to start charging himself for advice.

“He said there was really nothing I could do except accept that things change and we move on. Or hope that you don’t marry.”

“Harry…” Hermione thought he was joshing.

“Okay, the last part was mine,” but again, all true.

“Harry, seriously.”

“Okay, seriously,” he grinned, mostly at himself. He didn’t know which it was but either she really didn’t notice or she was deliberately dismissing his veiled comments.

Seriously he hoped they would not get married. He liked the status quo; them living a few feet away from each other. Her frequently bugging him about how he should eat better, asking him to be a guinea pig for her new fruit smoothie concoction or to come over to watch a video with her or go somewhere with her when Ron wasn’t around, which was quite a lot. Her marriage was going to disrupt that which he knew he needed but could not find elsewhere.

He turned it back around to her, “But seriously? A last fling? You should know better than to listen to her about how to be in a relationship.”

“Funny, she would probably say the same thing about you,” Hermione quipped.

Between Ginny and him, Hermione was getting the worst advice she possibly could. They were back in an easy conversation fuelled by Harry’s anecdotes of really bad and occasionally preposterous last fling outcomes. Some of them were true; a lot of them were made up. But that was how they spent the better part of that morning in his kitchen, over toasted bagels and fruit smoothies, before they had to leave to go to work.

That night, as Harry watched the Squib at his home, he sat in the dark in a nearby apartment where they had set up surveillance, thinking about Hermione and about her and Ron.

Since their engagement, he felt this tormenting physical desire for her he had never in his life felt for anyone else. It was like hunger that could not be appeased by anything or by anyone. For months he had struggled with it, avoided thinking it, hoping it would pass, but as their wedding day drew closer, his lust for her not only intensified but came with a feeling of urgency; that he had to do something about it. Worse, he did not think it was going to go away with the mere acceptance of the fact that she and Ron were to be married and he did not know what he was going to do about it.

Harry was always deeply fond of Hermione but until recently, he fully accepted that this affection should be mostly platonic. They had known each other more than half their lives, stood beside each other battling a most evil wizard, and supported each other during really trying times. There was intimacy, trust and a bond that could only be forged by what they went through. They had that.

And it was not that he found her unappealing. He always thought she was beautiful in her own way. In his eyes, Hermione was attractive not only physically, but intellectually and emotionally.

There were times, particularly as they searched for Horcruxes during their 7th year at Hogwarts, when his raging hormones would sometimes get the best of him, and he would look at her and imagine what it would be like to kiss her full mouth and feel her warm naked skin alongside his. And the one morning they woke up in each other’s arms by accident was so special, even though they were fully clothed, he pretended to be asleep for a good while before regrettably letting her go. (How this happened he never really had the time to investigate, but it didn’t seem to bother her).

In those days before she and Ron officially became a couple and after he found out Ginny was dating again, he would think about the possibility of crossing their friends-only-line, perhaps floating the idea over to her to see if that was something she would even consider. But there were too many reasons not to; there was his likely death in the hands of Voldemort, Ron’s interest in her, her interest in Ron, and not being able to afford possible loss of a friendship or two whilst they were in the midst of a war.

And after Voldemort, when everyone had a good feeling about everything, he thought about her that way again. It was around the time he was deciding what to do after Hogwarts. He didn’t have to but out of courtesy he asked for Ron’s blessing, knowing he had always fancied her. Unfortunately, Ron told him he was about to make his move, too. And true enough, they were a couple not one week later. He was too late.

So yes, while theirs had been a platonic relationship for years, it wasn’t entirely his initial preference. The attraction remained but he could will himself not to act on it and be content. She loved Ron and she stayed with him all these years. There was nothing to gain by dwelling on something he could not have. Her choice of what he and Ron would be in her life was clear and he could accept that.

Harry consoled himself that what they had was perfect the way it was. They had no demands and no unreasonable expectations from one another. There was little likelihood that what the other did or didn’t do would hurt the other’s feelings.

Theirs was an easy and rich friendship; she was someone he could talk to about almost anything he would want to talk about, someone who could tell him straight what the deal was. He would not forget how she spent days with him after his fall from Quidditch grace, taking verbal and mental abuse from a depressed drunk she was determined to help. Never did she waver in her resolve and he had her to thank for having this semblance of a life. And he was there for her when she felt so bad the first time she lost a patient and listen as she excitedly rambled about present and future studies she wanted to do.

Really, the only intimate aspect missing from their companionship was a physical connection, something she wanted from and shared with Ron, which he could easily get from someone else. Why risk perfection?

And now this; an overwhelming yearning to have that one thing that was missing from their relationship all these years; to act on the physical attraction that would certainly freak her out and shatter that perfection. He was low but he was fighting with every ounce of willpower he could muster to not betray his best friend and the man who saved his life.

Harry found her relationship with Ron quite strange at first. He was so used to them bickering and arguing all the time, it was disconcerting to him that this was not the case post-Hogwarts. They had very few fights, both seemingly more mature and willing to compromise the unimportant. It was weird but good.

Ron’s career as Keeper took off that sophomore year and he was now a seasoned veteran for the more competitive Cannons. Being a professional Quidditch player was hard work. They played between three to four games every week for eight months of the year, a month of pre-season play and a month of team training before that.

Hermione still tried to attend most of his games, watching him play at least once a week and staying with him at their flat closer to the Cannon facility. On occasion, when Ron had a few days off, he would join her in their London condo. She would take four weeks off after the season to spend time with him, either travelling or staying at a cottage, and he would stay with her until the craziness started again. He admired how his best friends were able to juggle busy careers and still be together.

His relationship with Ron was unchanged except for the fact that they saw each other less. Whenever Ron was in London, he would make it a point to have the old Gryffindor gang get together and would always pull him aside for a more private chat to catch up. Ron had grown up a lot since coming out from Harry’s huge shadow and Harry was really happy for him. At least there was something good about his not being in Quidditch anymore.

He asked Ron once a few years back when he would ask Hermione to marry him for it seemed like a foregone conclusion he would. His reply surprised him.

“I’ve asked her every year since we’ve been together.”

“And she’s been saying no?”

“Well, close. She’s been saying ‘not yet’. You should understand why.”

He didn’t, his perplexed expression telling Ron what he didn’t have to say.

“She works a lot; I work a lot. I’ll be a Cannon the rest of my professional life. She knows for marriage to work she would have to quit her job here, work more flexible hours and live with me closer to the facility.”

Ages ago, Hermione did tell him that she had seen too many failed marriages amongst colleagues who wanted to have it all; husband, children, and career. Ron still had at least seven or eight years to play professionally. And six months ago, when she finally accepted his offer, she decided. After their marriage, she would need a few months to tie up her research at St. Mungo’s. Then she could continue what she loved doing at her own convenience in her own lab at their new home and watch every Chudley game Ron would play. As hard as it was for Harry to imagine, Hermione was giving up her flourishing career at St. Mungo’s and was going to be a model Quidditch player wife. She would do that for Ron.

Harry thought back on the day he first became aware of wanting her. Ron and Hermione had invited him over for dinner and they told him about their engagement. As he heard it from Ron he was troubled by the initial emotion that he felt. Instead of being ecstatic for them, he was angry at him, envious, jealous of what they had and what they were going to have. He imagined this was how Ron felt back in the days when it seemed Harry had everything he wanted.

With both of them watching his reaction, he forced a smile and his mouth moved. "Congratulations," he said in a voice that seemed to be not his own.

They did not notice, too wrapped up in their happiness, his pathetic misery fading into the background. Ron asked him to be his best man while he kissed her possessively and disgustingly right in front of him. He accepted of course, as he pushed away thoughts of stabbing him with the steak knife right then and there and, if not then, at their wedding reception in six months time. It wasn’t a serious murderous intention, he would never act on it, but the morbid thought seemed to make him calmer.

Ron was taking her away, putting her in a house, on a vast property he bought from his Quidditch earnings, a job he got because of him, Queen’s cup MVP trophies on the mantle, raising as many red-headed rascals as he could convince her to have. There would be no coming down the hall for her to borrow something of his, or her ringing him to join her for tea. There would be no discussions about whether or not giving House-elves more rights was the proper thing to do or why was the Ministry so blind to the fact that sooner or later, more Aurors would be needed. There would be no more reassuring and comforting talks like the one they had earlier that day, no one to tell how bad his day went, no more Hermione in his life. That was the reality he was about to live with.

Why her engagement precipitated a sudden gush of longing for her physically he still was not certain. Maybe, this restlessness was a desperate attempt to make him do something to satisfy that which he suppressed for a long time while he still could. Maybe, if he had sex with her once, it would go away.

Now kicking himself for giving her sane advice, he wondered. Had he seriously offered to be her last fling, would she have accepted? But if he did that, whatever her answer was, for sure it would mess up their lives.

Chapter 5. Roy Hunt and the Head Hunter

Harry and Andy dropped off Jane Doe at the Toronto Hospital for Magical Illnesses and were patiently awaiting the Healer’s preliminary assessment.

She was pacing, and patience for her meant annoying any hospital employee unfortunate enough to happen to pass where they were waiting. He was staring at the almost empty cup of iced strawberry and banana smoothie in his hand, the cold sensation just about the only thing keeping him awake as they waited. The witch who sold it to him looked at him strangely, having not had any such sale for a long while. He was replaying Jane Doe’s bizarre message in his head and continued to come up with nothing.

A Muggle television set was just above him and at that moment, the morning wizard news was on. A word caught his attention, ‘Gringotts’. He looked up to watch the breaking news alert. There was chaos at the scene. An attack? A robbery? A missing Goblin? Not known at the time, Aurors were investigating. Definitely Bellatrix Lestrange.

Ten years after Voldemort, the old hag was still kicking around, and until recently, really just doing petty, irritating little things. She was a husband lighter. A few years ago, Rodolphus Lestange died, a complication from infidelity. Her band of followers were still called Death Eaters, maybe as a tribute to her mentor, probably because she was not creative enough to come up with a new name, and most likely because it was easier to recruit into an established organization. Dean had said there were rumblings everywhere that she was gaining support and that she had acquired some needed brains into her operation. Unlike Voldemort, Lestrange was not averse to working with others.

It was a cycle after all; calm and terror, peace and war, order and chaos. But as always, Ministries of Magic everywhere lacked the foresight to plan for this, London not being any different. The Ministry was once again dragging its feet, playing down the obvious, hoping for the best.

Just last week, he saw a former Hogwarts teacher who had made the trip to Toronto to convince him to come back to London. Harry agreed; the Order of the Phoenix was needed again. But no, he had to stay where he was.

It was six in the morning before Harry and Andy were able to leave the hospital. The staff party line was they would do the best they could but it could be days before there was anything to report. More tests had to be run. They weren’t even sure if they could wake Jane Doe up to a state where she would be able to answer questions.

He was so frustrated. It was beginning to look more like it was going to be another dead end. They Disapparated to the Atrium of the Headquarters of the Ministry of Magic on 199 Queen St. West to complete their paperwork and to attend the daily morning briefing at seven.

The Ministry Headquarters in Toronto, unlike the one in London, was mostly above ground. It was a more cheerful place and was actually registered in Ontario as a business called the ‘House of Magic’. The ground floor for any Muggle passer-by was a Magical Costume and Prop Store, all Muggle manufactured of course, and a business that in the past year had a net profit. The staff was a bit expensive to maintain considering a Legilimiens and at least a Hit Wizard had to be around during business hours.

As they entered the 7th floor Auror offices and found their desks, a brown folder was neatly stacked at the top of his overflowing in-tray. Andy glanced at the label on the front.

“I’ll fill out the report,” she said to him as she sat on her desk. With a flick of her wand the monitor in front of her came alive and she started putting the report into the keyboardless and mouseless magically modified Muggle computer.

Harry took the folder and set it in front of him, staring at it for some time, acutely aware that Andy was casting looks at him every now and then. A name was stamped across the face of the folder.

MALFOY, DRACO

His access to the file was not totally legal. Andy used some of her connections within the Magical Law Enforcement (MLE) to acquire information on Malfoy that any North American agency might have. All it would take for them to be in trouble was for someone to find out that the witness who swore Malfoy was sighted in Toronto with a gang of known miscreants did not exist. It was personal and Andy knew she could not convince him otherwise so she helped him instead.

He opened the file and started reading, looking for any evidence that Draco was into criminal activities or performing the Dark Arts illicitly. He firmly believed that all this good guy stuff was an act, a ruse to meet at least one vile or self-serving end. Why Hermione did not see this was still beyond his understanding.

The very light file was from the Detroit, Michigan MLE.

It began with Malfoy’s background, where he came from, who his parents were, known associates, known memberships. There were no surprises there. Malfoy and his mother, Narcissa, moved to the Detroit area a few days after his father received the Dementor’s kiss. They apparently stayed for a few months with one of Narcissa’s distant cousins who had children about Malfoy’s age; no names.

Then it started; entries, weeks after they arrived in the States. A series of non-magical violent scuffles, physical injuries, documented as he was seen at a Detroit Magical hospital several times over a period of weeks. Harry felt no sympathy. The git deserved every bit of it and more. Too bad he could not compliment the upstanding individual (or individuals) responsible for making a part of Malfoy’s life less cozy. It seemed that Malfoy did not know any of his attackers.

Next was a request for a valid Muggle school transcript so Malfoy could attend University. It was approved and he spent the next seven years preparing for and attending a Muggle Law Program at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor without notable incident. He couldn’t begin to imagine why he would do something like that. His mother, maybe, but still all very strange.

Shortly after graduating from law school, he joined the Public Defender’s office in Detroit and remained there until he moved back to London following Narcissa Malfoy’s untimely death from an illness about three months ago. He was now working as a pro bono solicitor for a Muggle charitable institution. There was something very wrong about this picture.

Then nothing. What?! No, that can’t be it! There had to be more! He vigorously flipped through the pages again turning each leaf front to back, making sure he did not miss anything. Nothing.

Harry slammed the folder shut against his desk, startling Andy and the few witches and wizards who were starting to file into the office. He closed his eyes forcibly, ran his fingers through his black hair and sighed heavily as he asked himself why he couldn’t catch a break. He just wanted one thing to go his way. Was that too much to ask?

“I know someone who works there and owes me big time. I’ll get him to poke around some more,” Andy’s calm voice filtered through the tension in him and broke it down. As he opened his eyes and acknowledged her offer, he saw that she had summoned the folder and had read the Malfoy file herself, shoving it into one of her drawers.

He felt something tug at his heart. Sometimes, Andy reminded him of her. Hermione always had a way of making things better and he desperately needed her to make things better just about now.

“Come on. Unless you want to take a shower,” Andy jogged him back to reality. She preferred to be in the Briefing Room early.

The Briefing Room was still almost empty when they got there and they settled in two chairs at the back. He watched as the room filled in, hearing Andy in the background as she joined a conversation with two other witches about which Toronto neighbourhood was a good area to buy a house.

He had been thinking a lot lately about how such mundane conversations were absent from his life. The loneliness was seeping in again big time. What he could use was a good talk with someone who would just listen. He looked at his partner and contemplated. Maybe. Or maybe he should just go find a real Dr. Hyde.

Finally, Jack Muller was at the podium. He was a tall, burly bald wizard with a booming voice who spit when he talked. Everyone avoided the front row seats during briefings. Harry had to speak with him now. It was Andy’s advice to ask him favours as early in the morning as possible.

“Jack, do you have a minute?”

“What’s going on?” Muller was snappy, must be having a bad day already.

“I need a few days off, a week tops. I have an urgent matter to take care of in London,” Harry asked, somehow knowing what Muller would say.

“Harry, you can’t, not this week. I’ve rescinded vacation because of this blasted event,” came the response Harry expected. “I need all hands on deck so unless it’s a matter of life or death, I can’t approve it.”

Muller turned away from him signalling that their conversation was over. He could go AWOL but that could mean he would not be able to come back as an Auror. His life was already littered with lots of burned bridges and this was one bridge he didn’t want to burn, not until Greasy was in Azkaban.

As he walked back to his seat he wondered. Would waiting one more week to see Hermione matter? One more week of thinking about Malfoy with her and not doing anything about it. One more week of Malfoy, dating her, touching her, holding her soft hands, kiss …

Yes, it definitely mattered a lot. So much that it could qualify as a ‘matter of life or death’. Somehow, Harry didn’t think Muller would see it that way. Maybe Andy would cover for him for a few hours.

Harry thought about the most efficient way to do this. Dean could help him track Hermione down. He would just have to ignore her furious expression as he took her wand away, silenced and bound her with a couple of curses to make her stay and listen. It may take hours but for sure, she would see the light. He’d be back in Toronto in time for tomorrow’s briefing.

He was definitely losing it.

“The Annual Symposium of Magical Researchers,” was all the Head of the MLE (and its Auror Office) said and that was enough to cause groaning among grown witches and wizards. Muller continued, as he magically handed out information packages, “It’s such a pleasure coming to work everyday with a bunch of whiners.”

“When is it again?” someone asked.

“The 10th through the 14th,” Muller replied and there was more groaning. Harry remembered that Muller had mentioned this a month back but everyone in the MLE seemed to think if they ignored it, the event would go away.

Muller added, “As you may or may not remember, the Conference is the biggest and best of its kind and we as a City are honoured to host the event annually, or what? Anyone?”

He looked across the room and found his equally frank Auror in the back.

Poker faced, Andy obliged with an answer, “Or make every appearance that we are, Sir.”

“Exactly! So suck it up everyone. I want happy faces for five days and I don’t care how you are for the rest of the year.”

Muller rattled on specifics about the assignments and expectations from the MLE as Harry remembered the events of last year. It was the same conference that brought him to Toronto a year ago, setting off the series of events that would change his life forever.

xxxxxxxxxx

February 13, 2006 - Ministry of Magic, Hit Wizard Office

“Potter, Thomas, in here!” bellowed Alastor Gumboil from his office door. Gumboil was the boss.

Harry gave Dean a quizzical look, “What did you do this time?”

Dean answered back, “I was about to ask you the same question.”

Dean had been his partner for five years and they were pretty good about backing each other up, particularly when it came to the boss. Last night, the Cannons won their Quidditch quarter-final match for the Queen’s Cup. They were meeting the Harpies in a few days in the semis and Ron hosted a party that ran through the morning. He and Ron had a difficult talk about Hermione after and Harry was a bit late coming in. Surely, that tardiness wasn’t what this was about. Unless…

“You don’t think good ole Roy squealed on us, do you?” Harry asked his partner.

“If he did then it’s his word against ours,” Dean replied.

Roy Hunt was a garden variety crook, a con man, who dabbled in everything and anything illegal. He was a Squib and his specialty was robbing witches of their hard earned Galleons using his natural charm. Too bad he did not put his good looks to better use.

He and Dean had been on his ass for two weeks, and they couldn’t pin a thing on him. Hunt seemed to know they were watching and knew what not to do to avoid arrest. The guy was smart or at least, very lucky. Sick and tired of seeing him date and seduce women (which initially was an interesting learning experience), they ‘modified’ usual protocol, arrested him without notifying dispatch and with less than the usual probable cause.

They had to be a bit creative, both swearing never to reveal which of them dressed as a woman to be the bait to spring the surprise on Hunt as he attempted to steal a valuable family heirloom. They found other stolen items on his person at the time of his arrest last night. Case closed.

As they got to Gumboil’s office, a stern expression met them. It was going to be a tongue lashing for sure and they had an audience in Head Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“You both know Mr. Shacklebolt,” Gumboil said to them.

Kingsley acknowledged them, dispensing of the formalities, “Harry, Dean.”

They nodded to him. They must have screwed up big time.

“Roy Hunt,” Gumboil started, causing them to look at each other. “He’s filing a complaint.”

“Of course he is,” Harry replied, “He’s got nothing better to do in jail.”

“He said he was physically abused and is suffering humiliation because of it.”

“Really?” Dean feigned surprise. “Did he say that during or in between the cold compresses that he has to put between his legs?”

Harry could not control himself and a snigger escaped from his mouth. He was amazed that Dean could keep a straight face.

Gumboil chose to ignore the amusement Harry was getting from this, “He said one of you shrunk his penis with magic.”

Again, a snort.

Dean turned to him and deadpanned, “I don’t know, Harry. For two weeks we’ve been watching him stick his worthless dick into women before robbing them. It always looked smallish to me. What do you think?”

“He’s teeny-weeny, minute,” he confirmed. “We have it in notes somewhere I’m sure. He must just be trying to get himself a free engorgement job. Which of us did he say performed magic on him, because Dean and I both know that’s wrong and we could lose our jobs for it.”

“He said a beautiful woman kicked him in the groin and used a wand.”

At that point Harry and Dean burst into uncontrollable laughter. Even Kingsley found it funny but the boss did not even break a smile. Poor schmuck. Must be tough going through his entire life not having a sense of humor. After some time, he yelled out.

“So who was it?!”

It was really pointless for him to get upset.

“Geez, Dean, your Mom is going to be pissed if she finds out you’ve been in her closet again.”

“And you can stop pretending you like women and just come out of yours.”

They did this for fun, get on Gumboil’s nerves. Looking over, Harry realized they probably overdid it this time if not for Kingsley saving them.

“Alastor, Hunt must be lying. I mean, really, can you imagine either of these two being described as ‘beautiful’, man or woman?”

Kingsley was dead on. The ‘woman’ was actually butt ugly, but there was nothing that a few drops of Amortentia and a Confundus Charm could not make beautiful. For Hit Wizards, both methods were Ministry unapproved. And while there were no rules against Aurors using magic to apprehend dark witches and wizards, the regulations that applied to Squibs and Muggles were as tight as Gumboil’s ass.

“Fine,” Gumboil let it go. Really, he couldn’t afford to suspend anyone, much less fire them. Still steaming, he said to them, “Mr. Shacklebolt would like a word with you.”

The moment Kingsley took over, the conversation took a more serious tone.

“Gentlemen, what I’m about to say is highly confidential and must not be repeated outside this office. Do I have your word?”

Kingsley looked at them both as they nodded.

“We know you’ve been following Hunt for quite sometime. The Auror Office has been, too, even before you and we’ve been tipping him off so he would elude arrest. Last night, we dropped the ball.”

“What?!” Dean and Harry exclaimed in unison.

“You were letting him rob all those witches?!” Harry asked. It just wasn’t right.

“Hear me out,” Kingsley interrupted, taking command of the room.

“A year ago, a German Healer, Helga Braun, was found dead in a Downtown Toronto Hotel, apparently a victim of a common Muggle robbery. She was sexually assaulted then beaten severely, her face unrecognizable, and suffocated in her own pool of blood. It was a gruesome murder. Money and jewelry went missing. No suspects or arrests have been made, the case remains unsolved.”

“Quite by chance, we arrested a Canadian tourist just last month trying to peddle intellectual property that has been proven to belong to Healer Braun.”

“Intellectual property?” Harry asked for clarification.

“Reports, documents, notes, magical healing studies. She was in Toronto attending a research conference and interviews with her colleagues since have confirmed that she had a briefcase full of her research work while she was there that was never accounted for,” Kingsley answered.

Hermione just left a few hours ago for some research meeting in Toronto.

“We found a few more attendees who lost or momentarily misplaced something similar, almost all of them trivial they didn’t even bother reporting to authorities.”

Harry said, “The ones that have gone missing are obviously unpublished.”

Kingsley confirmed, “Mostly drafts, works in progress.”

“I don’t understand,” Dean was a bit confused. “Why steal them during the meetings when you can steal them any other time?”

If not for his years of experience hearing Hermione talk about research, he would ask the question too.

Harry replied, “True but useful only if you broke in and knew exactly what you were looking for. There’s research and there’s research. Unless you’re one of them, it’s hard to tell the good from the bad, but when they get together, they always bring their best. The meetings are an opportunity to network and connect. Most magical researchers bring with them drafts and proposals just in case they find potential collaborators or colleagues working on something similar.”

Kingsley added, “Also, it appears that considerable effort was made so that the owners never suspected foul play.”

“So someone was desperate for ideas and a Healer was maybe murdered for hers,” Dean summarized, then asked, “What does this have to do with Hunt? Was he in Toronto last year?”

“No, he wasn’t. But this man was.”

He handed them a picture of a rather angelic, plump faced, dark haired individual who looked like he couldn’t hurt a fly. He looked to be in his thirties.

“Who’s ‘Chubby’?” Dean liked making nicknames.

“He goes mostly by the name of Tex Waxball; we think he’s American. There are a few aliases but like ‘Tex Waxball’ none of them have traceable remote history. He’s based in Toronto and is a known head hunter for some very nasty Dark Witches and Wizards. Our very own Bellatrix Lestrange uses him. Roy Hunt is going to Toronto on his invite and is booked for a flight tonight.”

Harry followed what Kingsley was implying, “So you think this Waxball-Hunt connection is related to the meetings this year. But what would a recruiter want with a two-bit lowlife like Hunt?”

“We don’t know,” Kingsley admitted, “Hence the plan to tag him all the way to Toronto. But you arrested him.”

Dean said acerbically, “I guess we should be sorry for doing our jobs. I could think of many other things Harry and I could have done with our two weeks.”

“We couldn’t tell you. It had to be business as usual.”

“What do you really want, Kingsley,” Harry asked pointedly. “Obviously, it’s not to slap our wrists for messing up your case.”

“Hunt is the only lead we have,” Kingsley replied, “We need him to go to Toronto and make contact with the head hunter. We need to find out what this is about, if it’s indeed related to last year’s murder and maybe even find out who’s behind it.”

“You want us to talk him into going?” Dean asked, but Harry’s guess was more accurate.

“No. He wants one of us to go to Toronto as Roy Hunt.”

“And the other to help with the prep,” Kingsley confirmed.

For the first time Gumboil spoke about this, likely hearing the proposal for the first time too, “Why don’t you send one of your Aurors?”

“Dean and Harry know him better than anyone on my team and can pass for a Squib easily because they have lived as Muggles,” Kingsley explained, “We’ve managed to keep a lid on Hunt’s arrest; no one knows except for a select few. As we speak, someone who looks exactly like him is going around town, preparing to go to Toronto.”

“It will be Thomas, then. Potter is still on probation,” the boss spoke.

Yeah, he forgot about that. He was on probation for a minor scuffle with a git of a co-worker who made a joke about him being on the bottle again. He was just trying to help the guy improve his sense of humour.

Kingsley interjected, “No offense, Dean, but probation or not, I would prefer if Harry went.”

The suggestion did not surprise Harry at all. For years, Kingsley had been trying to convince him to join the Auror team. He had the necessary skills and training but preferred the low profile of a Hit Wizard. Less daunting expectations, no significant let down with failure. It was better if no one had to depend on him for anything important.

“I won’t lie. This is dangerous. Harry knows more advanced magic and is better at it than you are, Dean.”

“No arguments there,” Dean shrugged. The truth never bothered him. In the five years they worked together, Dean was the one who always pointed that out. And, as a testament to how well Dean knew his partner, he made sure Harry had a way out, “That is unless Harry develops some sudden strange illness and can’t go.”

Kingsley looked Harry in the eye and talked as if he wasn’t there, “Even if he does, I think he’d want to go, anyway.”

He handed him a brown envelope and said as Harry took out its contents, “We were screening Hunt’s Muggle mail and this came in first thing this morning. It’s from Waxball. It’s a profile of one of our Healers. We can only think that whatever job Hunt has been recruited for in Toronto, it involves her.”

Harry didn’t have to read further than the name on the dossier in his hand to decide that if somebody had to go, it would be him. Hunt’s target in Toronto was Hermione.

“Pull her out, Kingsley. She’s not bait,” Harry could feel the heat rise to his face and head. He was getting miffed at how the Auror office made decisions on who to spare and who not to get out of harms way.

“Hermione’s already bait whether you like it or not. I’ve asked the Canadians to keep an eye on her until we get there but they’re swamped enough as it is I fear they have someone inexperienced doing that. And even if Hunt doesn’t make it, others may be after her.”

“Tell her, so she can choose to leave or at least be able to defend herself.”

“We know what her answer to that would be,” Dean interjected, with a warning.

Except for Gumboil, all of them knew she would want to help. In fact, his educated guess was she would insist against all reason to help. And the last time she helped with a case a few years ago she almost got herself killed. While the dangers they went through with Ron as teenagers should have made her risk taking acceptable to him, he realized more and more as they got older just how lucky they were to stay alive. She was a Healer now; death should not be an occupational hazard.

“We think this is big; it’s too organized not to be and we have to get to the bottom of this. We have the German and Canadian Auror Offices working with us. Whoever is stealing research ideas they can’t know that we know. So, she can’t know anything about it. She’ll be in more danger if she does.”

Harry thought about what happened to Helga Braun. He really didn’t have a choice.

“What do I have to do?”

Gumboil interrupted, smugly, “You’re not going anywhere Potter. You’re on probation.”

Surely, Gumboil wasn’t serious, pulling rank and being the petty pencil pushing idiot he always was. Gumboil always considered him a pain and the feeling was mutual, especially at that moment.

“Six more weeks according to...”

The large oak desk between Harry and Gumboil lost all its contents to the wind and started shaking.

“You really didn’t mean that. You might want to take it back,” Dean made a suggestion.

Gumboil, not having had the privilege of seeing Harry in any such state of wrath and not smart enough to realize what was happening, stammered, trying to save face, “I…I am the b-boss…I-I decide who g-goes.”

“Harry, don’t,” that was Kingsley, “If you hurt him you’re going to be locked up. You don’t want to be locked up right now.”

Kingsley had a point and his thought cleared enough for him to ask back, impulsively, “That offer to work with you, is that still any good?”

“I’m happy to sign a transfer immediately,” came Kingsley’s reply.

It was not a well thought-out decision.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Harry said to him then turned to address Gumboil, “Get him a good partner. I don’t work here anymore.”

Dean was smiling, as pleased as Kingsley, “After five years of being stuck with a moody, over-qualified ass like you, it’ll be such a relief working with someone else.”

A/N : Fair warning …D-Hr scene coming up

Chapter 6. The Gryffindor Ghost

Hermione was still immersed in paperwork in her office at five thirty that afternoon when two grey owls swooped into her window and landed on her now tidier desk. Attached between them was an envelop from a colleague in Michigan, information she had requested yesterday, rush.

Her possession of the information was not exactly kosher. As in Hogwarts, there were certain rules she would break, certain lines she would cross, if she had enough reason to do so. She now owed her Michigan counterpart a huge favour for violation of patient-Healer confidentiality, hospital privacy regulations and a few other international statutes against transport of patient information. They could lose their jobs over this and even their licenses to heal. Hermione took a long time to decide that the information was worth the risk.

As the owls were refreshing themselves in the mini owl post station in the far nook of her office, she emptied its contents onto her desk. It was a single piece of parchment.

CLAY ROOFDAM

They both agreed it would be best to not make it so obvious in case somebody happened upon the file. Hermione would have to praise the Detroit area Healer for her use of the anagram.

The one parchment purging and mailing method was quite useful in the clinical and research world because of the sheer amount of documents that needed to be stored or moved from one place to another. With the appropriate pass code, a simple spell would make the parchment reflect the original from which it was copied from, and according to the parchment details, it would expand to a two-inch stack. That explained the need for two owls.

Hermione just sat there for a few minutes, staring, waffling about whether she should go ahead and read Draco’s Detroit Hospital file. It was definitely personal and she could not justify it being otherwise. The hesitation was not so much because what she was about to do was illegal; she was past that the moment she called Michigan. It was more because she was taking a shortcut.

She was taking a shortcut because she did not have a clue what she was getting into and she was going into it a bit too fast. Ginny’s caution about dating Draco was both well meaning and sensible. Hermione agreed she was crazy to date him, and to date him this soon after just meeting the new version of him. Her request of the illicit information was borne out of panic and the last time she was in such a state of alarm was when they were searching for the Horcruxes.

Draco’s file contained the answers to the many questions swirling around in her head about him. The Draco Malfoy that was at Hogwarts was a far departure from the Draco Malfoy that came back from Michigan, and to her, the change appeared sincere. She needed the ‘why’ and the ‘how’ and she wanted all possible versions of it. As a researcher, she had no fear of the unfamiliar and she approached this unknown just like she would any mystery.

She remembered the first time she sat down with him and Ginny to discuss the Magorian trial a week ago. The tension in the air was palpable. Every time Ginny spoke, and Ginny spoke a lot that afternoon, she could literally see barbs and sparks in the air.

Hermione was not surprised at all by her animosity towards him either. Understandably so, this was the result of the six years of hostility at Hogwarts capped off by his significant role in the death of Albus Dumbledore. It was an interesting process, recognizing how a plain thought would form in her mind and come out of her mouth laced with hate and anger, all without having to think about it.

Draco was composed all throughout that one-hour meeting, taking it like a man from two vicious acerbic witches who didn’t want anything to do with him but had no choice. If there was one thing that Hermione could compliment Draco about that day it would have been his self-control; he did not lose his temper and he did not lose his focus on the case. On hindsight, they were quite abusive. Any other person, and remembering that Draco had volunteered, would have walked out two minutes into it.

At its conclusion, Draco did the unexpected. He apologized. He apologized to Ginny for his family’s actions towards the Weasleys all those years and for getting her mixed up with Riddle’s diary. He apologized to her for calling her Mudblood and to them both for everything malicious and despicable that he did while they were at Hogwarts, adding that if he had to name them all it would take all week (to which Ginny’s sidebar was ‘A week if he didn’t sleep’). And he apologized to them for killing Professor Dumbledore, though all three of them knew that he didn’t do it.

He was serious and honest (at least Hermione thought so). There was nothing melodramatic or excessive about the apology. In fact, he said he didn’t expect forgiveness. What he did expect from them from future meetings was at least some professionalism, to not let their personal dislike for him affect Magorian’s chances at the trial.

Hermione had to admit he was right. This wasn’t about them; it was about helping Magorian. Professional she could definitely do and she did. For the next couple of meetings, ‘civil’ was the key word.

The turning point, she remembered was that night Ginny left them at her flat to go over the finer details of the trial.

“What if they ask about Firenze’s banishment from the herd,” Draco asked.

“Tell them the truth. It was a long time ago. It’s totally unrelated,” she answered.

“Umbridge knows, she’ll point it out and it will be like we’re trying to hide the fact that Magorian and Firenze had differences.”

“You’re right,” Hermione replied, biting her lower lip as she thought, “What do you suggest?”

“I think it should come from us. So at least they know we’re not hiding it,” he was surprised that she asked for his opinion.

“I thought we were hiding it.”

“I thought we weren’t.”

“No, we were, but you’re right. We shouldn’t.”

“Seriously?”

He looked like he couldn’t believe that he just talked her into it.

“Yeah, seriously,” she replied, seriously.

And they hit an awkward spot when neither really had anything else to say. Draco balked first.

“Listen, Granger. It’s midnight.”

“And I need to know this because you become the evil bastard that you really are soon after?”

She kind of forgot about the civil part after hearing Draco call her by her last name. Again, it was something spontaneous, reflex-like, like she had this evil twin screaming to be heard. There was yet another pause, and she recognized from his reaction acceptance of the fact that there were just some things that wouldn’t change.

“No,” he replied, calmly, “You mentioned that you have to be at work at six for a meeting. I thought you might want to get some rest. We can pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

That was considerate of him and in return, she had been such a bitch.

“Listen,” Hermione felt foolish, “I’m sorry. It’s hard, you know, old habits.”

He nodded, “As I said, I don’t expect forgiveness.”

“I don’t get that. You don’t expect it, not even a bit?” she thought it was sad apologizing and feeling that there was very little chance he would be forgiven. Wasn’t forgiveness part of the reason, the ultimate pay-off, the quest for that full circle, why one apologized?

“Why set myself up for more disappointment? I kind of figure that most things I did are quite unforgivable.”

It must have been the time or an indication of how tired she was but as she looked at him that night in her living room, Draco Malfoy reminded her of a broken man, a particular one who had the same defeated look in a different living room years ago; the defeated look of not being able to forgive himself. The only difference being one of them was at least making an effort.

“Not unforgivable,” she said to him, trying to convince herself of her words. “Hard to forgive, maybe. But not unforgivable.”

Draco looked back at her, shaking his head.

“Fine. Very, very, very, very, very, very,” she took an exaggerated deep breath in and continued, “very, very, very hard to forgive.”

For the first time in their lives they exchanged smiles.

“I have to go,” he finally said to her, as he gathered the documents and started putting his coat and jacket on.

As Hermione walked him to the door, she suggested, hoping it would help with the civility part, “If we’re going to be working on this case together, you should really start calling me by my given name.”

Her wicked twin in the back of her head was commentating, ‘That would be Mudblood to him.’

Draco turned towards her at the entrance and said, “I’d like that, Hermione.”

This was definitely going to take some getting used to.

“Good night, Draco.”

“And by the way,” he said to her just before he left, “It’s during a full moon.”

“I’m sorry,” she didn’t understand.

“Not midnight. I become the evil bastard that I really am during full moons,” it looked to her that he was grinning a bit.

She chuckled. He was trying to be funny.

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to check before I meet with you, then.”

What happened during the days that followed was quite shocking even to her. Two nights later they were having dinner, and the night after, and the night after. He asked and she didn’t have it in her to say no. She kept on seeing the broken man in the living room, needing a chance. In fact, it never crossed her mind to refuse.

There were others who asked her out but Draco was the first man she dated since Ron’s death. Ginny attributed this to an obvious decline in good taste. Maybe Ginny was right to ask if this was one of her lost causes. It wasn’t that she really wanted to go out with him; she just didn’t mind it and she found their time together quite pleasant. Like their kiss. There was no urgent compulsion to kiss him but when they did, she enjoyed it. Concerned, she immediately called a friend in Michigan.

They chose Muggle restaurants; decent, reasonably priced ones. They talked, mostly about their work, about politics, about London life. It seemed to her that both of them were avoiding talking about Hogwarts all together. She wanted him to initiate, signal that it was something he was ready to talk with her about. She was thinking that maybe, he was waiting for her, too. She’d make a point to ask him tonight.

Hermione looked at her watch. She would not have time to read it prior to seeing him even if she decided to go ahead and do so. As she left her office with the Malfoy file in her briefcase that night she just thought how it was so unlike her to procrastinate.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was one in the afternoon in Toronto. Both he and Andy had just come back into the Auror Office from the blustery cold, his partner swearing more than her usual the three hours they spent outside a Toronto pub on McCaul and Elm. The Ghoul Waterhole was a known hotspot for not so upstanding witches and wizards and they were watching for any uncommon activity. There was definitely an increase in non-local patronage. The craziness was starting.

They were on-call for the next three nights and Andy had agreed to cover for him so he could spend a few hours in London. He planned to Dissaparate from the International Magical Travel Centre at 4pm, 9pm London time. Dean suggested looking for Hermione at St.Mungo’s or at her flat.

He lost Andy somewhere on the way to their desks as he picked up a copy of the wire flash from the London MLE. Among other things, on it was the official report of the incident at Gringott’s. It was a robbery, ten vaults, thousands of Galleons, one missing Goblin and found in one of the emptied vaults, an unconscious man. Someone he knew from Hogwarts, someone who was supposedly retired. Argus Filch was in St. Mungo’s, still unconscious.

Harry read that Magorian was free, thanks to Malfoy. There was no mention of Hermione or Ginny on the report. He was not fond of Magorian and really was not fussed about him going to Azkaban if it meant there would not be a need for his defence team to celebrate. Again, today was just a really bad day to hope for one break. There were no details about why Magorian was acquitted or if there was another suspect for the murder of Firenze.

Andy suddenly appeared beside him, tapping her feet with this nervousness that she always had when she was excited about something. It drove him crazy when she did that. He looked at her.

“Grab your coat,” she said to him as she walked away, indicating he should follow.

“Where are we going?” he asked her as he caught up.

“House hunting.”

One thing that he learned about Andy was if she wanted to give you more information, she would give it to you without you having to ask.

And if you asked, “House hunting?”

“House hunting.”

He followed her to their Ministry issue, magically enhanced, Ford Taurus and got on the passenger’s seat. He never drove in North America; at least not on the streets. For someone who bent a lot of rules, he had significant difficulty driving on the wrong side of the road.

Harry was getting antsy.

“I didn’t know you wanted to move,” he said to her, not mentioning that maybe they should do this after work.

“This morning, Kettlenip and Snow were talking about good neighbourhoods to live in, it got me thinking while we were freezing our butts off outside the Ghoul,” she said to him and he did remember overhearing their conversation.

“Kind of impulsive, even for you, don’t you think?”

He looked out the window and noticed large brick houses. They were driving through an established, old money neighbourhood.

“Oh, we’re not buying; just looking,” she was smiling at him impishly.

“We are?”

At that point, Andy had parked on the street in front of a huge dilapidated boarded-up structure of what he imagined would have been an opulent mansion in its heyday. On the snow covered front lawn a faded sign was posted, ‘FOR SALE or LEASE’. Stamped across the sign were the words ‘Reduced Price’.

As he looked at it, all he could think about was who was going to buy this dump. For the right money, any contractor might, to tear it down and build anew. He was sure there were lots of people who would want to live in Forest Hill.

Jane Doe's weird message. Forest Hill. Four Five Five. 455 Forest Hill Road. An address.

“Brilliant, Andy!” Harry said to her, not noticing her blush.

“I called the agent. She said to feel free to look at the property without her.” Andy told him.

“Did she say how long it’s been in the market?”

“She was kind of cryptic so I did some checking on my own. No one had lived in it for over twenty years. The Muggle owner died five months ago and it’s been on the market since. Many, many lookers, no offers.”

“Designated?”

She answered as she drew out her wand before entering the massive front entrance, “I guess we’ll find out.”

Andy held the door ajar wide enough for Harry to pass through, his wand now in his hand and ready for anything. He felt her behind him and the door creaked and closed noisily. The inside of the house was already gutted, the walls that used to separate rooms barely existent, thick dust on the floor newly disturbed by their footsteps. The enclosure was dimly lit by the sunlight filtering through the two remaining unboarded windows on their left and right.

About three years ago, Ministries all over the world signed an international law assigning specific houses and places for ‘designation’. A ‘designated house’ was just a fancy, legal term for…

“Watch out!” Andy exclaimed, a large block of wood came hurling towards them from the front.

Harry barely had time to duck safely out of the way, rolling to his right.

“Reducto!” Andy obliterated the careening object in the air a mere few feet above her.

There were fast moving swooping unformed figures about and taunting laughter filled the room.

“That answers our question,” Andy said under her breath as Harry positioned himself right beside her, keeping their eyes peeled.

The house was indeed designated. Haunted. He had hoped it wouldn’t be.

“How many do you think?” Harry asked.

“At least one…” two more objects came from their flanks.

“Repello!” Harry shielded them from what looked like parts of a large marble statue

“At least two poltergeists, and looks like a handful of entertainment hungry ghosts,” Andy corrected herself.

More insulting sniggering could be heard. The poltergeists were cowardly invisible but several pearly white transparent individuals were now floating around them as if gathered for a spectacle.

Harry shouted out, “We’re Aurors on official Ministry business!”

A voice echoed what he said in a high pitched mocking tone, “We’re Aurors on official Ministry business!”

“Let go of me!”

Harry turned and saw that Andy was now floating a couple of feet from the floor. He aimed his wand on her left and fired of a releasing spell. One swore loudly as he hit his mark. Andy fell to the floor after he did the same to her right. She looked extremely pissed but seemed physically fine.

“I’m Harry Potter! Ron asked me to come!”

There was hushed murmuring among their audience and the two large poltergeists who were causing them mischief showed themselves.

“It’s Harry Potter.”

“The Harry Potter?”

“I want my money back!”

“The Choking Seeker?”

“The Big D of Quidditch.”

“The Quitter.”

Harry felt like he was eight, being subjected to horrible name calling on the playground. And to think his Quidditch days were over a long time ago. He looked at Andy and met her eyes, apologizing that she had to hear this. It was embarrassing.

Andy was actually amused and asked, “The Big D?”

“Disgrace, disappointment, dejection, whatever you fancy,” he answered.

“I always preferred ‘The Big Dud’,” said a familiar voice in a frosty, somewhat hostile tone. “But on a more personal note, deceitful bastard is most appropriate.”

Harry had hoped not but when he first realized Jane Doe had directed them to a haunted house he could only think of one reason why anyone would be there. He turned towards the direction of the transparent figure. The ghost’s red hair and blue eyes were faint, but the tall freckle-faced imprint unmistakably belonged to Ronald Weasley.

Chapter 7 – Ron’s Problem

Just past sunset, in an abandoned warehouse somewhere along the Thames, two wizards and a wizened witch were in congregation.

“Except for the old fool, I thought Gringotts went well,” the woman spoke, strong and authoritative. She asked her two underlings, “Are we ready?”

“Almost,” the older of the two men replied, “The first shipment is arriving tonight.”

“We need everything in Toronto by the thirteenth,” the witch countered, “It all better be there in time.”

“Have I ever let you down?” came his reply, then, he addressed the other wizard, “I am going to need more phials.”

In a somewhat nervous tone the other answered, “The phials won’t be a problem. Nobody at St. Mungo’s will even notice fifteen hundred missing. It’s her we should be worried about.”

“Why?” the woman asked.

“It doesn’t look like she’s going.”

“That will be a problem,” the other man responded, “We are going to need her expertise.”

“Let’s worry about Granger when we need her and she’s not there. We have her shadowed; that will be an easy fix. Just make sure we get all those phials to Toronto,” the woman retorted in an icy tone before breaking up the meeting.

XXXXXXXXX

Just inside the main entrance of the grimy designated house, Harry stood still in the haze of disturbed filth for quite some time, in shock, still trying to convince himself that he was not dreaming. His best friend, his dead best friend, had chosen to be a ghost.

While he felt elated that he could talk with Ron again, they seemed to have picked up from where they had left off the last time they talked to each other. Rightfully so, Ron still harboured a significant amount of ill feeling towards him.

“So, how are you, Harry?” Ron’s tone was filled with open hostility. “When I heard you were in Toronto, and staying here on your own volition, I had to scratch my head a few times. But wow!”

Ron was now circling and hovering around Andy, checking her out, and Merlin help him if Ron…

“Hats off, mate. You always went for the best. She’s a nice piece of ass…”

“Ron…no…”

“Excuse me!? Did he just say…” Andy was getting red in the face.

“I wouldn’t leave Toronto either if I got to spend all day with her and shag her every night.”

Harry wished he could just close his eyes and make it all go away as Ron was making unimaginable obscene gestures. And to think he always advertised him as a ‘great guy’ to Andy. He was trying to intervene but there was really nothing he could do. How does one stop a ghost?

“We’re not…”

“Fuck off, ghost!” she yelled at Ron then yelled at him, “Was he always this…”

Andy was so upset that she struggled mightily to find the right word.

“Insensitive?” he offered, hearing that about Ron countless times.

Ron was having a lot of fun.

“And feisty, too. Just like Hermione but with less appropriate language. I like that! She’s hot! Are your hooters for real?”

“Crass!”

“Yes,” Harry admitted, “Sorry, and I think it’s gotten a bit worse now that he’s a ghost.”

Then Ron exclaimed, “I get it Harry! You finally got what you wanted. A blonde and beautiful Hermione! She’ll be ecstatic about that!”

That was it!

“Stop right now or I swear I will walk out that door and never come back!”

Harry stared at Ron’s ghost, toe to toe, glaring at him, meaning every word he said.

Ron smirked and floated up all the way to the ceiling, staying there, taunting, singing a little ditty in a child’s small voice, repeating, “I guess I hit a sore spot, I guess I hit a sore spot, I guess I hit a sore spot…”

He turned to Andy who was still simmering, “I’m sorry about that. I think he’s aged about twenty years back, too.”

“I can’t believe you were friends with him,” she said, venting her ire at him as if it was his fault.

He could not admit to her that in the past there were times when he thought the very same thing.

“Listen, I need to talk to him. How about I meet you at the office?”

Andy nodded and left in quite a bad mood. He’ll have to disperse the effects of Ron’s tactlessness later as he had many times in the past. Harry had not told her everything about what happened with Hermione and Ron and him, and he was not sure what Ron was up to. If only to prevent Ron from being rude to her, he preferred the she was not in the house. The other occupants, Harry noticed, had left the scene on Ron’s request.

Harry looked up to where Ron was and said to him, “So, you got me here. What do you want?”

Ron came down, eye level, and replied, ranting, “What? No ‘hi’ or ‘hello’? No ‘nice to see you’? I know you shagged my fiancée but I am still your best friend, am I not? I never thought I’d feel this considering how you betrayed my trust but I miss you. Do you not miss me at all?”

He was not prepared to see Ron like this and as he listened to him speak and ask the questions he could barely stop tears from coming as he replied, “Of course I do! But seeing you like this?! I never imagined you would choose this! This is bad! This is worse than bad! How could you…”

“Whoa!Whoa! Harry, get a hold of yourself! Don’t channel Hermione, please, I don’t want to have to hear that twice,” Ron’s animosity towards him, for now, appeared to have mellowed. He whispered, “I know, a life that’s neither here nor there for all of eternity; not good, though let’s not incite the whole household with the thought.”

“What were you thinking?!” Harry was not done with his displeasure at Ron’s current state.

Ron shrugged, “Obviously I wasn’t. It seemed like a good idea at that time. And give me a break. I did die unexpectedly and the last thought I remember having while still alive was I was going to kill you with my bare hands. It was kind of hard to pass on with that in mind.”

There it was. Ron had said it plainly, and with a lot of sense. He would have felt the same way and probably ended up doing the same thing had he been in his shoes. But his difficulties with accepting Ron’s current state not only stemmed from the fact that he was saddened by what Ron had chosen to do, but also because he was responsible for everything that caused it to happen; from his untimely death to his unresolved inner turmoil.

There was one thing that he never had the chance to say to him.

“It was inexcusable, Ron,” Harry said sombrely as his eyes welled up and sprung a leak, tears streaming down his face quietly. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for being such a selfish asshole. You’re my best friend; my family. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I’m really sorry; for all of this and for a lot more.”

Ron listened and watched him apologize, his expression unreadable, until he finally said, “I suppose you’re going to have to live with it for the rest of your life.”

Harry could only nod and think how he had to deal with the consequences of his actions everyday.

“It was really dastardly,” Ron continued.

He agreed, again nodding.

“Low, mean, devious. And many more things that I never thought anyone could ever say about you.”

“It was unforgivable,” Harry volunteered what he thought about it.

The words hung in the air forever, before Ron finally said, “When I was asked why I wanted to stay and be a ghost, do you know what I said?”

It was a rhetorical question, needing no response.

“I wanted to torment you and Hermione for as long as I could and make the rest of your lives a living hell,” Ron admitted, calmly. “I should have known then that I didn’t have to stay to do that.”

True.

“I have to tell you, though. Seeing you choose to be a ghost because of it makes it all much worse for me,” Harry replied, hoping to make Ron feel that his decision was not for naught, then, asked, curious, “It took you a year to find me?”

Ron rolled up his eyes and got all upset again, “Don’t even get me started about that! I thought that as a ghost I could go anywhere I pleased and haunt anyone I wanted too. The laws ghosts are subjected to, blimey! They make Hermione’s rules quite livable. Of course, it was just my luck that with this designation thing, it was hard to get to where you were to even begin to haunt you. Seriously, designating a ghost to one haunting facility is like prison. It’s worse than prison. Let’s not even go there because we’ll be here all day.”

Then they realized just how it seemed like that exchange seemed almost normal and it made them chuckle.

Harry asked, “So, how are you?”

“Hanging in there, as you can see. What about you?”

He answered truthfully, “Could be better.”

“And Hermione?”

His chest tightened as he fought back tears. Seeing Ron seemed to have really touched a raw nerve about how it once was, with them, with her, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since your funeral.”

Ron said wistfully, “I miss her, terribly.”

I miss her, too.

“So, now that you’re haunting me in the true sense of the word, what happens next?”

“Really, haunting isn’t as fun as I thought it would be. It gets old doing it on Muggles, and witches and wizards don’t scare at all so what’s the point,” Ron countered, “Just between you and me, being a phantom is kind of boring.”

“Is this where you’ll be for the rest of, you know,” Harry couldn’t say it.

“Eternity? This dump? I certainly hope not,” Ron replied, “Actually, I need your help. I know you can help me with this. And you will because you owe me.”

“What?” Harry asked, not able to think of anything he could possibly do for him.

“I don’t want to be a ghost anymore,” Ron said to him in a hushed voice.

Okay…

“I want to leave this physical world, move on. And this designation thing is definitely not for me.”

Harry had heard that ghosts all over the world were in an uproar as they lost their case to abolish the law limiting the dwellings they could haunt. He was confused but he wanted to assist in any way possible, perhaps give his friend a smidgen of reality check.

“You made the choice when you died. Don’t you have to live with it?”

“Well, yes, but I do have one year to reconsider and I have,” this was the first time Harry had heard that ghosts had the option. He thought that was a good thing, as Ron continued, “But there appears to be something that’s holding me back.”

“What’s holding you back?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”

“Could it be the fact that you want to haunt me and Hermione for the rest of our lives?” Harry suggested the obvious.

“I totally don’t feel that way anymore, haven’t for quite some time,” Ron confessed. “Honestly, can you just imagine me haunting Hermione? After she get’s over the initial shock of seeing me this way, you know I’m going to hear about this forever. She’ll end up tormenting me! I really need your help.”

Of course, Ron wouldn’t have asked for him to come just to visit, be haunted, play some wizard chess maybe, talk about the old times. No. Ron had a problem. And as in the past, Ron’s problem was his problem, too.

Harry had to find a ghost expert; Andy would probably know one and she would help if only to get rid of the obnoxious ghost she had the misfortune of meeting.

“I don’t know much about this, Ron,” he admitted, “We should get help.”

“I already talked with ghost elders and the Ministry ghost liaison. They all said the same crap. Something has to be done before I can move on and I have to figure out what that something is before my year is up,” Ron was trying his best to explain all the weirdness, “I feel I’m ready, I look ready, I think I’m ready. I can’t seem to get a portal to open for me.”

“A portal?”

“A door of light that pops up in the vicinity that leads to the other side,” Ron answered.

Harry would have to take his word that he knew what he was talking about. They had to at least start with something.

“What do you think it is that’s holding you back?”

“I have a few ideas,” Ron seemed pensive. “In fact, now that you’re here, let me try one out.”

He paused, floated to and fro, seemingly concentrating about something. Harry patiently waited hoping he would be quick about this. He wondered if this wasn’t it how many other ideas Ron had. They barely had two weeks to figure this out and he had his own urgent matter to deal with.

Anytime soon, Ron?

Finally, Ron came back to face him with a very serious expression.

“I was angry when I found out about you and Hermione. I was hurt; it still hurts,” Ron declared. “I knew you loved her, I think even before you realized it. And I understand how you must have felt about us getting married. I never thought I would ever but, I forgive you, Harry. I can’t stay pissed at you. You’re my best friend.”

Harry nodded back, feeling a bit lighter all of a sudden. One of three was a blessing, particularly because he didn’t expect it. Ron was looking around, he guessed, for the portal.

“Do you see anything?” he asked.

“No.”

“Just as I thought. It’s not that simple,” Ron’s brows furrowed in concentration. Then, he said to him, almost reluctantly, “Hermione. As much as I want to avoid it, I need to see Hermione. But I can’t go to her. By the time I’m able to cut through the red tape it will be too late. She has to come here. You have to tell her to come.”

Lucky me. His palms began to sweat just thinking about it. Harry tried to imagine what that talk might sound like.

Hermione, I know you’re not talking to me and I also have to likely force you to stop seeing that git Malfoy, but it gets worse. Not only is Ron dead because of me, he’s a ghost…and he would like for you to come to Toronto, to help him avoid being a ghost forever. I can see why that would make you more upset…yes…not seeing you for another year seems like a reasonable punishment…

His plan (and he could only still think of one) of hexing her with binding and silencing jinxes was beginning to really look good now. Just add abduction to that, right? He suggested tackling the problem from the least impossible.

“Is there not anything on your list of ideas that we can try without her?”

“Why?”

Harry put it mildly, “Getting her here is going to be a challenge.”

“Tell her whatever. Lie to her. That should be easy, you’ve done that before,” Ron was grinning, unsympathetic to his woes.

Very funny, Ron.

“She’s not talking to me.”

Ron didn’t understand the enormity of the problem of getting Hermione to Toronto and insisted, “I only have a few days left or I’ll be a ghost forever. Not good. Please, Harry. I don’t care if she Obliviated herself and she doesn’t know you anymore. Just get her here!”

He did have to admit that compared to Ron’s dilemma, his seemed to pale in comparison. After all, he did have to see her anyway. What was this to add to the list of things he had to talk with her about?

“Blimey! The time!” Ron suddenly exclaimed, then floated up away from him, “Got to go, Harry. Inter-House Quidditch, the only thing I still look forward to. We have a match against the designated house from Laird and they don’t know yet that we have poltergeists so we can use them as Chasers. It was nice seeing you, mate.”

He felt something cool on his shoulder as Ron tapped him. Then his figure quickly disappeared into the ceiling before Harry could think of anything to say.

Not a second later, his head popped back upside down and he said, “It’ll be pointless to come back without her. And next time, be considerate enough to knock. We’re ghosts and we have rights and all that shit, too, you know.”

“Wait!”

Harry called out but Ron had already gone for good. He would have to wait a bit longer. There was an important question that Harry wanted to ask Ron and if there was someone who knew the precise answer to it, it would be him.

After all, one would think that any dead man would know exactly how he died.

A/N : The title of the chapter should be enough of a warning to those who absolutely abhor D/Hr. The contents of the Chapter is a necessary evil.

If you want to skip it but still want to be relatively in the 'mystery' loop, you may go to the very end of the chapter and read about Harry.

Chapter 8. Dinner with Draco

Hermione got to her flat and had about twenty-five minutes to get ready for dinner.

She sighed, muttering to herself, “This is painful.”

Having been with Ron for almost ten years, going out on a date was never a problem. She wore what she liked and if Ron disapproved, tough. And here she was, looking at the magical parade of dresses from her closet, irritated at herself for fussing too much about what to wear during what would be her fourth date with Draco in five days.

Too long.

Too colourful.

Too skimpy.

Too stuffy.

Too old.

She banished the last one to garbage bin, deciding she wasn’t wearing it again even if it went back in style. Hermione remembered why she did not have this conundrum the three other times they went out; they went straight from work.

Now feeling totally ridiculous, she grabbed the next one that came out, a green dress that she had not worn for quite some time but loved because it reminded her of…

Bollocks! And she sent it to the rubbish bin, too, shutting off that train of thought as quickly as it formed and before further related unpleasant emotions could surface.

Black. Going with black. When all else fails, black. She wore the first black outfit she saw, too immersed in thought to recognize that it was one that showed a lot more of her than she would have wanted and that wearing it could be misconstrued as highly suggestive to a more sensitive man.

She was staring herself down on the mirror.

Fourth date in five days. And yet you say you don’t really want to go out with him.

Right.

It’s just dinner.

Right.

But you care what he thinks.

Not really. It’s just that this is something I haven’t done for quite some time.

Go out for dinner?

Prepare for a date. Well, except for Ron and Har-

Too late. She drew a deep breath in and allowed the hurt to pass, wasting precious time that could have been put to better use.

And now, the hair. As she took the bottle of Sleekeazy and used some to tame her brown mane, another potion in the bathroom cupboard caught her attention.

If you’re stupid enough to really think that you’re going to need to drink that for tonight, then you’re so stupid you might as well get pregnant.

That was clear.

The rest of her preparations went by uneventfully as she tried not to make a big deal out of it. Ginny was certainly doing that enough for her. Her best friend’s parting shot after the Magorian trial earlier that morning said it all. Hermione had to promise Ginny that by the end of tonight, she should have an honest answer to a somewhat important question.

"Why, of all the dregs of humanity, do you choose to continue to go out with the worst of them?" was Ginny's exact question. And her answer better not be because she was falling in love with Draco Malfoy.

Ginny knew her only too well that after the debacle of her one and only casual physical encounter, any future relationship was unlikely going to be about that. And both of them were certain that even though the older Draco Malfoy admittedly did exhibit a significant amount of sexual magnetism, it would take more than physical attraction to overcome whatever repulsive history there was between them. That left her with very few plausible and acceptable answers to the question. What if the honest answer at the end of tonight was illogical, incomprehensible, so unlike her? What if the honest answer was she didn’t have a clue and for the moment, that was fine?

She was definitely losing it.

At promptly seven that evening, Draco appeared at her door looking very dapper in a dark blue suit. Hermione flinched as he brushed against her arm while assisting her into the passenger seat of his blue MINI convertible. Again, like the other times it happened, it was a mere reflex, a recurring thing that she still could not prevent. She met his gaze with an apology which he acknowledged. Like hearing him say her name, physical contact with him or by him was something that she still needed to get used to.

They decided to go to a rather well known Muggle restaurant in Downtown London, feeling there was a real cause for celebration. After all, they did free an uncooperative and resistant Centaur from possibly the gallows. It was strange to her and she just noticed. During their drive to their destination, she had to inquire.

“You prefer dining in Muggle restaurants?”

“You don’t like dining in Muggle restaurants?” Draco asked.

“I don’t mind,” she replied, wondering if he thought she preferred it. It was a dance, “Wizard restaurants are fine, too, if you prefer them.”

“Actually, I do prefer Muggle restaurants,” he admitted, intensifying her curiosity.

“You do?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“It’s just odd because you grew up with magic,” she did not say that this sweeping generalization came from the fact that Ron hated going to Muggle restaurants. “What about it do you prefer?”

“The service,” he said cautiously, turning to her briefly, “Particularly here in London, nowadays.”

She guessed what he was referring to.

“Is it that bad?”

“Since coming back three months ago I’ve felt either I haven’t lived up to the Malfoy name or not disowned the family enough, depending on present company,” he tried to explain matter-of-factly.

Hermione understood. She thought about Ginny not believing Draco had changed and Umbridge disappointed that he had.

“You must have expected that to happen.”

He stayed focused on the road, “Sadly enough, yes, and I still chose to return.”

“So, why did you come back?” she finally asked having wondered for quite some time.

“I keep asking myself the same question.”

Hermione noted that she didn’t get a straight answer. Maybe, he was not ready to share the reason he was back in London.

“Do I detect a tinge of regret?”

“I admit, sometimes I do regret coming back,” he answered, a bit too serious for comfort, “But at this exact moment, I have no regrets whatsoever.”

Thankfully, they arrived at the restaurant and she could pretend not ever hearing that last bit. She hated it when her questions brought about unforeseen answers. He seemed to have let go of it, too.

They were greeted at the door by the manager who apparently knew Draco from a recent case and they were quickly ushered to a quiet, private nook. Hermione had the fish, as he recommended, and it was truly excellent. He had the lobster, as she recommended, and he said he had not tasted anything like it before. They got to talking about food and where in the world they tasted best, and that set off a conversation about travelling.

She was surprised at how relaxed and light-hearted their chat was. Time flew and she didn’t know how but as they were having desert, she was asking him why he went into Muggle Law.

He smiled, as if remembering something funny, shaking his head, “You really don’t want to know.”

“I do,” she smiled back, amused at his reaction, insisting on an answer.

“Actually, the answer is pretty obvious.”

“What? Your mother suggested it?” Hermione half teased, deciding to hold back on the initial ‘obvious’ answer that came to mind. Most lawyers and solicitors bent and twisted truths to serve an end, something that the old Malfoy would have done well.

He shook his head, “I loved Mother dearly but I wouldn’t do something stupid like that for her.”

Did he just say he loved his mother ‘dearly’? Even she couldn’t say that about hers, much less keep a straight face while saying it.

Hermione, focus. This isn’t about you and your mother.

“So, why?”

“The money, of course,” Draco said to her, “Lawyers in the States make loads of money.”

That wasn’t it, though he was definitely a good fibber.

“Liar,” she accused him playfully, “The most senior public defender in the Detroit area makes less money than a full time truck driver anywhere in the States.”

“I know my limits. I can argue all day but I cannot drive a truck.”

She was not going to let him off the hook, not that easily, “Come on, tell me the truth.”

“The PD job was just temporary,” he reasoned, still trying to sell his lie, “I was waiting for an opportunity for private practice.”

She was prepared for this, “I guess that explains why you have turned down the top three North American law firms each time they tried to recruit you since your graduating year at Ann Arbor.”

Draco laughed, “What did you do? ‘Google’ me or something?”

She was busted. His laughter was infectious

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

And actually, more. Both she and Ginny did a meticulous search prior to meeting with him about the Magorian trial, looking for anything that would resemble the old Malfoy they knew. Ginny used her Prophet and political connections. They knew everything he did from the time he and his mother got to Detroit until he volunteered for the Magorian trial. Well, everything that was on record and available for public viewing, anyway. At the time, they were both frustrated that they did not find what they were looking for. For a split second, she thought about the file in her briefcase at home.

“I’m surprised I haven’t been fingerprinted yet, or illegally searched,” he joked, the ‘illegal’ part a bit more meaningful to her. “Do you always do back ground checks on your dates?”

“This is the first time I’ve ever had the need to do it,” the smile on their faces spontaneous and seemed to last longer now, taking less effort to produce, “But come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea at all.”

“To tell you frankly, I expected you to do this.”

“Is that right? Then you should also expect that I haven’t forgotten. You have yet to answer my question truthfully. Why Muggle Law?”

Draco paused, still beaming and looked as if he was debating with himself.

“Fine,” he finally said to her, “But you’ll just laugh.”

“No, I won’t,” came her instant denial.

“I bet you will,” he challenged her.

“I’m ready,” she said, preparing not to express any amusement if that was the last thing she would have to do to stay alive, wiping the grin that wanted to creep back on her face, “Give it to me, straight.”

“I met this girl, I should really say ‘woman’ and was absolutely smitten by her. She was signing up for law school so I signed up with her.”

The flippant way he said that last part was just so funny that she absolutely had lost control and started cracking up.

“See?” Draco was right, she did laugh.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” Draco was still smiling. He was not offended at all that she laughed about it.

“And this ‘woman’ dragged you all the way into the PD’s office?”

“I know, hard to believe.”

This woman, if she did exist, intrigued her.

“Tell me about her. What was her name?” she asked.

Surely, he wouldn’t stop now. And if it was a lie, she would know.

“Mia. I met her at a peer counselling session, she being a counsellor, of course, assigned to one of the other troubled youth. She was a volunteer, a do gooder, one who wanted to save the world.”

“You must have hated her,” she felt comfortable saying things like that to him now, trusting he knew her intentions were not to hurt.

“Actually, I did find her quite annoying, at first,” he admitted. “I didn’t and actually still don’t believe in counselling or in saving the world. But did I mention she was striking, physically beautiful? I could not not look at her, really. And when I said smitten, I was ‘eighteen year old’ smitten.”

“You wanted to get in her knickers. I understand,” Hermione said, knowingly.

He nodded, chuckling, “So I asked her out, she immediately said yes. And we went out a few times, and unfortunately for her she fell for my natural charm, too. Her saviour complex helped me out a bit. By then I had gotten into her knickers but found out I wanted something else from her. I liked the way she made me feel. I felt good about myself when I was around her. Hence the following her through Law School thing.”

“She didn’t know about your past,” Hermione suspected and she asked.

Draco shook his head, reminiscing, his grey eyes glazed over as he did, “No, she didn’t. And it bugged me that not once did she ask me why I was in peer counselling or where I came from or what horrible things I did, if any. Mia was quite content with what I was willing to share about my past, which was not much because I feared I would lose her.”

“So I asked her, why didn’t she, and her reply was that it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to know. She said I had to figure out who I was going to be not from who I was, which she knew was troubled, but from who I wanted to be, and whoever that person was, we would deal with. Basically, she gave me a clean slate. A real second chance. She was a bit crazy.”

“Obviously,” Hermione concurred and wanted to say something like that even earlier. A real second chance. And here she was, with an illicit confidential medical file about him; such contrast.

As she listened to Draco talk about her, his tender expression and soothing voice said it all. Hermione knew that this woman did exist just as he described her. And the way he talked about this ‘Mia’, she sensed that Draco was smitten for real. Who would have thunk that could happen?

“She also told me not to take myself too seriously and to use less hair products,” he said with a glint in his eye and grinned widely, making her laugh.

“A sensible woman. So where is she now?” she asked innocently, curious.

A momentary cloud flitted across Draco’s face and Hermione noticed him swallow hard before answering wistfully, “She died over a year ago. A tragic accident really. Totally unexpected.”

“I’m so sorry,” was all she could say as her left hand instinctively reached out towards his on the table but fell short of touching it. “I shouldn’t have…”

“No, it’s okay,” Draco quickly dismissed her awkwardness for prying into what obviously was still a sore wound, taking and holding her hand in his, for whose reassurance she couldn’t say for sure, giving it a light soothing squeeze, “We move on, right?”

By ‘we’, he was obviously talking about her and what she went through after Ron died. Not wanting to complicate things, she did not argue how it was different.

“Yes, we move on,” she answered him.

He lifted his wine glass with his free hand and toasted, “To lost loves.”

“To lost loves,” she chinked his glass with hers, and tried to drink down the aching lump in her throat as she remembered her lost love, cross at herself, feeling guilty that she wasn’t really thinking about Ron, barely noticing that Draco was still holding her left hand and that it gave her some comfort.

XXXXXXXXX

When Harry got back to the Auror office on Queen Street, chaos and mayhem welcomed him. He found Andy at their desk and her colourful greeting said it all.

“Fucking slavedriver,” Harry guessed she meant Muller and she had one of those don’t-talk-just-listen expressions.

“Something’s going down. Jack got an anonymous tip and whatever it is, it involves the friggin’ conference and it’s happening tonight. He’s having us check every microscopic lead and every informant’s crevice.”

He did not like the sound of this.

“Potter! Marsh! Get in here!” Muller was at the entrance to his office at least twenty-five feet away but Harry swore he felt a bit of a shower reach him.

He did not like the sound of this at all.

Harry and Andy exchanged concerned looks as they made their way to his office. Before they could even sit down, he said to them, “Tom Floyd’s name keeps popping up in this plot about the meeting.”

Tom Floyd. Harry wasn’t surprised. He made an effort to control his temper.

Andy sensed his struggle and spoke for them, “So what’s Greasy up to?”

“We don’t know yet. But you two have done a lot of work on him so I’m counting on you to find out,” Muller stated their assignment clearly. “I’m calling a briefing in three hours and meeting with a bunch of scientists and conference security personnel later tonight. No ifs or buts. I want both of you there.”

Harry rarely did, but he had to swear.

“Problem, Harry?” Muller glared at him.

“I had dinner plans.”

“I guess you’ll have to cancel,” Harry heard him say.

Andy gave him a sympathetic look. She knew what it meant. As much as he wanted to see and talk with Hermione, London would have to wait.

For a brief moment, Harry seriously considered burning another bridge and just leaving. And if not for Greasy being involved, he probably would have.

Chapter 9 – Who Is Tom Floyd?

As fate’s theme of the day appeared to be ‘screw Harry Potter’, Harry expected that everything that could go wrong would go wrong. There was an imperative need to take out his mounting frustration on someone deserving because the next thing that went wrong would definitely make him snap.

If not for Muller’s burly figure blocking the exit to the Briefing Room, he would have stormed out of the Ministry and done just that. What placated him was the knowledge that he could do that later tonight. A crazed grin formed on his face that worried even the usually unflappable Andy. Harry looked mad, as in certifiably mad.

“What’s with the deranged look?” Andy asked as casually as she could.

“Well, you heard Jack,” he said, his voice a bit excitable, “He wants us to find out what Greasy’s up to.”

“And you were thinking…”

“To go visit Greasy and ask the man himself,” he replied, nonchalantly, then sarcastically, “After these highly informative briefings, of course.”

“And it’s too late to call my insurance broker,” she muttered under her breath, poker-faced. “Next time, warn me if you have harebrained suicidal plans like that so I can increase my life insurance coverage.”

Andy tried to distract him as they waited for the rest of the MLE to join them.

“So, what did he want?”

“Who?”

“The ghost.”

“Help, to not become a ghost anymore.”

“Really,” scoffed Andy, “Seemed to me like your rude ass of a friend loves being an imprint. Why? Is he bored out of his wits being a juvenile prick?”

Harry found himself defending Ron’s actions, “Forget that. That was all about me. He’s really a nice guy once you get to know him.”

“Easy for you to say. He wasn't feeling you up with cold clammy fingers," Andy retorted. "And if he’s nice then I’m sweet. He should be grateful I’m not reporting him to the Ghost Misconduct Bureau.”

“Do you know any ghost experts who can help him? He’s nearing his deadline to cross over and seems to be having trouble passing on. He seems to think he has to do something before a portal can open for him.”

“It should be pretty obvious to him that he has to apologize to every living soul he has offended for being such an insensitive pigheaded nincompoop,” she pointed out. Harry had always thought it very articulate of her to find so many ways to describe people she disliked. “I bet that will take forever. Do you really have to help him?”

Really, Harry could just ignore Ron and let him rot in the Forest Hill haunted house.

“He’s my best friend,” of course he had to, “And he also wants me to tell Hermione to come and see him.”

Andy burst into uncontrollable laughter that brought tears to her eyes. Harry joined in, recognizing the hilarity (or was it wretchedness?) of his situation. It took some time and a Muller death glare to make them stop as their boss took to the podium and started giving an update.

“Tom Floyd, early thirties, male, Caucasian, raised American but now a resident of Toronto. The name is an alias. We do not know who he really is or where he comes from. All we know is that his Muggle rap sheet is not for light reading and he’s starting to have an impressive one on our records. Robbery, assault, battery, rape, murder, all accusations, no convictions. We also suspect that over the past year he has acquired quite a following of Muggle and Squib criminals.”

A hand shot up in the back, “He’s not a wizard?”

“We don’t think so,” Muller shot a glance at Harry, expecting protest which did not come. “He has never been seen using a wand.”

As Muller went through the more salient points of Tom Floyd’s lengthy and notoriously storied resume which Harry knew by heart, he remembered the first time he met the murderer about a year ago.

XXXXXXXXXX

February 14, 2006 – The Ghoul Waterhole, Corner of Elm and McCaul, Toronto.

After an almost hour long ride through Toronto traffic with a lovesick cabbie listening in agony to love songs on the radio, a man that looked very much like Roy Hunt got off in front of a dingy edifice that was one loose nail away from being condemned. No wonder the driver raised an eyebrow when he told him his destination. It was one thing wanting to go to a Downtown pub at ten in the morning, but this one?

The real Roy Hunt was firmly ensconced in a London prison still nursing physical and emotional bruises when the fake one arrived in Toronto by plane very late the night before and checked into a Muggle hotel near Pearson airport as scheduled. Polyjuiced Harry had spent the entire time before the flight in a room in the Ministry of Magic, honing up on his knowledge of and being the con man, under Dean’s watchful eye.

While the Ministry could only surmise that Hermione would be safe until Hunt made contact with Waxball, Harry was not satisfied until he was informed that she had turned in for the night and that Kingsley had managed to persuade the Toronto MLE to assign twenty-four hour Auror protection on her. Still, sleep came with difficulty and the first thing he did when he awoke that morning was call her on his personal untraceable cell phone.

“You’re in Toronto? That’s wonderful!” she was as glad to hear from him as he was to know she was fine. “But what’s with the voice?”

“I must be coming down with something,” he lied, as he struggled to impersonate himself. The Ministry issued ‘longer acting’ Polyjuice potion not only caused him to look like Hunt, it also made him sound like Hunt.

“It could be that nasty bug that’s going around,” she informed him and the Healer in her sprang into action, “Let me come over and take a look.”

“No, no,” he cut her off, “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you certain?”

“Positive,” he could only think that if Waxball already had someone on her or him, having her come to meet a friend where Hunt was staying would raise red flags. Then without thinking, he said to her, “How about dinner? Tonight.”

“Dinner?” she asked as if she didn’t know what that meant.

“You know, dinner. Fancy restaurant, well-dressed waiter, clean cutlery, maybe some food. It is Valentine’s Day. It will be like a date.”

Was that a giggle? Odd.

“Fine. Dinner then, but you’re going to the theatre with me before that and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“The theatre?” he mimicked her earlier tone of momentary loss of understanding.

“Yeah, theatre. You know, made up stage, attentive audience, fine actors, maybe a performance,” he could hear her smile.

He groaned to tease her, “I just walked into that clueless, didn’t I?”

Hermione merely laughed as she told him where and when to meet. Not knowing what Waxball had planned for Hunt, he really wasn’t sure he could but he had to say something to detract her from fussing and coming over. He would try his best to be available for their date, hoping this thing would be over by then.

And even if it wasn’t, he could still take some Anti-Polyjuice Potion tonight. After all, protecting her was part of his assignment and what better way to do that than spend most of the night with her. As long as she didn’t know, he would have a rock-solid excuse should Kingsley think that inappropriate.

The meeting with Waxball was at ten and he had about five minutes to get settled. Still queasy from the cab ride from hell, he was also nervous despite having in his pocket his transfigured wand and a signalling device that would send at least one MLE immediately to his aide and alert more to come.

Being a place of ill-repute, it required that the Ghoul look the part to prevent good customers from coming in. It was a known hotspot for illegal activity and was owned by Waxball himself. As he opened the door, he immediately heard the sound of a roomful of people chatting in disorganized unison.

He quickly scanned the room. The Ghoul actually looked respectable once one got past the entrance. The bar occupied an entire side and across from it on the opposite wall were two pool tables. In between, lining each side were booths. It sat maybe thirty, forty at most. There were two other exits; one was marked ‘fire route’ farthest from him, leading to the washrooms, and the other was a staff access only door beside the bar.

“Roy Hunt, here to see Tex Waxball,” he said to the woman who seemed to have a list and checking guests in.

She pointed him over to the farthest booth from the entrance near the fire exit and turned her attention to more arrivals. There were about twenty people, mostly men, a handful were women. It was difficult to ascertain if there were any witches or wizards in the group though everyone there could pass as Muggles.

As he got to the booth he noticed three men already talking animatedly. One of them was Tex Waxball, whose plump and angelic face looked up and greeted him immediately. For a head hunter, he seemed too trusting.

“Mike Klys and Tom Floyd, Roy Hunt,” Waxball introduced them.

Klys, the blonde bespectacled bloke across Waxball, shook his hand firmly as they were introduced. Floyd, a serious looking man with steely grey eyes and slick black hair was expressionless, and did not even look at him.

“First time?” Klys asked him as he sat down.

“Yes and I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“I apologize for being cryptic. Muggle mail is easily intercepted,” Waxball explained.

“So what is this about?” Harry asked, all business, trying to get nerves out of the way.

It was Klys who answered, “There’s a big conference on magical research in Toronto. It draws world class wizards and witches, some only seen publicly at this time of the year. Our task is to gather unpublished, raw, research ideas; the more documented and well formed they are, the better.”

“By gather, you mean steal.”

Waxball made a point, “If I wanted something stolen I would have hired thieves. You are con men. Technically, you’re not stealing. If you’re good, and you won’t be here if you aren’t, you’ll only have to ask and they will share their best kept secrets with you. Or the worse that you can do is borrow and return.”

“A wizard can easily do what you want. Why use someone like me?”

“Magical folk underestimate Squibs all the time,” Waxball answered, “There are a few Muggles here too. Wizards and magic will raise an alarm with the MLE but they won’t expect this from us. It is very important that the victims don’t know what happened.”

Floyd interjected with a detached voice, “Or not be able to tell anyone if something did.”

“But as a rule, we cannot draw attention to what we’re doing,” Waxball snapped as a rebuttal to Floyd’s statement, who immediately reddened in embarrassment. “I expect that you studied your target.”

“I know her like the back of my hand,” Harry answered. He only did so he would know what they knew.

“Granger is one of the most promising prospects we have. She’s bright, energetic, full of ideas that could be worth a lot of Galleons. She’s getting married in a few days to the same guy she’s been with for ten years. See if you can interest her in a last fling.” Waxball certainly knew a lot more about Hermione than what was contained in the dosier, “Your reputation with witches precedes you. That’s why you were chosen for the job.”

“She should be a piece of cake. Most stuck up bookworms are. Consider it done,” he answered with the cockiness Roy Hunt had, hoping that Hermione would never find out he said something like that about her.

“You might have a problem,” Floyd spoke lazily.

“What problem?”

“We intercepted a call this morning,” Waxball explained. Harry immediately knew which one. “She’s meeting a male friend tonight after seven. We don’t know who exactly but definitely a wizard.”

“I’ll take care of it,” came Harry’s bold reply, concerned that if they had her phone tapped, what else was there. “You are having her shadowed, right?”

“Only up until you make your move, then you’re on your own,” Waxball turned to Floyd, “Tom here has volunteered to back you up if you run into any problems. His and my numbers are on the cell.”

Waxball handed him a phone and was about to leave.

He hurriedly asked, “I was wondering, for my resume, who is our generous employer?”

“If you have something useful, you’ll get to meet her tomorrow morning,” Waxball smiled and he walked to the adjacent booth followed closely by Floyd.

Harry turned to Klys who was eager to teach Hunt the ropes.

“He said that last year, too, but she was a no-show.”

“Who is she?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Klys said to him, “The word on the street is she’s a bitch of a witch from across the Atlantic. It seems pretty steep paying a bunch of con men fifty G’s up front each and another fifty on delivery for a job that she’d like done by six tomorrow morning. But whoever she is, she’s got very deep pockets. The witch obviously is getting a lot of good stuff from this, hence the monetary investment, and the need for it to happen swiftly and remain covert.”

Lestrange immediately came to mind though he did not repeat it. So, no wizards and witches; just Squibs and Muggles. He was breathing a bit easier now, though he eyed Floyd with a lot of concern.

“I know Waxball recruits but what does the greasy guy do?”

Klys looked around and dropped his voice before speaking, “Floyd is Waxball’s 2nd in command but exactly the opposite. Every sweet leader needs an enforcer. Really troubled and crazy. A maniac. He’s got a violent Muggle rap sheet the length of Tolstoy’s War and Peace.”

“He’s a Muggle?”

“He claims to be Pure-blood but no one knows for sure. Waxball can’t control Floyd and some even wonder if Floyd’s moving in on him, particularly since that incident a year ago.”

“What incident?”

“Floyd has a serious problem with witches, likely a bad previous experience. Which Squib has not been jilted by one, eh? He pines for them but hates them. Floyd almost blew the entire operation last year when he raped and murdered a German Healer who apparently wasn’t too impressed with his moves. Waxball flipped but covered up his mess.”

A cold shiver went up his spine as he remembered Kingsley’s description of how Helga Braun’s dead body was found. So that was Greasy’s handiwork.

Klys gave him some advice, “Just keep an eye out for Floyd. He might find your subject interesting, in which case, just let him do what he wants. Fifty G’s isn’t worth getting beat up for which was what happened to the guy Waxball assigned to that German witch. His face got so messed up, he won’t be able to con anyone, not even a hag, even if his life depended on it.”

Harry was obviously not taking it. His assignment seemed easy. The Ministry had given him some bogus potion research ideas that were interestingly dark enough but were definite dead ends. He could pass them off as Hermione’s the following morning. That sounded too easy.

It was evident to Harry what the next step would be; he would have to contact Kingsley and tell him about tomorrow, and Waxball, his recruits and possibly their generous employer could be arrested as soon as Harry was certain there was enough evidence to charge them. That meant he would have to be Roy Hunt until then. And unfortunately, it seemed that Roy Hunt would have to meet with his target after all. For a moment, he pondered what to do about tonight.

The room suddenly fell silent and he looked up to see Waxball and Floyd up front and centre.

“Thank you all for coming,” Waxball said to the group, “As I promised, merely showing up for this twenty hour job will earn each of you fifty-thousand dollars and the monies are being deposited to your accounts right this very minute. Another fifty will be given to each person who accomplishes their task.”

There was wild applause from the crowd. This crowd was definitely in it for the money.

Waxball continued, “As an added incentive for this year, each person who succeeds with his or her mission will get something else.”

“What is it?” someone asked.

“It’s a surprise. Let me just say, it’s something you’ve always wanted.”

“An autographed copy of the latest edition of Kwikspell!” Klys said, drawing laughter from the group.

“Not quite, but I will throw in a copy of Kwikspell,” Waxball smiled even as the man beside him remained stoic.

Floyd had taken out loose change from his pants pocket and started rolling each over the other, repeatedly, as if a ritual, within his left hand.

“An all out orgy?!” another man called out eliciting a boisterous reaction from his fellow recruits.

Waxball laughed, “No. I wouldn’t want one, not if it involves you! It won’t be a surprise if I tell you. To those who do well, we are to reconvene tomorrow morning at six. Good luck ladies and gentlemen. Happy conning!”

Harry was ready to leave when he saw Floyd walking over towards his general direction. The coins caught his attention. Floyd stopped right beside him and only then did he recognize that they were not Canadian Loonies as he originally thought they were but American Sacagawea dollar coins. Harry stood up to match his icy stare.

“Hunt, you’ll get another fifty grand right now. I’ll take care of Granger. There’s no need for you to be here.”

“No, it’s quite okay. I actually enjoy my work,” Harry replied civilly, thinking Roy Hunt really did like his job.

He was hoping Floyd would back off. While he would like to nail the man for the murder of Helga Braun right that very second, not only did he not have proof that Floyd did it, the bait of busting the entire ring with their leader was over and above that at the moment, unless Hermione got into more trouble.

The sound of metal against metal stopped as Floyd seemed surprised at the challenge.

“I won’t be nice the third time I ask. Go home.”

“Toronto seems like a nice city and I just got here,” Harry did not notice that a crowd had gathered around them. “Really, have you read her file? You’re not her type. She would never go out with a complete moron like you.”

As soon as he said the last word, he saw Floyd’s left shoulder flinch. Harry anticipated the fist that sped towards his face from the left side. Quick reflexes allowed him to step back and dodge the punch, using Floyd’s momentum to slam him down hard onto the wooden table, face first, with a loud bone crunching sound. Klys could not move further back as blood spurted onto his spectacles.

“Ugh!” Klys exclaimed, disgusted by the bright red fluid that came from Floyd’s broken nose.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was a bleeder,” Harry met Floyd’s furious expression with calm. One good thing about having been a Hit Wizard for so long was the necessity for proficiency in non-magical combat.

“You broke his nose!” Waxball had joined the fray and was now trying to aid Floyd.

“Actually, he broke it himself,” Harry answered and gave a feigned apology, “So sorry, mate. I was merely trying to get out of your way.”

Floyd remained silent, both his hands on his bloody muzzle, his eyes either red from wrath, or pain, or both. At that point, Harry knew for a fact they weren’t ever going to be best friends.

A/N. Another DHr scene in this one. It has to be for the story retain realism and be believable.

Chapter 10. The Missing Goblin

It was close to eleven in the evening and the Downtown London office of the Daily Prophet was still bustling with activity. Among the many wizards and witches working frantically to meet the final deadline for the next print run was a pretty twenty-five year old red head trying to nail her editorial on the Gringotts attack.

If the Ministry, at this point, is still unable to provide the public with clear tangible solutions to the recent spate of violence we have been subjected to, then Minister Scrimgeour should step down and let someone else lead.

Ginny Weasley paused, tapping her right forefinger on her wand, thinking the words might be too harsh and could be considered seditious. She would have to clear it with the Legal Department; a pain. And even if it passed Legal, her pro-Scrimgeour Chief would not allow it anyway. She struck out the last few words.

…then Minister Scrimgeour should consider stepping down…

Maybe. More tapping. She looked at the clock. It was going to be close but she felt lucky and bold. They did hire her to write the weekly column a year ago for her ‘youthful fearless brazenness’. Another change later, she sent the column off to Legal and her Chief with the original parting remark. If the Chief didn’t like it, he could certainly discuss it with her. Then he can run it as is or not run it at all.

Not running it at all would not be a first for her column. Having worked for the Daily Prophet straight out of Hogwarts, first as girl Friday to an eminent political columnist then as a contributing writer, she knew that if not for the popularity of her weekly editorial among Yuppies of the Magical community they would have canned her a long time ago. After all, an opinionated young witch in the still wizard dominated newspaper business was only as good as the profit margin she could positively influence, particularly if her views digressed from that of the Chief’s. Sure, she could have worked elsewhere with less adversity but adversity was what drove her to do her best. And there was the satisfaction every time she got one over the fuddy-duddies that she worked with.

She spent a good part of the day at Gringotts trying to gather as much information on the robbery. As a journalist, she had to answer the W’s and H but as she looked at her notes, she was worried that it was riddled with too many question marks.

Who : Bellatrix Lestrange - too obvious?

What : Robbery ; Ragnok ?missing or abducted

When ? Discovered 9am at bank opening

Where : Gringotts

Why : Money; ?Ragnok

How ?

She was also pretty sure Argus Filch did not wander into a Gringotts vault intending to curl up there and sleep himself into a coma.

It was a feat that a burglary of that magnitude would escape detection from the tight wizard bank security and not necessitate a confrontation with the MLE. It concerned her not only because the stolen Galleons would now surely fund something reprehensible, but also because of the missing Goblin, Ragnok.

Ragnok was the Goblin-in-charge overnight and had worked for the wizarding back for close to fifty years. Ginny knew him well. Ragnok, like her and Hermione, did volunteer work for the Society for the Protection of Magical Beings. And because she knew him she could not believe that he opened the vaults and left the scene of the crime willingly, just as the other Goblins were accusing he had done.

First Firenze’s death and now, Ragnok’s disappearance. Maybe she was reading too much into it. She’d remember to mention this to Hermione.

Hermione. She probably wasn’t aware of what happened at Gringotts yet because if she was, she would have called for sure. Hermione had not been her usual self lately. It was so unlike her not to be on top of these things and Ginny was really concerned.

Over the years it was quite natural for them to each became the sister the other never had. When they were younger, Hermione was mostly the ‘older sis’, with the wise experienced advice and the voice of knowing clarity. It was a relief to have someone not red-haired to talk to about almost everything that went on in her life. And, contrary to appearances, Hermione did not know it all either, and through the years their friendship and closeness grew to a point where their roles easily switched as needed. At the moment, though her proud friend would probably be the last person to admit it, Hermione needed her help. And she was going to get help whether she wanted help or not.

Her insistence on continuing these dates with Malfoy despite all reason was quite disturbing. Granted that Hermione was as headstrong as she was, never had she been this obstinate particularly when even she herself admitted it didn’t make any sense to her.

What troubled Ginny was Hermione’s belief that Malfoy had changed. While Malfoy’s intentions were obvious, she refused to see that he was merely yanking her chain and using her to meet a selfish end. Once again, after Malfoy left them at the Ministry that morning, Ginny could not help but belabour the point.

“Why can’t you see it? He wants revenge for all those years in Hogwarts. Malfoy is sniggering each time you agree to go out with him. He’s laughing at you, at how you’re falling for all his lies, hook, line and sinker,” Ginny said to her, hoping that the graphic suggestion would remind her of the kind of person Malfoy was and is. “He’s just using you.”

“What if he’s not? What if he has changed?”

“This is Malfoy we’re talking about. He is not capable of change. He was conceived and born a hatred-filled bigot and he will die that way.”

“That’s just it. I don’t believe that,” Hermione pointed out. “He didn’t choose to be born a Malfoy. How do you think he would have grown up if he was raised at the Burrow? He was just a kid and he didn’t know any better than to live the life of hate and selfish supremacy that he saw everyday.”

“We were just kids, too,” Ginny replied, “And none of us ever thought of killing the School Headmaster.”

“Then we were lucky.”

“This is worse than I thought. You actually pity him.”

“The kid who wanted to kill the Professor, yes. Draco right now, no.”

“This is such a bad time for you to start being gullible,” Ginny scolded, “You shouldn’t trust the ferret! Do you really, deep down inside, think that he has changed?”

Hermione insisted, “I’d like to believe that someone like him can and that something good came out of Professor Dumbledore’s death. He has changed in a lot of ways.”

“Stop selling him because I’m not buying,” Ginny reiterated, “If you want to give him the benefit of the doubt, that’s fine. But must you go out with him, over and over again? I know what he wants out of this. What exactly is in it for you?”

“I’m no better than he was if I don’t even give him a chance to prove that he has changed.”

She was so obviously not answering the question.

“You could go out with other men more interesting, with less baggage and with a lot less bad history than Malfoy. Why him?”

Hermione frowned, thinking. Ginny wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t know or because she knew but just couldn’t admit it. Ginny pressed on.

“Do you have a good time with him?”

“I guess.”

“Do you like talking with him?”

“Surprisingly, yes. We actually have a few laughs.”

“Do you see yourself kissing him again?”

“He’s not a bad kisser but I’ve been kissed better before.”

“I’m sure you have and considering that you can count the number of men you’ve really snogged with one hand, I guess it wasn’t very good.”

“We were both nervous.”

“Good God! That’s a yes then.”

“I guess it is,” Hermione was becoming a bit annoyed at herself.

“Do you want to kiss him again?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want to have sex with him?”

“Not really.”

“Wait, stop,” Ginny didn’t like what she was hearing, “‘Not really’ is not really an answer.”

“Since when?”

“Since right now that it’s really important you be dead honest with yourself,” she repeated her last question, “Do you want to have sex with him?”

A pause, then an answer, “Not really.”

“Hermione Jane Granger!”

“Fine, I don’t! Of course not! I don’t want to have sex with Draco.”

“Let me conjure a chastity belt.”

“You’re not helping!”

“Why? Because you’re finding out truths you’re not prepared to accept? To me ‘not really’ means an eventual yes that you can imagine yourself having to deal with. ‘Not really’ means Roy Hunt.”

“Roy Hunt was meant to be a one time thing.”

“Which makes this thing with Malfoy even worse! You’re not capable of one timers!”

“You think I’m falling for him.”

“Yes. Though for the record I hope I’m wrong. It’s going to be ugly, during and after. I’ll tell you right now I won’t let up about him ever and you’ll end up not talking to me. And when he’s satisfied toying with you I dread to think how much of you will be left.”

Ginny made her promise to know by the end of their night why she continued to go out with Malfoy. It was eleven and it worried Ginny that Hermione had not called. It could only mean that Malfoy was still with her.

An intervention was definitely in order.

As she went through what she dubbed as Plan A of the anti-ferret operation, Ginny knew it could only work one time, if at all. She was hoping that after Plan A, Hermione would permanently regain some of the common sense she seemed to have lost, so Ginny wouldn’t have to go to Plan B. Plan B was the last resort and at the moment, Plan B did not exist.

Ginny wished she could blame Hermione’s current emotional and mental state all on Malfoy but she had seen it happening since Ron’s tragic death. She suspected that this difficulty with Malfoy was due to the fact that Hermione was as fragile now as she was when it happened. The old Hermione would have never allowed something like this to occur.

Demons continued to haunt Hermione. So far, she refused to face her past and Ginny had not really pushed her to do that, trying to give her space and time to do that on her own. But it was almost a year after; Hermione continued to avoid the one thing that she obviously had to do and she couldn’t think straight about Malfoy. The goal for Plan B was to nudge her towards facing her past and hopefully to get her old self back. The need to do that now appeared to be urgent and Ginny’s problem was she still didn’t know exactly how she was going to put Plan B in motion.

Focusing back on Plan A, she opened her bottom desk drawer and pulled out her personal phone book and a mirror. What she was about to do was admittedly underhanded and she was certain Hermione would be livid. But it had to be done.

xxxxxxxxxx

Hermione was on the passenger seat of Draco’s blue MINI convertible, staring out at the passing streetscape, mind racing. The night was almost over and she had no real answer to Ginny’s question yet. Not only that, she now had to make a decision about the rest of the night. Should she invite him into her flat?

A conversation with Ginny from earlier that day popped up in her head.

“Do you want to have sex with him?”

“Not really.”

Ginny was right. It was definitely a Roy Hunt type of ‘not really’. If she could think it, then it could happen. It probably would if she invited him in. Actually, it definitely would, seeing how Draco had been feasting on her cleavage without any real attempt to conceal it and his attention was making her flushed. It was late, the wine had her primed, she had not had sex in a while and the fact that the man whose company she had enjoyed for quite some time actually found her desirable was making her all warm and fuzzy inside. It was a feeling she had experienced before.

Hindsight was always twenty-twenty. She really should have chosen a less revealing attire and taken that potion. It was too late for that now.

Ginny’s voice of caution sprang into action, talking snippets of what she said to her in the past and adding a few that she would definitely say, as her conscience took a life of its own.

“He’s using you to meet a selfish end. He’s definitely laughing at you.”

Hermione glanced over to the driver’s side and met Draco’s authentic smile. He steered his gaze back on the road as they had turned into her street.

“If you allow this, it’s not going to be just once. He won’t stop until he gets revenge and then some.”

They were three blocks away from her flat.

“Malfoy will visit Ron’s grave just to gloat about his conquest.”

Not that she was blaming Ron but this wouldn’t have happened at all if he stayed alive. She could only imagine how Ron would react and it was a good thing Ron was dead.

Two blocks…

“He’ll find Harry and rub it in his face, too.”

And for the first time she thought about how Harry would feel about her going out with Draco. She wondered if he actually really cared that she was dating again apart from the fact that he hated the man she was going out with. There was no use dwelling on that.

One block…

“If you do sleep with him, just make sure you know where your knickers are all the time. He’ll want a souvenir for proof.”

Yeah, secure underwear in safe location immediately upon removal. She’d definitely remember that.

Draco disrupted her thoughts with a somewhat surprising statement.

“If it’s taking that long to decide then the answer should be 'no'.”

She replied, just now noticing that they were outside her place, “You think so?”

“You’re not ready if you think that by inviting me in you’re betraying him.”

Actually, considering what he did, betraying him was kind of an enticing idea if she was vindictive.

“No, it’s not that.”

Too bad she wasn’t feeling particularly vengeful. That would have been a great answer to Ginny’s question. Draco was about to say something when he was interrupted.

A phone was ringing. Her cell phone. It was her Mum. There must be something wrong. Her Mum and her, well, it was complicated. But she definitely wouldn’t call unless there was a compelling need to.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized to Draco, “I have to take this.”

“Go ahead.”

“Mum, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She listened, feeling relieved that her Mum was fine but curious what brought about her unexpected call. Their talk was strained.

“I’m okay,” she replied to her question, “I was just surprised.”

She was on her way to France, with her boyfriend. Surely she didn’t call just to tell her that.

“Yeah, it is coming up,” Hermione confirmed, then tried to reassure her, “I’m fine, really.”

Her mention of Ron’s upcoming first death anniversary caught her off guard, particularly when she asked how she was coping.

“No, you don’t have to cut your trip short to be here for that,” she had to stop her before...too late, “I don’t know, Mum, we haven’t talked in a while… I will when I see him…Mum, I really have to go…yes, I’m with someone…no, you don’t know him…yes I will and take care of yourself, too.”

Hermione hung up breathing a sigh of relief. That was the longest civil conversation they had since they had a falling out when she and her father separated last year. If her father had accepted it, maybe it was time that she did, too.

“Your Mum?” Draco broke the silence. For a moment, she forgot he was there.

“Yes, she’s in Italy and wanted to say hello.”

He nodded. Where were they?

“You were about to say something?”

“Yes, I was just about to say…” her phone rang again, preventing him from finishing.

Molly? A phone?

“Hermione?!”

“Yes, Molly, I’m here,” she answered, holding her phone a couple of inches from her ear as she met Draco’s amused grin. She remembered how Ron used to do that. “When did you get a telephone?”

“Yesterday! Don’t know why but the children prefer it over the mirrors! They want me to be able to reach them anytime!”

No doubt. She should tell Ginny that a phone lesson was a definite must.

“Can I call you back, Molly?”

“Is this a bad time?! You’re not out with that awful Malfoy boy again are you?!”

She cast Draco an apologetic look. Considering that he had heard it, it was difficult to lie to the woman who had been the closest person to a mother she ever had and who had almost become her mother in law.

“Actually, yes. I am with Draco,” she said before realizing that she should have just fibbed.

“Hermione! I’ve known you almost all your life! You are like a daughter to me! My poor Ron! If he could come back from the dead he would have already! He would never forgive me if I don’t speak on his behalf!”

She knew she couldn’t interrupt even if she attempted to, and all she could do was wince in anticipation of what was about to come. A phone equivalent of a Howler.

“That boy is evil! Ron would have wished you all the happiness in the world but I’m sure he would rather you die alone if that wicked boy was the last man alive!”

There was a pause.

“Molly, are you okay?” she asked, hoping the older witch had not worked herself up too much to cause injury to herself.

“I’m fine! It’s you I’m worried about and you should be worried about yourself too!” Molly replied, her tone with caring and loving concern but still screaming over the top of her lungs. “The first year is the hardest! The first year after Arthur died I cooked all the time to stay sane and I made it through!”

Not sure what she was supposed to gleam from Molly’s experience, she said to her, “I appreciate your concern.”

“Don’t do anything foolish you will regret!”

“I won’t, Molly.”

“Now, let me talk to the Malfoy boy! I want to give him a piece of my mind!”

“I think he heard,” actually, more than a piece of it.

“Good! Now, you will come to the Burrow for Ron’s death anniversary, right?!”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she answered, and talking about the family coming together to remember Ron and his life seemed to calm Molly down. She barely listened as Molly rattled off her plans and who was or wasn’t going to be there, thankful when she finally said goodbye. Harry was apparently coming.

“I couldn’t stop her,” she tried to explain to Draco though he really didn’t want an explanation.

“I understand,” he replied, unperturbed by what he just heard, “I wouldn’t have attempted either.”

There was a momentary silence as they looked at each other, still trying to recover from the bizarre phone call from Molly before he finally asked her.

“Is it worth it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Considering how your friends and family disapprove, is it worth it? Why do you go out with me?”

Great! Him, too. He should just get in line.

Deciding against admitting that she didn’t have a clue whatsoever, she countered, not lying, “Because you keep on asking. Why do you ask me out?”

“You mean, aside from wanting to get into your knickers?”

Draco had this boyish mischievous grin that she’d never seen from him before. She kind of liked it. She didn’t even notice that he had closed the gap between them.

“Yes, aside from the obvious,” she replied, amused at his candour, the earlier troubling conversations with her Mum and Molly now seemingly a distant memory.

Hermione saw his expression slowly change into one of genuine seriousness it was impossible to look away.

He said to her softly, “I’m not quite certain but it may have something to do with the fact that I like the way you make me feel about myself.”

She could certainly relate to that, wanting to be with someone who made you feel good about yourself. She had not felt good about herself for a long time.

As he began leaning closer into her ever so slowly, Hermione hoped and prayed that she would have an answer to Ginny’s question soon, one that was different from what she had in her mind.

Ginny asked ‘why him’, and at the moment, all Hermione could come up with was ‘why not’.

A/N. Obviously not all that I write I come up with. Some of it is a reaction to reviews and a lot of reviewers do inject wonderful ideas. Thanks to those who reviewed on ffnet and made this fic what it is.

xxxxxxxxxx

Chapter 11 – Tilden Toots and His Three Green Thumbs

Hermione closed her eyes, anticipating and prepared to participate in what she knew would be a more ardent kiss than the last one they shared. The last one…the last passionate one…

An image of a raven-haired man and their last indulgent kiss infiltrated her thoughts.

Why not?

She heard the memory answer with a calm but wounded expression, ‘If you really have to, do what you have to do. But it will hurt like hell.’

Without her mind telling it to, her body shifted away from Draco; almost imperceptibly but not subtly enough. He noticed. Hermione was miffed at herself for foolishly wanting to believe that what the memory said was true. She lifted her lids and met his consoling gaze.

“You’re not ready,” Draco said to her steadily, as if trying to persuade her, “You want to be but you’re not.”

She did not need convincing. Draco was right, both about not being and wanting to be ready.

“It takes time,” he said to her, brushing a few strands of stray brown locks away from her face.

As he did that, she saw him cringe as if suddenly remembering some painful experience.

Pop!

A loud noise coming from behind startled them, causing Draco to instinctively shield Hermione from possible danger. It was the sound of a not so delicate Apparition.

XXXXXXXXXX

A few miles away in a secret hiding place, popping sounds filled a large brightly lit hall. Cloaked figures materialized out of thin air, gathered around her and waited as more Death Eaters answered the call of their leader.

Bellatrix Lestrange summoned twelve and was seeing ten. The absence of her most trusted was quite understandable, for her most trusted would know what the meeting was about and, at the moment, would be busy with preparations to ensure its success. As she looked at the younger wizards and witches surrounding her, she could not help but notice how much the face of terror had changed since the Dark Lord’s death.

No longer was it enough to sow hatred and reap fear. Nowadays, it was about Galleons and how much wealth mayhem could redirect into their personal coffers. It was about alliances with the unlikely and taking advantage of the unsuspecting, to use each other against common good. It was a young witch’s game that she was progressively growing tired of.

The meeting was to ensure everyone knew what to do. Bella wanted perfection because what was about to transpire in Toronto would be her final major contribution to Dark Wizardry. After Toronto she was stepping down to make way for someone with an infusion of fresh ideas, someone who understood that while money was important, it was not the ultimate purpose but merely incidental. Fear, dread, hate, discord, chaos, death and the power to easily cause them; doctrines only someone fascinated and enamoured with the Dark Arts would embrace and uphold over and above all else.

Speculation about her impending departure from the day to day Death Eater operation was increasing. Bella could feel the vultures circling over her not-even-retired-yet body. She had to ensure that her successor of choice would make it. Toronto should do that. And while she did not have children of her own to bequeath the honour to, it was a given that whoever took over as leader of the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters had to be one with untainted blood. A Pure-blood.

XXXXXXXXX

Back at the Toronto Ministry of Magic, Harry and Andy were still trapped in briefings about Tom Floyd. They were waiting for what he hoped was the last group of individuals they had to talk to. After almost three hours of the same hogwash, Harry’s attention had gone somewhere else. He looked at his Muggle wristwatch. Six twenty. Eleven-twenty London time.

Stop thinking about them.

There was nothing he could do about it right now except hope that the kiss that was plastered on the Prophet Socials page had not happened again; that it would not happen again. Or if it did happen again, he hoped it wouldn’t lead into something more intimate, like touching, caressing, and more.

More. Did he not just tell himself to stop thinking about them?

A sharp pain jolted him out of his rumination as Andy kicked him in the shin. He followed her look of admonition and saw that his diversion had caused the portraits of the past and future Canadian Ministers for Magic to levitate precariously above Muller and two other senior Aurors who were deep in discussion. The images within, sensing danger he guessed, had gone to their other portraits.

Andy helped him out with a swoosh of her wand, returning the portraits to their rightful places on the wall, just as the group from the symposium arrived. There were five of them, a witch and four wizards looking rather glum and serious.

Muller addressed them, “We know you are concerned about this most recent threat and would like assurance that your speakers and attendees will be safe.”

Assurance or a false sense of security? Harry knew that for the past two years participant safety had been suspect. Knowing what he knew about Floyd, he had suggested to Muller to encourage moving the event to a different venue or maybe changing the order of the speakers. Muller disagreed and he was the boss.

The distinguished elderly witch, a Healer with a rhyming name, spoke, “We have always had confidence in the Toronto MLE, Mr.Muller. This is why we hold the conference here every year.”

“Thank you, Healer Hama,” part of Muller’s job was to kiss ass and be nice.

A rather unpleasant large man spoke. Harry remembered him from last year. Hans Jeeber was head of security.

“My main concern is Mr. Toots,” Jeeber said in a confident but squeaky tone. For a large wizard, one would think he would have a larger voice. “You are all aware that the unique and sensitive nature of his work always makes his safety in public a challenge. It would be catastrophic if the specifics of his research fall into the wrong hands.”

Tilden Toots, gardener, radio celebrity, this year’s keynote speaker. While he typically was terrible with names and did not particularly enjoy Wizard gardening to know the celebrity, he remembered Toots because some time ago, Hermione referred to him as a genius. She said that other than being on radio, the wizard was a recluse and did a lot of groundbreaking plant research, to which Ron had retorted that if he had three green thumbs he’d think himself a freak too and choose to be a hermit. At that time, Hermione merely walked away and he thought nothing of it.

Andy had to ask, “What exactly is his research about?”

Jeeber replied, cryptic, condescending, “He grows plants.”

“My aunt listens to his wireless radio program ‘Toots, Shoots n Roots’. He’s a gardener. I know he grows plants,” Harry could sense that Andy was trying her best to behave and not jinx the prick.

Healer Hama answered, “His radio program does not do justice to his brilliance. He’s not your typical gardener. He grows magical plants that no one else can and he creates new ones. His altered mandrakes are less difficult and less time consuming to mature. The Toots gilliweed is safe and easy to use aquatic schools throughout the world have utilized it on students for years. The list goes on. With time, he can make and change any plant property, including the not so beneficial ones. It’s this expertise that will be quite dangerous if used inappropriately.”

Jeeber asked, “How exactly are you going to ensure that Mr. Toots will be unharmed?”

“Mr. Jeeber, with your cooperation Mr. Toots will be looked after better than the Canadian Minister for Magic.”

With that, Muller went on to specifics about how exactly he envisioned it would work, which basically was to surround Mr. Toots with Aurors.

“Do you think Floyd is really up to something?” Jeeber wanted to know how serious this threat was.

“Yes,” Muller replied.

“Your source, is it reliable?”

“Yes,” Muller deadpanned.

“It seems stupid that the Squib would try again. You arrested him last year, granting you did not have enough evidence you had to release him. But he’s only a Squib. How much harm can he do?”

Harry cautioned, “I wouldn’t do that.”

Jeeber asked, mocking, “What? Call him the Squib that he is?”

“Underestimate him. He’s not stupid either,” Harry ignored Jeeber’s snide tone. “Who do you think our reliable source is?”

“Floyd?” Jeeber shot the question at Muller, who did not deny it. They had found out that all the tips about Floyd being involved came from the man himself.

Harry added, “He’s confident and cocky. He wants us to know that he’s coming.”

“Then arrest him! Now!” Healer Hama demanded.

“We don’t have anything on Floyd and he’ll be out in no time at all,” Muller explained, “Then he’ll have us waste our limited resources explaining ourselves to the courts and to the press.”

“But why is he doing this?” Healer Hama obviously could not begin to understand the workings of a sick mind.

Andy answered, “Well, aside from the fact that he’s evil, he wants revenge.”

“For what?!”

Harry’s jaw tightened as he replied, “His brother’s death.”

Harry barely listened as Muller explained the events of last year and the circumstances surrounding Floyd’s brother’s death. Last year, Floyd’s brother died in prison while awaiting trial for the murder of the Healer, Helga Braun, and over a dozen robberies committed at the conference.

At the time of his suicide at the Toronto Squib Detention Facility not many knew that the head hunter who went by the name of Tex Waxball was Tom Floyd’s older brother.

XXXXXXXXX

“Nice of you to pop in, Weasley,” Draco said to the red-head, visibly annoyed at her appearing uninvited.

Ginny gave him a frosty look, “Cool car, Malfoy. A MINI; how appropriate, in so many different ways.”

“Thanks,” he replied sarcastically. It seemed that Ginny had finally succeeded and pushed Draco over the edge, “Back seat comfy enough? I heard you used to spend a lot of time on them.”

Hermione was surprised that Draco knew about that considering that it happened such a long time ago and it was with one particular boy whose memory always got her best friend upset. Ginny’s face was beet red.

“Gee, four hours into a date and you haven’t even made base yet. What’s taking so long? Was it the wait at the pharmacy for your Viagra?”

Hermione had heard enough. She was furious at Ginny for treating her like she was twelve.

“What are you doing?!”

“How did it go?” Ginny asked with a tone that feigned interest. Hermione knew she was asking about the date.

“It’s still going,” Hermione said through her teeth.

“Carry on then. I’ll wait. I don’t mind,” and with that Ginny leaned back and watched them.

This was ridiculous! What was she thinking?

Hermione turned to Draco and said, “Excuse us.”

She got out of the car, giving Ginny a scalding look that could only mean she had to follow. Her arms across her chest, she waited for Ginny to join her up the walkway close to her front porch. She was fuming, particularly after seeing that Ginny was really enjoying herself.

“I guess we went with the slutty look tonight. We didn’t want to leave much up to imagination, did we?” Ginny commented upon seeing what she was wearing,

Defensive, Hermione tried to explain, “It was unintentional!”

“Intentional or not, Malfoy got a clear message. The words ‘bed me’ are all over you.”

“I was distracted!”

“You definitely weren’t the only one. I could see him feasting on your cleavage from behind Mrs. Cooper’s hydrangea,” she motioned to the healthy bush on her neighbour's property that had a great view of the front seats of Draco’s car.

“You were watching?”

“Very briefly; I couldn’t stand it I just had to interrupt. Seeing you with him was making me seriously nauseous. That and Mrs. Cooper’s German shepherd was licking my neck.”

It suddenly dawned on her what else Ginny had done. She could strangle her right then and there!

“How low can you go? Your mother?”

“She wanted to practice using her cell phone.”

“Really, at eleven at night?”

“She’s pretty eager. And she wanted to help.”

Ugh! She had the nerve to be so nonchalant!

“And I can’t believe you called my Mum and dragged her into this!”

“How is Fiona? We didn’t get a chance to chat. Is she still with your Uncle Frank?”

“You’ve definitely crossed the line! How could you? I never got Molly involved when you were brainless enough to carry on with Mr. Right who turned out to be Mr. Very-Much Engaged and then Mr. Already-Married.”

And she should have; she really should have.

“Ah, yes, my stupid year. Such wonderful bitter memories. By the way, thanks for not telling my Mum. I agree that was worse than this but enough about me. This is about your idiocy. So, do you have an answer?”

“The night was young. I was still working on it, until you showed up,” she replied angrily, realizing that she couldn’t keep the promise she made earlier about finding out why she went out with Draco. She might as well blame Ginny for it.

“And you think you’d find the answer by having sex with him? You were going to sleep with him, weren’t you?”

“I guess we’ll never know the answer to that question.”

Hermione did not want to admit to anything that really may not have happened at all. She was so infuriated that she did not want Ginny to feel more pleased about herself than she already did, even if she likely did prevent her from inviting Draco into her flat.

“You’ll thank me for this when we’re old and grey. Come on. We’re going to be late.”

Hermione eyed her with suspicion, “Late for what?”

“I guess you don’t have yours on you,” Ginny showed her a bright silvery medallion than was changing hues, “The Order beckons. It went off in Malfoy’s car.”

“If this is another scheme to…”

Ginny did not let her finish, “Look, my Mum and your Mum, I admit. But this isn’t me. I can’t call a meeting, you know that.”

“What do you think it’s about?”

“It has to be about Ragnok. He’s missing.”

“What?!”

Hermione did overhear a couple of Healers talking about some commotion at Gringotts on her way out earlier that night.

“If you could take your head out of the clouds and smell the rubbish with the rest of us for a moment maybe you can help figure this one out. I’ll fill you in on our way to Neville’s.”

Neville Longbottom was a Hogwarts classmate and he had a house about a kilometre north from her. The meeting must be really important for Neville and Professor McGonagall to leave Hogwarts for the night.

Ginny paused and eyed her from top to bottom and continued, “Before we go, you should change into something that won’t give some of the more senior members of the Order a heart attack. It’s hard enough recruiting members as it is.”

“Will you shut up about the dress, already?” Hermione spat back. “You can wear it on your next date, though I seriously doubt it’ll stay on you for very long!”

“Definitely not as long as it stayed on you.”

Ginny chuckled and then began to laugh hysterically. Not long after that Hermione joined her.

“Viagra?” Hermione had tears in her eyes.

“I knew you’d like that,” Ginny replied, “After you got over being angry at me.”

“I am still angry at you.”

“No, you’re not.”

They were about to go into her flat when Ginny stopped her.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Ginny pointed out, watching Hermione struggle before saying, “Ditch the ferret.”

“Oh, right,” Hermione replied and walked towards Draco’s car, thinking about Ragnok, coming to the same conclusion about a Firenze connection as Ginny had, then making a mental note to tell Ginny that the dog that was licking her must have been a stray because none of her neighbours owned one.

XXXXXXXXXX

Not ten minutes later, a blue car sped into the underground parking garage of a modest downtown London condominium and haphazardly parked in one of the tenant spots. Its driver quickly got out, not caring that he left his vehicle unlocked as he ran into the elevator and hurriedly pressed “12”. It was a good thing she had to excuse herself because if she didn’t, he would have, and he would have had to lie to her. He didn’t want to lie to her, at least no more than he had to.

The elevator doors mercifully opened and he rushed into his apartment and into the study, tossing his jacket aside. His grey eyes could not mask the excruciating agony he was feeling on his left forearm, favouring it heavily as he lit a fire under his cauldron, found the ingredients he needed from his potion supply cupboard and poured everything in all at once.

The potion was easy enough to make but useless unless ingested within an hour. It was still scorching hot. He glanced at the picture on his desk with an image of a striking woman smiling at him, and that took the edge off a bit until the next wave of throbbing came on cue, bringing him close to tears. This was not a problem when he was in Michigan.

Unable to wait, he took his wand and muttered a spell. The potion cooled down to room temperature. He lifted his left arm onto the table, rolled up his sleeve and watched the red angry skull and snake figure fade away as he drank the entire concoction. There was immediate pain relief that he knew would last at least twenty four hours.

Aunt Bella sure was summoning the troops more frequently lately. If Aunt Bella kept this up, he would have to make and take the potion at least once a day or keep a cauldron on him at all times. Or maybe he should just tell her so he wouldn’t have to lie. She must know he had the Death Eater’s Dark Mark and if she didn’t know, she would find out soon enough.

Feeling much better, he picked up his phone and stared at it for quite some time. This thing with her was not what he expected at all. He turned away from the smiling woman’s picture, pressed the numbers on the phone keypad and waited. It was ringing.

“It’s me…about Mexico…”

A/N. I know it all seems too DHr but it will be HHr. Writing the Confession was an interesting process indeed. It took three revisions.

Chapter 12 – The Confession

The Longbottom Residence was a sprawling estate in one of the plusher neighbourhoods in London. With his grandmother passing away three years ago, his parents permanent residents of St. Mungo’s, and him away for most of the year teaching Herbology at Hogwarts, Neville had volunteered the entire west wing for use by the Order of the Phoenix.

Hermione and Ginny Apparated a five-minute walk away from their destination and took advantage of the time to talk about Gringotts. Ginny gave Hermione details of the break-in at the wizard bank and both agreed that it was worthwhile looking into the possibility of a connection between Firenze’s murder and Ragnok’s disappearance.

It was a long shot but as good as any lead considering they had nothing at all to begin with to solve Firenze’s internally gruesome death. As Centaurs and Goblins were not known to desire human interference in their affairs and preferred to be left alone by wizards, Ragnok and Firenze were two of the handful who were not of the norm. Both were upstanding wizard law abiding individuals who supported the efforts of the Society for the Protection of Magical Beings to varying extents. Their mere involvement in something sinister over a span of a week set off alarm bells. Of concern was the fact that somebody tried to pin Firenze’s murder on Magorian and now Ragnok was seemingly being framed for the robbery. They just hoped that Ragnok was not dead.

And there was Filch at St. Mungo’s. Hermione would check on him first thing in the morning. She was sure that she would be able to do a consult and hopefully find out what was wrong with the former Hogwarts caretaker. He might know what happened at Gringotts. If the Healers could only wake him up.

Earlier, as she heeded Ginny’s subtle advice and changed into more suitable garb, Hermione contemplated the question that continued to unremittingly challenge her.

Why do you go out with him?

No longer furious at Ginny and less hormonally charged, she replayed her night with Draco to look for an answer. His revelation of having lost a significant other was surprising, to say the least, and Mia was not just any significant other. Hermione did not have to read his Detroit hospital file to know that Mia played a major role in the transformation she was a witness to.

She died over a year ago. A tragic accident really. Totally unexpected.

The resemblance was eerie. What were the odds?

We move on, right?

He obviously had. She really should.

Is it worth it?

She wondered if it was worth it for Mia.

I like the way you make me feel about myself.

It was an epiphany which was disconcerting at the same time liberating. Reluctantly she had to admit that, at least tonight, she felt the same way being with him.

The implications of accepting this fact were not as severe as the repercussions of allowing what was naturally going to follow. If it were any other man it wouldn’t be so complicated. There was too much bad history to overcome. They came from different worlds, with different friends and different beliefs. Clearly, the likelihood of a lasting relationship with him was infinitesimal.

Clearly. And yet she could already hear herself say ‘yes’ the next time he asked her out.

Hermione had to come clean and tell Ginny about it. What she was about to do was unusual, unexpected, and likely unacceptable.

Midway up the long deserted driveway, she slowed her pace just as Neville’s house came into view. Ginny immediately noticed she was starting to fall back and they stopped walking.

“About Draco,” Hermione said to her, “I have an answer.”

“That bad, huh?” Ginny sensed it wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

Hermione confessed, “I was about to invite him up to my flat just before you came.”

Ginny looked at her seriously and pointed out, “You do know I won’t be around all the time to bail you out from these bouts of ferret-induced temporary sexual insanity.”

“That’s the thing,” she took a slow breath in and out, to try to prepare them both but mostly herself, “I don’t think it’s temporary or entirely sexual.”

Hermione anticipated Ginny to go off into a Molly-like protest. It didn’t come. It worried her a bit that Ginny seemed to be reacting to it too calmly.

“So much for hoping it was; that would have been easier to deal with,” Ginny did not look surprised by her confession and was contemplating her reply more carefully she usually did, “Focussing on the positive, at least you admit that it’s insanity. That’s a start.”

“I don’t know exactly where it’s going but I need you to be around and be my friend even if this becomes more than what it is right now.”

“You mean if you start seeing more of him both literally and figuratively,” she saw Ginny struggling.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“I haven’t been sure about anything for a year,” she replied candidly. “I just know I need to find out what this is, if there’s anything more to it, and I can’t do that without seeing more of him.”

“I really liked it better when you were more conflicted,” the tone of their conversation was sombre. “Is it worth it?”

“Funny, he asked the same thing.”

“Because he knows what it’s like,” Ginny answered. “He has the Dark Mark. He will always have that stigma. But while he has to live with it you have a choice. You can loose friends and family just by hanging out with him.”

“I know.”

“And these are people who know you and care about know you. How do you think will your colleagues react once you start rubbing elbows with Death Eaters? Can you live with that?”

“He has turned his life around, Gin. That’s hard to do.”

“If it’s true.”

“What does the guy have to do to prove he has changed? We both looked,” Hermione reminded her, “There has been nothing to suggest otherwise.”

“It’s there, I know it,” Ginny insisted, “We just didn’t find it.”

“He’s putting himself out there, risking I will mock him and scoff at his efforts to change his life as most have. I don’t want to be responsible for him thinking in any way that all this change is not worth it.”

“If he has changed, you alone can’t prevent him from going back to the evil git he was if he so chooses.”

“Maybe not, but I won’t be part of the reason he chooses to. I can only be responsible for what I do.”

“That is undoubtedly the worse case of emotional blackmail I have ever heard and you’re doing it to yourself. I totally blame Malfoy for it. How can you fall for his ‘I’m sorry but I don’t expect your forgiveness’ line?” Ginny asked in a mocked imitation of what Draco said, “And you haven’t answered me.”

“It’s the decent thing to do.”

“Are you willing to gamble your entire life on ‘decent’?” then Ginny repeated, “Is it worth it?”

“It would be if I’m right about him, and I think I am.”

“And if you’re not?”

“I can only hope that some would be sorry for me and welcome me back, even if only to tell me how wrong I was.”

“I don’t know how you’ve managed to make this come out that way but you’ve gone over the deep end,” Ginny reiterated. “After Malfoy, you, your life will never be the same. And that’s just if you’re right about him. I really have a bad feeling about this.”

“If it makes you feel better, I intend to take it really slow.”

“It’s a very steep hill to the bottom,” her friend cautioned, “It’s not going to be slow.”

Ginny stopped talking for a while and just looked at her with concern.

“Draco said something tonight that made a lot of sense,” Hermione shared with her.

“Scary thought, him making sense.”

“He said I wasn’t ready but I wanted to be.”

“I agree. What I can’t understand is how ‘not being ready’ speaks to you as ‘have a relationship with him’? Or is this the insanity part?”

“If I do have a relationship with him then it won’t matter if I’m ready or not, I’ll just have to be.”

“Because you want to be?”

“Yes.”

“That desperately?”

“Desperately would be putting it kindly.”

“This is definitely the insanity part,” Ginny commented. “I don’t think it works that way.”

“I know how it works. How it works won’t work for me.”

Ginny was telling her anyway.

“You need to know why you’re not ready.”

“You and I know why I’m not ready.”

“You need to deal with why you’re not ready.”

“You and I know I can’t.”

“Then you won’t ever be ready.”

“See? It won’t work. If you were me, knowing that you won’t ever be ready because you can’t deal with why you’re not, what would you do?” Hermione threw her the question.

“If I were you I wouldn’t let Malfoy get within two feet of me. But that’s just me. You’re supposed to deal with your past or wait for a miracle that it will fix itself on its own. Why the rush?”

“Because I want to move on. I want to be in a loving and nurturing relationship with someone who wants the same thing.”

“You want a loving and nurturing relationship with Malfoy? There’s something seriously wrong with that thought.”

‘I want to get rid of the bitter taste of what I had the last time. I don’t want to end up like you, thinking that you won’t ever need any man that way; no offence meant.”

“None taken, but jeez, couldn’t you wait a bit for a different bloke to come along before deciding you want to move on? How lucky can he get?” there was a helplessness in Ginny’s tone, realizing that Hermione had made a decision. “You really have to see him before you do this.”

“I can’t.”

“You can but you don’t want to.”

“Same difference.”

“He’s made an effort. You can’t avoid him for the rest of your lives. Deal with it once and for all and then walk away knowing that you have,” in many ways, Ginny was right, but she just couldn’t.

“We’ve had this conversation before. I can’t. Not yet,” Hermione said. “So, can I count on you to be around if it does happen?”

“If I really am your friend, I don’t have a choice, do I? Let’s just hope I have the loyalty of a Hufflepuff,” Ginny answered, resigned. “But just to be perfectly clear, I’m not holding back about him. You may not want me around.”

“I want you around. I need you around. Why do you think I’m telling you?”

“I still think you should see Harry first before you sleep with the devil.”

“I thought you said Nick was the devil,” Hermione retorted, hoping for an opportunity to detract Ginny from going on and on about how she should see Harry.

Talking about Nick worked every time. They started walking again.

“They’re twins,” Ginny said bitterly, “Which reminds me, how do you think the ferret knew about Nicholas? You didn’t mention anything to Malfoy, did you?”

Nicholas was the boy Ginny fell in love with and lost her virginity to in the back seat of an emerald 1997 Bentley Azure. She spent three blissful years with him before being told (more like finding out by accident) that he was in fact engaged (had been since he was ten). The spineless wonder did not have the guts to fight for her. He strung her along for six months, promising to break off the wedding and then convinced her to carry on with him after. For five months, Ginny was the selfish bastard’s mistress. Her belief that he was doing it because he ‘loved’ her took some time undoing. No, Hermione would never tell anyone about what Ginny went through with him without checking with her first.

“Of course not,” Hermione replied, “I can find out, if you want.”

“It’s not important,” Ginny shrugged as they entered the Longbottom residence and found the meeting room with minutes to spare.

A few others were already there and were in small groups, chatting. Professor Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts Headmistress, was talking with a very pregnant Auror, Nymphadora Tonks, who was sporting teal coloured hair that night. Her husband, Remus Lupin, was having an animated conversation with a now wheelchair bound Mad Eye Moody, whose magical blue eye was doing somersaults and making an annoying whirring sound as it had obviously detected something evil close by. Or maybe it was just malfunctioning a bit because of his age. Luna Lovegood, Ministry Unspeakable, was with them, at least physically. There were a few other witches and wizards she barely knew.

Over the past year, the Ministry had been noticing an increase in heinous magical crimes. It was no longer a mere suspicion that the Death Eaters were gaining strength and intelligence. Not that she believed in fortunetelling, even seers were all in agreement that evil times were upon them and dark forces would again terrorize the earth.

While she was not a Ministry official, the war against Voldemort years ago was still vivid in her mind she could not help but feel emotionally involved. She was not happy with how the Ministry was handling the resurgence of the Death Eaters. In her opinion, they were not doing enough.

And there was really nothing else besides the Ministry. The Order of the Phoenix was as good as defunct until last month when they had their first meeting in close to a decade. At that gathering called by Kingsley, most of its former members were absent because of disinterest, distance or death. The handful of new members came from the Ministry.

In the two weeks before the meeting that they spent trying to recruit wizards and witches, it was obvious it was going to be a hard sell. The difficulty in attracting membership was due to several factors. Some were concerned about it being anti-Ministry. Some just did not care; apathetic witches and wizards who, for as long as they were unaffected, would choose to stay out of it. Some were afraid to be branded and targeted by the Death Eaters.

All of them pointed to one big void; a lack of leadership. The three exiting co-leaders, Professor McGonagall, Remus and Kingsley, were not enough of a draw to inspire imagination and hope that the Order would make a difference. There were a considerable number of witches and wizards who needed reassurance that the risk they were taking in affiliating with the group was worth it.

At that meeting, it was obvious that the Order needed an enigmatic and charismatic figure who could rally the common witch and wizard to care, to not be afraid to stand up for good, and even at the expense of death, to make the difficult but right choice; someone like the late Albus Dumbledore. Harry’s name was thrown around a few times.

She put in her two cents worth in the process, pointing out that the Harry that was in Toronto was not the same one who defeated Voldemort years ago. He would not want to be a leader in the new Order, most certainly not so his name could be used in recruitment. They can ask but she was certain he would decline.

“Hi,” Neville joined them as they made their way to the rectangular table in the centre of the room.

With Ginny beside her, she knew it wouldn’t be too long before Neville showed up. He had this crush on Ginny since Hogwarts from when he danced with her at the Yule Ball the year of the Triwizard Tournament. Hermione found it so sad that all this time, he never had the nerve to ask her out.

She did not encourage it either for she knew Ginny would just turn his heart into mush. Even though it had been years since Neville lost his rotund features and actually was not bad looking, he was too normal, too nice and talked a little too much about Herbology for Ginny’s taste.

“Who called the meeting?” Ginny asked him.

“Kingsley,” Neville replied, his puppy dog eyes were all for Ginny. “He owled to say he’ll be a couple of minutes late. How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at how uncomfortable Ginny was with the attention. It wasn’t that Neville was the only guy who looked lost around her; he was the one guy Ginny truly did not want to feel that way about her, knowing that she would end up hurting his feelings.

Ginny had already asked Hermione to talk to Neville about it, and she did, but Neville probably couldn’t help it. Hermione knew the feeling only too well and she could relate. As Ginny turned to her for help, she contemplated if she should start avenging Ginny’s earlier acts.

“Neville, I heard Tilden Toots is speaking in Toronto,” Hermione said, deciding against it. “You must be excited.”

“Very. He hasn’t talked in public for ages,” Neville turned to her and his face lit up as he spoke.

Ginny mouthed the words ‘thank you’ towards her.

“Is it six years?”

“Seven,” Neville probably knew everything about Tilden Toots. “Minerva has arranged for a substitute to start Friday so I can be in Toronto a day early.”

“I did see there were a couple of good pre-meeting topics on plants you may want to attend.”

“Are you going?” Neville asked her.

“No, I have this Healing Mission I have to be at.”

“I can’t imagine how you can pass this up.”

With that, Neville droned on about Tilden Toots; his life and his works. Neville could have written a Tilden Toots autobiography and Toots would have found out truths about himself he didn’t know about. She glanced over to Ginny and saw that her eyes were starting to glaze over with disinterest; the reason she couldn’t possibly go out with him if he asked.

Her phone rang. She excused herself to answer it.

“Hello.”

Neville gladly continued his Tilden Toots synopsis for Ginny, “He was the one who grew the obedient Devil’s snare on display at the Children’s Magical Plant Garden.”

“Hi…yes, what about Mexico?”

Ginny was a journalist with ears that were trained to hear everything. Her friend glared at her and started shaking her head from side to side, knowing who she was talking with and guessing right what the question about Mexico was. Going to Mexico with him would not be an indication that she was taking it slowly.

“And his rejuvenating and rejuicing potions are the best everybody in the world uses them, no?” he must have noticed what Ginny was doing.

Ginny recovered, “No. The French prefer a different one.”

“I’ll be working…”

A week in Mexico was probably going to be overwhelming.

“They do?” Neville asked Ginny.

Hermione laughed at his suggestion that if it would make her feel better, he would bring work, too. A lot of work.

“Oh, good! Kingsley is here,” Ginny said, loud enough for everybody in the room to hear.

“Listen, I have to go,” Hermione said over the phone. “Let me think about it.”

As she hung up and everybody was finding a place to sit, Ginny told her firmly, “Don’t think about it. Just say ‘no’.”

Kingsley started talking, thankfully.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he apologized, “In the past few months there has been a lot of talk that Lestrange is stepping down. I was just with a source and he just confirmed. It’s imminent. Maybe days, weeks at most.”

“That’s good. That’s bad,” Luna commented.

Hermione agreed. Any Dark witch retiring was good news but there would likely be a chaotic transition between leaders.

Professor McGonagall asked, “Do we know who’s next in line?”

“She has been grooming someone to take her place. The only information we have is that it is someone the Death Eaters refer to as the Potion Master,” Tonks answered.

“Potion Master,” Mad Eye Moody repeated, his magical eye doing a 360, probably remembering, like her, a previous bad potion experience.

“We are also being told that Lestrange wants a grand exit. We think Gringotts was part of it but there is likely more,” Kingsley added.

“Any news about Ragnok?” Ginny asked.

“We’re still looking for him,” Kingsley admitted. “And yes, Ginny, I got your owl about Firenze. We’ll look into it but we don’t have much to go on.”

Hermione spoke up, a bit frustrated, “It seems like we have a problem getting and not having enough information? Doesn’t the Ministry have spies? We definitely could use one right now.”

“I agree,” Remus concurred, “We need eyes and ears closer to Lestrange. I’m just wondering if it’s a bit too late. Dora, we have that list of potential Death Eaters. Is there anyone promising?”

Tonks replied, “All seem hardcore. It would be too risky because they might end up spying on us for her.”

Hermione knew that there was one name that wasn’t on that list. She contemplated on suggesting it but held back, realizing that most, if not all, would find it offensive to enlist into the Order the person who played a major role in the series of events that led to its Founder’s death.

“Is there anybody else, maybe a new recruit?” Kingsley asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Neville replied, “Most are hesitant because of what we talked about the last time.”

Here we go again.

“Remus, you went to see Harry, didn’t you?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“I’m afraid he declined, as he did with you and Kingsley.”

She did tell them so. They should just find someone else instead of wasting time on him. Hermione started tuning them out, her eyes drifting to the notes she was pretending to take.

Cancun. With him…

“Why is he staying in Toronto?” one of the new members asked.

Sun…

Somebody answered; some drivel about him wanting international experience.

Ocean…

“He’s there on a temporary transfer, isn’t he? Why don’t you just pull him out, Kingsley? Force him to come back to London.”

Sand…

“I told him that. He said he’ll quit if I do. We don’t want to piss him off.”

This is definitely not taking it slowly…

“We should try talking to him again,” Ginny joined in, “We should send someone else. Someone he will have difficulty saying ‘no’ to.”

It will be good to get away…wait…

Was Ginny suggesting what she thought she was suggesting?

There was a most uncomfortable silence. As Hermione looked up from her artistic interpretation of what was supposed to be a Mexican beach, all eyes, including Moody’s blue ‘mad’ one, were on her.

Disclaimer : Harry Potter - definitely not mine - considering how I've written TPP so far! Eponine and Les Miserables - Victor Hugo's and the lyrics for On My Own from the musical of the same name.

A/N. A much needed break for all of us. It's quite long so take your time and I apologize for typos. A lot about Hermione, her first meeting with Roy Hunt. The first part I intended not to reveal until later in the story but succumbed to ‘pressure’ and it caused me so much grief writing around it.

Chapter 13 – Eponine

Bella had just adjourned the Death Eater meeting and had asked one of her cloaked disciples to stay. She needed an update.

“How is my nephew doing?” she asked.

“Very well,” the young man replied. “You were right; in her emotional state all she needed was slight nudge. She is falling for him and had Weasley not interfered tonight, things would have progressed even further. We can wean her down to once a week.”

“Are you sure she doesn’t suspect anything.”

“The amount of Amortentia that I used combined with a tad of Beffudlement Draught is untraceable. Even if she suspected something she can’t prove it. The effects are inconspicuous enough she won’t even think what she’s feeling is not real.”

“Good,” Bella answered, pleased, “Keep her on that enchanted potion of yours for two more days, at least until she leaves for Mexico. I have confidence that my nephew will do what he has to do.”

“As you wish,” came his reply as she Disapparated.

He scratched the back of his ear vigorously. He swore loudly. He hated phantom fleas.

And at least two more days of fruit smoothies. He should charge her hazard pay. After two months, Dennis Creevey was so looking forward to not having to make or take those bloody health drinks. If only Malfoy could hurry up and just have sex with her already to make the effects of his enchanted version of the love potion permanent.

XXXXXXXXXX

Ginny had slipped into bed and lay awake still thinking about Hermione’s impending implosion. It was serendipity that the Order’s needs came at the right time. Plan B was in motion and Ginny could only hope that she could put that part of her life back together. It was all up to Harry now.

The alternative continued to be unthinkable. She asked her to stay and be her friend if it happened; when it happened. Unthinkable. Unimaginable. It was a test of how true their friendship was.

I need you to be around and be my friend even if this becomes more than what it is right now.

What was she supposed to say?

If you do this, I won’t be your friend anymore.

Forget the fact that I’ve known you almost all my life and consider you family.

Forget about all those years against Voldemort.

Forget about the year you spent consoling me after I insisted and was stupid enough to be someone’s mistress.

Let me turn my back on you so you have no choice but to run to the one person you shouldn’t be with.

For a brief moment during the meeting she noticed her tense up at the mention of potential Death Eater spies. They had talked about it in theory. Malfoy wasn’t on Tonks’ list and it was a good thing Hermione did not suggest the crazy idea to the group. That would have seriously undermined whatever trust the Order elders had left in her knowing that she was dating the ferret. Hermione might have not recognized it yet but there was already speculation about her inadvertently revealing Order secrets to Malfoy and her involvement in high level discussions was in jeopardy.

Hermione did not have to tell her about her epiphany, and yet, she did. She could have just done it behind her back, and yet, she didn’t. It was a no-brainer. She knew it and Hermione knew it. Hermione needed someone to pull her back, to be her conscience, to remind her, because it didn’t make total sense to her either.

I want you around. I need you around.

Ginny just didn’t know for how long she could be there for her.

XXXXXXXX

After the initial disbelief and internal panic of what Ginny actually suggested, Hermione calmed down enough to tell everyone that despite her reservations about Harry coming back to London for the Order, she would do it. She would ask him, make a reasonable pitch and get an answer. Later, Ginny thanked her for ‘taking one for the team’. Witch. And they had just talked about how she couldn’t face him.

Now, staring blankly at her bedroom ceiling, she was trying to gather herself for the task. She did say she would do it and as Ginny aptly said in front of everyone, how fortuitous it was that she was on vacation so she had time to see him before her trip to Mexico. Hermione sat there thinking how fortuitous it was for Ginny she couldn’t jinx her in front of the Order elders.

She visualized herself, coming up to Harry, talking to him, and asking him to come back to London for the Order. Heart throbbing and mind racing. She loved him and she always would.

Since Ron’s death she had led him to believe that she was still angry about the Roy Hunt incident. It was better that way. The fact of the matter was, it was a relief when she found out that it was him that night in Toronto. That it was not some stranger.

That one night was somewhat perfect until they came back to face the reality of London; Ron, their upcoming wedding, conflicted about wanting more than that one night and hoping that he did too. What an awful thing to do to Ron.

Ron, her friend, her lover, her erstwhile fiancé. It was difficult to explain what Ron was to her without explaining what Harry was. If it wasn’t for her they would all be in the UK, all alive, all well, all still talking to each other.

And it all started with a silly idea bounced around during firewhiskey fuelled girl talk about three months before she was to wed Ron. Their topic was her cold feet, which started the day after she accepted Ron’s proposal and was progressively getting worse as their wedding day drew near.

Ginny did caution that the suggestion might not be for Hermione, considering she (Hermione) had not been with another man except for her fiancé. Ron and her had been together for about ten years and she had not passionately kissed anyone else since she was a teenager, if she could even remember what that was like.

The theory was that somewhere deep inside, Hermione was having second thoughts about marrying because she had never been with anyone else. Ginny opined that the curiosity of what else was out there had to be fed for the cold feet to go away. Hermione remembered that conversation they had over a year ago.

“I should do what?” Hermione was surprised.

They were swigging firewhiskey at a local bar.

“You heard me,” Ginny replied, a bit tipsy she figured.

“A last fling? Your advice is to have a last fling?”

“Uh-huh.”

Hermione could not believe it.

“Ginny, you do realize I am marrying your brother.”

Ginny had an answer for everything.

“I’m actually helping him out. Better now than after the wedding. That would be adultery,” in a way, what she said made some sense, or maybe that was the firewhiskey making her think so.

“Oh yeah, and if I do it before then at least it will only be infidelity. I’m sure Ron will recognize the subtle difference,” this conversation was not helping.

Ginny suggested further, having way too much fun with her Hermione couldn’t think she was really serious, “He doesn’t have to know. He travels a lot; you travel a lot. Surely, you could have a little romp with one of your serious colleagues at one of those boring conferences you attend all the time.”

“Let’s throw in a good dose of lies with betrayal and forget about trust all together. That would be such a good way to start a marriage,” Hermione answered back. “I have cold feet, I think that’s normal. When I asked for advice I was hoping for something your Mum might have told you.”

“Do you really think that if I listened to my Mum I’d still be unmarried right now?” Ginny quipped, causing them to laugh. “She thinks I’m still a virgin.”

Two other girl friends joined them.

“What are we laughing about?” Luna asked.

“Flings. Last flings,” Ginny replied. “Here’s a question. If you wanted to have a last fling and you didn’t know any of them, which of those guys would you rather have it with?”

Ginny directed their attention to the group of Gryffindor boys, Harry, Dean, Seamus, Colin, Dennis and Neville, who were playing wizard’s pool and watching Ron’s Quidditch game over the wireless magical network.

They fell silent, perusing their unsuspecting friends who were oblivious to their lustful imagination. One of them just made a difficult corner pocket shot and got the requisite applause from his mates. He turned to them and smiled. Her girl friends sighed.

“Definitely him.”

“No doubt about it.”

“Forget last. Make it many times over.”

She didn’t have to say anything as they chinked glasses and laughed.

Hermione thought nothing more of that and decided she would just ignore the impulse to back out. She was twenty-six and it was time to take the next step with Ron. She wanted what her Mum and Dad had, even discussed with Ron the possibility of leaving St. Mungo’s which Ron immediately misconstrued as being a done deal. Sometimes Ron jumped to conclusions and only heard what he wanted to hear. Amazing because he had the knack to tune out a lot of what she said.

When they first started seeing each other intimately that first year he was with the Cannons, she decided that she would make an effort to pick her battles with him. Women are from Venus, Men from Mars but sometimes, Ron came from a yet unnamed planet outside the Milky Way. Arguing about every little thing was counter-productive.

And Ron made an effort too. Over time, as their careers became busier and they spent so much time away from each other, it became easier to tolerate the little things when they were. It did take a bit more effort when they spent more time together during his yearly breaks from the Cannons.

A month before the Day she got a call from her Dad. After thirty years, he and her Mum had separated. Her Mum had shacked up with their long-time friend, her Uncle Frank. To say that it surprised her would be an understatement. She had no idea her parents were miserable and her belief of what she wanted with Ron was shaken to the core.

Her parents went through a nasty divorce and they sure picked a good time to do it. It was all her Mum’s fault. Her Mum tried to explain many times why, and she was so incensed at her for doing what she did, their relationship was never the same after.

I didn’t know at that time but I always loved your Uncle Frank.

Your Dad and I were too busy with our own lives. We had different interests and we were like passing ships in the night.

I never realized how unhappy I was until Frank and I spent more time together.

Before we married, I had cold feet, too. I shouldn’t have married your Dad.

That meant she felt they shouldn’t have had her either.

Her Mum’s sorry excuses for her betrayal brought to her attention a lot of similarities in her life that it troubled her. She was hearing this a few days before she was to marry Ron.

Yes, she had cold feet.

Yes, she only knew happy from what she had with Ron. She had nothing to compare it with.

Yes, they were too busy; Ron with Quidditch; her with St. Mungo’s. The two months they spent each year as a couple in recent years bordered on travel companions and roommates who occasionally had sex.

And there was Harry.

It started out as a crush, a school girl harmless crush. So, sue her. She did have a crush on him while they attended Hogwarts. Really, which girl didn’t? For her, it wasn’t so much because of his looks but more so because of the easy kind of feeling she had around him. Of course she tried not to show it. They were friends and she did not want him to freak out and feel awkward.

He was never interested in her that way. Back then his romantic pursuits also always led him to someone else. Cho, his first kiss. Ginny, his first love. And the nameless, countless others after the Cannons took him away. All the time she was around and it was never her. Anvil-sized clue right there.

She would always be his pal, solid, dependable, behind him through thick or thin. After helping him through that difficult patch following his fall from Quidditch grace, he had alternately referred to her as his ‘rock’, his ‘anchor’. She wasn’t even an animate object to him.

She remembered her one night of weakness during their search for the Horcruxes when she was trying to help him revise for their NEWTs. He fell asleep from exhaustion on her bed, doing so in the middle of answering a question about wandless magic. She decided not to wake him and instead slipped in beside him, falling asleep as he instinctively cuddled closer and embraced her, his soft breath falling on her neck. She pretended to be asleep long after she woke up, indulging herself in the euphoric sensation that she knew would not last and thankful that after Ron forced reality with a wake-up call that was hard to ignore, Harry never brought it up.

But Hermione had always been pragmatic. There was no point holding a torch for someone who would never care about her the same way. That was just foolish and a total waste of time. So she left it at that; a crush, an admiration that she suppressed as she allowed herself to accept the love of another man. It was only right for her to love Ron back.

Hermione always thought that if he ever survived Voldemort’s murderous intent, Harry and Ginny would get back together. The circumstances of their break up and the fact that they were such a blissful couple made it unthinkable that they wouldn’t.

Harry survived. Voldemort was dead. Harry was supposed to get his girl back, the girl he broke up with because it wasn’t safe for her to be around him, the girl who could make him happy. But the unthinkable did happen. Harry and Ginny didn’t get back together because Ginny fell in love with someone else.

Though Harry never talked to her about Ginny, it was obvious that he was hurt when Ginny started dating again during their search for the remaining Horcruxes. Technically there was nothing wrong with her doing that. It was just a surprise that she did.

By the time Hermione got around to asking her about it, Ginny was in a serious relationship with a 7th year Ravenclaw boy, a transfer from New York. Ginny confessed to Hermione that her Harry Potter infatuation was over and that she was in love with Nicholas. Not much good came out of that.

And years after, when she asked them separately how they felt about giving it another go, both said they had talked about it and that there was nothing there anymore. What they had was a long time ago, things were different, and it was best for them to stay friends.

Over the years, Hermione would watch other women come and go into his life and occasionally, during challenging times with Ron, allow herself to wonder what it would be like to be in their shoes. She sometimes allowed the fantasy of her ideal that she knew Ron never could be.

It made a bit more sense now, why she kept on telling Ron she wasn’t ready for years and why she wanted her acceptance back the second she gave it. It wasn’t because of their careers as she had allowed him to believe.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she was hoping to be swept away by the man of her dreams even if for just one tryst, to find out what it was like. And as her parents divorced, Hermione did not want to waste thirty years of their lives, end up having a bitter daughter, before admitting that she wanted to be with someone else all along.

She was in panic that Harry was to her as her Uncle Frank was to her Mum, and that over time the bottled up school girl crush had aged and matured into something else. Learning from her mother’s mistake, she wanted to know once and for all if Harry had any similar feelings for her. And if he did not, she wanted to at least have one intimate moment with the man she had loved all this time.

Looking back now, she really should have declined Ron’s proposal and really should have broken up with him five years ago when the fire was gone and she had no desire to fan the flame again. She should have just called the wedding off the moment she started thinking about asking Harry to be her last fling.

She should have called off the wedding then, and not after the third time she cheated on Ron with Roy Hunt.

The Roy Hunt affair should have ended in Toronto.

XXXXXXXXXX

14 February 2006 - Along King Street, a few blocks west of University Avenue, Toronto

The Graffiti was a strategically located Muggle only restaurant in the heart of Toronto’s Theatre District. Hermione was at the bar, lazily sipping her strawberry daiquiri, watching the place begin to empty as theatre goers finished dinner and made their way to one of the three theatres that were within a two block radius. She glanced at her watch; it was 7:20pm. He was five minutes late.

Hermione was anxious, not so much because he was tardy and they were going to be, but more so because of what she was about to ask him that night. It was absolutely ludicrous and as she waited for him it became clearer that this idea was a bad one.

She had been mulling over a plan to find out whether or not Harry had feelings for her since realizing that she loved him.

Option one was to ask him directly. That would lead to him asking her why she was asking and an admission to being in love with him. Freakish and embarrassing if he said ‘no’.

Option two was to use magic. Legilimency or Veritaserum. Harry would be livid and he would know if she used those.

Option three was asking him to be her last fling. Even more freakish and embarrassing but it had one enticing element to it that option one didn’t have.

The last option was not in serious contention until her conversation with Ron just before she left for Toronto. They were talking about the excuses her philandering mother had. The similarities were so glaring it did not escape Ron.

He asked her if she ever wondered what it would be like to have sex with someone else, too afraid to mention Harry at all. She answered truthfully and asked him the same thing. Ron confessed that all this time she was mistaken in believing that the first time they made love was his first time. She speculated out loud what else she was mistaken about. Then they had a row about her mother.

She was upset, possibly vindictive, armed with justification for something she knew was not right and she did not care what Ron would think if he found out. It was as if something in her snapped and she dared to dare fate.

Far from the pressures of family and friends, a few days before her wedding, after an unpleasant discussion with her fiancé, she was presented with an opportunity that she was considering seriously. The man she was in love with called her earlier that day to say that he was in Toronto.

She talked to herself, channelling Ginny to be the other voice.

Just ask him.

I asked him the hypothetical question. He thought it was a bad idea.

Yeah, if he was Ron it would be. You should have asked him the question directly. And maybe his first answer wasn't a joke.

He’ll say ‘no’.

It’s only sex to him. He has it all the time with different women; one more won’t make a difference to him.

I’m not his type. I never have been and never will be.

You don’t know that for sure.

True.

And you have to know for sure or wonder for the rest of your life.

True.

Now, not thirty years later.

True.

Just stick to your last fling story so he doesn’t freak out too much if he doesn’t feel the same way about you.

It’s only sex and only this once.

Right.

And we can’t talk about it after Toronto.

Right.

But if he says ‘no’ it would be too embarrassing.

Not if you do it properly. Business-like. You’re his best friend and he owes you. Call in favours if you have to.

Beg Harry for sex. Great image.

And don’t tell him you love him.

Got it.

Unless he says it first.

Okay.

And he means it.

You can stop now.

Hermione was supposed to meet him tonight for a ‘date’. A Valentine’s Day date. He had called it that. She had a pair of theatre tickets to see Les Miserables and after that, dinner. A date with Harry Potter; she dreamed of that once upon a time as a teenager.

Their friendship had withstood a lot but still she was nervous about what she was about to ask him. She was waffling; swaying decisions so frequently she was making herself sick. Just what she needed; something else to have cold feet about!

Her phone started ringing and she answered. It was Harry.

“It’s okay…really,” she was trying to mask her disappointment, trying so hard to convince herself it was relief, “Yes. I’ll go ahead…maybe when we get back home then. Call me…bye…and be careful.”

Something at work came up, he said. He couldn’t join her at all that night. She took it as a sign that it wasn’t meant to be. That will put that crazy thought to rest once and for all. Thirty years.

Hermione downed the remainder of her strawberry daiquiri, looked at her watch and decided she had time for another one before sitting by herself in the theatre, quite prepared to bawl her eyes out when her favourite part of the musical came up.

I love him
But every day I'm lonely
All my life I've only been pretending
Without me, his world will go on turning
The world is full of happiness that I have never known…

The bartender gave her another drink.

I love him
I love him
I love him...
But only on my own...

She took a sip and continued humming the tune in her head. Just then, a tall man with slicked back black hair dressed in a grey business suit stood beside her.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” she heard the man ask.

He had a strong, rich voice that was difficult to ignore. It had an almost hypnotic quality to it.

She looked up, smiled and shook her head, “No, it isn’t.”

Hermione did notice that there were a lot of empty barstools to choose from. She could feel his grey eyes on her and chuckled to herself, realizing what was happening. She had to thank Ginny for this awareness of the singles bar scene which she used to be able to tune out.

“Laughing by yourself like that, some people might think you’ve gone crazy,” the man said to her. He looked to be in his thirties.

“I think I have, actually,” she answered him, thinking about what she almost did, still laughing at herself.

“Statistically, it is said that psychiatrists and therapists double billable hours around this time of the year.”

“Is that right?” Hermione couldn’t fault him for trying but, no. “What do they do? Go to bars and hand out business cards to unaccompanied patrons?”

The man grew a bit red in the face, laughing somewhat forcibly. Just as she thought; it was a guy who took everything too seriously.

Before he could say any more, someone else started talking. There must be a big sign pointing at her saying ‘ask me’.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” came an apologetic voice.

As she turned to talk to the other man, her gaze met a most interesting set of deep blue eyes. Or were they green? He was probably about her age, medium built, with sandy hair, a chiselled face and a full mouth. And those blue green eyes. He was obviously a Brit too, the accent gave him away. He had said something to her but she wasn’t paying attention. She couldn’t while she was checking him out! The man oozed with a sensual Veela-like magnetism that was difficult to ignore. She asked him what he wanted to know.

“Did you see a woman, waiting around, about this tall, hair like yours, very pregnant, maybe a few minutes ago?” he was anxious, making huge motions with his arms, like playing charades. It was quite cute. He probably was late and was in a lot of trouble.

She shook her head, “Sorry.”

Hermione took a sip of her drink as the man took out a phone and made a call. The way he moved and talked, he reminded her of someone.

“Hi, where are you?”

There was a pause. Hermione found herself eavesdropping and, she couldn’t believe she was still checking him out. She was scanning her mental list of male friends to find a match. She was also intrigued what the story was; attractive panicky man looking for a pregnant woman in a bar…hmm…

“It’s okay…really… rain check then…”

He got stood up and by a pregnant woman.

“…kiss the kids for me…”

Likely his wife.

“…bye, I love you too.”

Definitely his wife.

He hung up and swore loudly, startling her. Well, nobody was perfect.

The man sat down a seat away from her and apologized, sheepishly explaining, “My sister. Her sitter called in sick and we were supposed to catch Les Mis. She loves the theatre and it was to be her first night off from the rascals in a month.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied as she politely smiled and carried on. He cares about his pregnant sister. Nice. She looked at her watch and started putting her coat and scarf on. “You’re going to be late.”

“I’m sorry,” he didn’t hear her.

“Les Mis, you’re going to be late. The show starts at 8.”

“Oh, I’m not going,” he answered.

She smiled; men were so predictable.

“I guess you don’t have to now that your sister’s not coming.”

He chuckled, an easy laugh, a real one, a familiar one, but who?

“No, it’s not that. I like watching Les Mis.”

Intrigued Hermione had to ask, “You do? Why?”

“What’s not to like? The music is powerful; the conflicts are as real now as it was when Hugo wrote the book and I love watching women cry when Eponine sings that song.”

He was teasing. It was obviously a joke, though she was quite impressed he knew Eponine. Knowing exactly which song he meant as he tried to sing part of the melody, she laughed with him and felt warm in the face. That was her favourite part of the musical, the one she was humming in her mind a moment ago. Something about the tragedy of unrequited love appealed to her.

He continued, “Anyway, my dear sister has the tickets, so unless I find an unofficial ticket sales person on the street and willingly allow myself to be robbed blind, I’ll have to go to a sad movie to get my crying woman fix.”

No. Don’t even think about it.

“Well, it was nice talking to you,” she said to him, with a lot more regret she was leaving than she was willing to admit.

“Have a good night.”

Why did he have to be so charming?

Just before she turned away from him, he said to her, “Oh, and go Cannons!”

She didn’t think she heard right, “You said something.”

“Cannons,” he pointed to her Chudley Cannon pin on her coat, something Harry gave her years ago when he first joined the team. Being in a Muggle public place, she had turned off the charm that usually made a cannon ball zoom around the wearer but he nonetheless recognized it. Was he a wizard?

“You really shouldn’t be wearing that around here if you value your life,” he continued. “I’m rooting for the underdog but Toronto will win the Cup this year. Of course Weasley’s much better and thank goodness Potter’s gone…”

“What’s wrong with Potter?” her defensive nature rose to the challenge without a second thought.

He laughed a bit, amused by her reaction, but did not back down, “What do you mean ‘what’s wrong with Potter’, your question should be what was right with him. Don’t even get me started…no…you’ll be late, you better go and here, take this. I was saving it for my sister but you might as well put it to good use.”

She grinned as she saw what he put in her hand; a pocket pack of Kleenex tissues. A shiver went up her arm as their fingers touched. Harry. The man reminded her of Harry.

You’re just worked up about going out with Harry.

No, don’t impose.

Maybe he wants you to impose.

“Um,” great way to start a conversation, “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“Roy.”

“Roy, my fiancé couldn’t come and I do have another ticket,” she wanted him to know that she was getting married, “So if you need your crying woman fix, you’re welcome to it.”

Please say no.

“But what would your fiancé think?” he asked her.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean for you and me to go together,” she recovered, “Though we’ll be sitting beside each other, we’re not really together. It’s just such a shame to waste it.”

Maybe it was just her imagination or was Roy taking some time to answer back.

“Okay, but only if you allow me to buy you dinner after. I mean, we won’t really be together but if we happen to go into the same restaurant and share a table, maybe even engage in a conversation, what do you think?” he asked it so seriously her heart skipped a couple of beats.

“That sounds…okay.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jane.”

Disclaimer : Harry Potter - JKRs not mine. My Deepest Regret - By Roy Hunt (Harry Potter)

A/N. This chapter is shorter than my usual. It was fun writing it. It's the continuation of Roy/Harry's and Hermione's night. I'm so sorry to those who had hoped it to be more serious.

Chapter 14 – The Bookstore Owner and the Window Cleaner

Hermione did not know what suddenly came over her. It was surreal, as she watched ‘Jane’ take over and was seemingly helpless to prevent whatever wanton and reckless acts she was about to engage in. Granted that she was attracted to Roy’s undeniable physical attributes and her imagination kept on seeing Harry in him, the moment she gave him her middle name, all systems were a go. And the anticipation of the end point was propagating the impetus towards it even more.

On their way, she found out that Roy was a Squib and hence could not Disapparate. By necessity, or so Jane convinced her, a side-along had to be done. His touch was electric and the tension in the air thick, as instead of holding on to her arm he deliberately, with audacity, faced her, stepped in closer, and with ownership placed his hands on her waist, a glint of mischief in his eyes as she tried to concentrate so they wouldn’t splinch.

Destination, Determination, Deliberation.

It definitely wasn’t the textbook illustrated Side-along and she doubted that their version would ever be Ministry approved. The Intra-apparition contact would have been very difficult to describe in appropriate language.

Delusion, Disillusion, Desperation

They got to the theatre just in the nick of time, finding their seats as the lights dimmed. Needless to say, the first Act passed before her eyes without her seeing most of it, unable to watch as she, from time to time, felt his smouldering look go over her like she wasn’t wearing anything. She had to keep on checking to make sure she was indeed still dressed for Merlin only knew what wandless unintentional magic she would perform in her present state.

And when her song was being sung, she looked over to him and met his playful gaze, and she could have sworn that for a split second, in the sparsely lit theatre, it was Harry who was seated beside her as she had been looking forward to all day. She wanted to tell him how she felt even if just through a song that someone else was singing, hoping that he would never find out just how meaningful the song was to her.

By intermission Hermione had enough of Les Mis. She had seen it many times before and at the moment, there were more pressing needs to fulfill than to see everyone singing at the Barricade.

Not wanting to initiate the suggestion to leave, she had to draw from Ginny’s bag of tricks and may have slightly overdid her version of the Incantus borborygmus non-verbal spell she cast on an unsuspecting Roy at the lounge as they waited for the second act.

The lounge was abuzz with white noise conversation when a loud gurgling noise emanated from somewhere within Roy’s vicinity, so loud it was difficult to ignore. Everybody in the room stopped talking, puzzled what it was.

Roy apologized to everyone, embarrassed, “Excuse me, so sorry. Haven’t had dinner yet. So sorry…”

“Hungry?”

Hermione could not look at Roy’s face, for she was certain the sight would have just made her go into uncontrollable laughter. She forgot that she should have aimed for half the strength of the stomach emptying spell, which also had healing applications.

“Suddenly famished I could eat a horse,” he admitted, perplexed, “You don’t mind if we go have dinner now, do you?

“Not at all,” she replied, finally with a straight face.

For a Brit, Roy seemed to know Toronto. He hailed a cab and in a few minutes they were at Yonge and Elm, getting a table at a Portuguese restaurant. They ordered, what, she couldn’t remember. She wasn’t really starving for food. Unfortunately, Roy, like any other man, needed basic sustenance that superseded all else. Her use of magic had caused a bit of a setback.

“What do you do for a living?” Roy asked as they waited.

Oh, bollocks! Never imagining needing to go out with a complete stranger, she never really had a solid alter-ego that Ginny sometimes said she had to use if she was uncomfortable with a date who she had no intention of seeing again.

Stall…

“I…work,” she answered, sipping slower and more wine than she usually did.

Roy smiled.

“What a coincidence. So do I. What type of work do you do?”

Just tell him the truth or that it’s not important. Oh look, a tattoo on that man’s arm.

“Dragons.”

Shoot.

“Dragons?”

“I’m a dragon keeper. I work on a dragon reservation.”

What?!

Roy was having difficulty controlling himself from laughing, he repeated, “You’re a dragon keeper and you work on a dragon reservation.”

“Yes,” she tried to say with confidence, trying to convince herself. “What’s so funny?

“You’re a… dragon keeper… and you work on a… dragon reservation,” Roy was now unable to finish a sentence without breaking into fits.

Quite red in the face, she could only laugh at herself, too, joining him. It was truly a very ridiculous answer.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Please, don’t be embarrassed. It’s very…” Roy paused, trying to find a good word, “Amusing.”

She rose to her defence.

“Well, can you blame me for not wanting to tell the truth? You could be some psychopath in disguise, charming unsuspecting gullible women like me for some ulterior motive.”

Really, he could be, though it would be a shame for someone so attractive to end up being a psychopath.

“True,” even Roy agreed. “And I am watching my drink around you because you might be an old hag who will drug me, poison me, confund me, or Imperiuse me, just to bed me.”

Thinking about her earlier plot for Harry and her use of magic on Roy, he was closer to the truth than he could have imagined. She wondered if that had indeed happened to him.

“And so you should, because that is certainly not beneath me,” she laughed as she said with honesty.

“Tell you what. There’s no pressure. We’re strangers and we won’t see each other after tonight,” Roy made a great point, “You can be anyone you want to be. Lie, tell the truth, whatever. Just have fun with it.”

Hermione was willing to try anything fun once.

“Okay. I own a bookstore,” she said, thinking about where she usually escaped to from the pressures of her work, her what-if-she-wasn’t-a-healer life, “A small cozy one with an eclectic collection of handpicked favourites and a coffee nook where regulars come to sit, read and discuss whatever they fancy.”

“Nice,” Roy nodded, “But are you sure you don’t want to be some bigshot Ministry official or a celebrated, I don’t know, Healer?”

“Quite overrated professions, if you ask me,” she wondered if Roy was just guessing or there was something about her that gave her away.

“Exotic pole dancer, no?” he teased.

“Men are so typical,” she bantered back, then feeling a bit flirtatious, added, “Bookstore owner, emotionally and carnally repressed, with a secret monthly subscription to Naughty Wizards and not for its literary content. You can imagine what I’m not wearing and what I’m doing when I unfold and regard the centrepage. Good enough?”

Roy smiled, enjoying himself, hanging on to what she just said, “Much better.”

It was his turn.

“What about you? What do you do?”

He frowned, and seriously, “Let me think. Something dangerous, with an adrenaline rush. You can help me out here.”

She went for the obvious, something she would like him to be.

“An Auror or Hit wizard?”

“Nah, something Muggle, so I can at least imagine myself doing it.”

“A gigolo,” she just had to try that. Roy certainly looked the part and she was already thinking how the rest of the evening could go if he assumed the job.

“Dangerous with an adrenaline rush?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Depending on your clientele,” she wasn’t sure if he had seen a certain movie by an American comedian and left it at that.

“No thanks.”

It was too bad he declined. Now on to the more mundane community helpers.

“A fireman…a medic…a policeman…”

Roy was shaking his head.

“Heights, I love heights.”

Like someone I know.

“A fighter plane pilot…an astronaut…” these were actually not bad.

“I know,” Roy found one.

“What?”

“A window cleaner.”

What?

“Seriously,” she said with mocked disappointment, “Since we’re pretending anyway, give me something to work with here. Not that I have anything against window washers but I’d really rather be out with someone with a more intellectual line of work.”

“But I’m not just any window cleaner. I travel the world and work only on national landmarks. I was just cleaning the south side observation windows of the CN tower the other day. It was freezing but the view to the lake was magnificent. Moving. Inspiring even.”

“I’m sure it was,” she said, thinking, as she pictured him on scaffolding holding a squeegee, how it was a definite turn-off.

“The experience unlocks my artistic juices and fuels my real passion, poetry. You might even have my work on your shelves,” he was really good, tying in his imaginary life with hers, “In fact, I’m currently working on a second collection.”

Roy was way too glib. She was out of her league but enjoying herself too much.

“A poet,” she smiled at him, imagining him on scaffolding, his well muscled legs dangling down from a considerable height, him looking out to Lake Ontario pensively, suddenly grabbing a pencil from his body shirt pocket and scribbling furiously on a small pad as a wave of inspired verses hits him. Hmm…

“Yes, a poet. A struggling one.”

He couldn’t have possibly guessed how much she loved reading poetry in her spare time, not that she had a lot lately.

“I can’t wait to hear something of yours.”

“Really?”

“Really,” it was a dare, but if he could come up with one, she would really be impressed.

“Okay, I have one in mind. It’s a work in progress.”

Really?

“And I’m sensitive to criticism, just to let you know to go easy on me. Are you ready?”

“Go ahead,” her initial flippant comment on not being able to wait to hear one, now true.

“My Deepest Regret by Roy Hunt,” he said, “Here goes.”

A sudden seriousness and truthfulness overcame them as he, in a gentle but subtly heartbroken tone, delivered a poem that warmed her heart and sent goose bumps through her entire being, leaving her wondering how, currently delusional as she was about Harry, Roy had unwittingly composed one that she wanted to hear from him.

Unexpected, unrelenting, this passion that I feel
I still cannot imagine, it still all seems unreal
All my life I’ve known you, all my life so blind
Now I can’t have you, I can’t hold you, and you can’t be mine
Too late, I know for sure that I will eventually lose my mind.

They looked at each other speechless for quite some time, as she continued to hear the verse in her thoughts, smiling at the stranger, thinking how their chance meeting had, so far, been a wonderful surprise.

He asked, returning her smile, “Now, is the window cleaner good enough?”

She was impressed.

“Definitely.”

A/N. Just to let everyone know, the baseball theme of the conversation was not my idea. A reviewer from ffnet, eaglesnest, suggested it and I had a lot of fun writing it. If you find yourself scratching your head, and saying 'huh?', don't be too hard on yourself, or on me. My only excuse is I can't possible think like a man, at least not completely, and may have a really weird understanding of the game of baseball. LOL!

Go Blue Jays! We seem to have a good team this year.

The second part of the chapter brings us back to the future and sheds a bit more light on what happened to Ron, why Harry is in Toronto. By the way, for non-Torontonians, if you're ever in town and love to eat, you can get a taste of the world's dishes here.

Chapter 15 – The Squeeze Play

14 February 2006 – Yonge and Elm, Toronto – The Amor Ninho

Dragon keeper…repressed bookstore owner…and such a flirt…

Harry as Roy sat across the table from Hermione as Jane, laughing inwardly and enjoying himself immensely, as they smiled at each other and allowed the waitress to serve their entrées. Yes, he wasn’t being fair. He knew way too much about her to know what she liked and what lines would work. But he could not help teasing her and finding out how she would react.

Maybe years from now he could tell her and they could laugh about this together. Many, many years from now. Maybe.

As he was getting to know this other side to her, he felt an excitement. If he was out looking for some companionship, he would have definitely made a play for this mischievous and uninhibited Jane that he just met. Harry realized that what they were doing at the moment they would have done a long time ago if she was not with Ron. So this was how it felt to go out on a non-platonic date with her. It felt different in a wonderfully unexpected kind of way.

And if not for the necessity of appeasing his hunger pangs and his foresight that he needed to store up energy for the physical activities his florid imagination were suggesting for the rest of the night, he would have proposed to her to skip dinner altogether. Judging from her openness, the proposal would not have been met with resistance.

After he left a broken-nosed Floyd and a very anxious Waxball at the Ghoul earlier that day, he lost a tail by taking the anti-Polyjuice Potion and went to the Ministry for Magic. Harry had a conference meeting with Kingsley and Toronto MLE Head Jack Muller and they had a plan. Roy would have to meet with Hermione, ensure sufficient interaction to prevent untoward suspicion, and then attend the 6am meeting at the Ghoul. Toronto MLE would be on standby and would storm the restaurant once Roy/Harry gave the signal. Simple enough.

The need to meet with her as Roy definitely quashed a temptation that arose earlier that day. He thought it was a sure sign that it wasn’t meant to be. It was just so enticing; them being far from home, on their own, away from the pressures of family and friends, to offer his services to be her last fling if she was interested. Being in Toronto with her was a second opportunity to seriously ask what he thought he should have the other day.

He was quite cognizant of what the consequences of the offer would be. The suggestion itself would have made her ask why he was so eager to help and the truth was not something that Hermione would want to hear. He could only imagine the range of curses she would likely throw at him when he told her of his unimaginable lust and how he just wanted to have sex with her that one time to satisfy it. Even if she did not jinx him right then and there, that would definitely make things awkward between them for the rest of their lives.

With the suggestion of being her last fling seemingly behind him, he contemplated on what to do about the dinner with her that he as Harry agreed to. He could not meet her as Harry. They were watching her and if he was identified as a London MLE, information about his arrest of the real Roy Hunt might leak and blow his cover. Not good for his first case as an Auror and for justice for Helga Braun.

Regrettably he had to cancel, have the consideration to let her watch Les Mis in peace and then allow Roy to come in and do his thing; talk somewhere public and in plain view.

However, Floyd appeared unexpectedly and he had to think fast. Roy Hunt was up, way ahead of schedule. As he tried to convince Hermione to spend the night with Roy and was successful, the temptation to satisfy his longing reared its ugly head back into the picture. It was almost perfect. She obviously wanted a last fling and was prepared to live with the guilt, he could be her last fling and if it could quench his thirst for her he could live with the guilt, and she did not have to know it was him so there would be no reason for any future awkwardness. Perfect.

When she did not protest the very evident inappropriate intra-Apparition contact, it was all systems go. Harry decided that he was going to give Hermione a proper last fling. One that she would never forget. One that he would never forget. And when he decided this, the likelihood of him telling her and them laughing about this together became almost zero.

Harry reasoned to himself that it was better him than some other stranger, which would probably happen if Roy Hunt did not take advantage. She was so obviously vulnerable that any real ‘Roy’ would have had no problem whatsoever talking her into having sex.

At the theatre he could not help but look at her with unambiguous and unmasked desire as he never could before, eliciting the response he wanted her to have. He was surprised at her use of magic to get them to leave the theatre sooner but that only proved even further that this was what she wanted. And that poem, he didn’t know where that came from but the feeling as he said it was like he was on liquid luck.

“So, what do you think of my poem?” Harry asked her after the waitress left.

They started eating.

“What do I think? You want to know what I think.”

So, obviously stalling again. What are you up to?

“Being owner of a bookstore who handpicks what she sells, I’d like to know if you, at least, liked it enough you’ll consider carrying my second collection.”

“It wasn’t half bad,” she said, kindly.

“Ouch! I told you I was sensitive,” Harry feigned being crushed.

She chuckled as she replied, “It was more than half good, really.”

Now, she was trying to make him feel better. He really wanted to know what she thought about it.

“Is that a compliment? I can’t tell.”

“It was delivered well and personally, I found the content excellent.”

Huh? Really?

Then she added, taking the accolade back somewhat, “Though it’s very hard to judge just how good it is having just heard one verse.”

Pushing our luck, are we? Should he even dare attempting one more?

“Well, I may find more inspiration tonight. Maybe after I round first base?”

His eyes flitted over to her inviting lips, thinking about their first kiss, hoping for the perfect moment to come soon.

“I’m rooting for you to get a hit,” she answered with mischief. “That bunt earlier was good; it caught everyone off-guard but you wasted it by going straight to second. You were fortunate you weren’t benched for that.”

This was, yet again, a surprise. Baseball talk with her. As far as he knew Quidditch was the one sport she understood and only because she had to. And Ron never watched the Muggle game. Just how much does she know?

“You mean the intra-Apparition thing?” she nodded. “Sorry. Pinch hitter jitters.”

“You do strike me as an everyday player,” she continued to sport a poker-face.

“I do like to play.”

“I can tell,” she concurred. “What position?”

Oh, she’s good.

“Any guesses?”

“I was thinking 3rd baseman at the hot corner but your agility and skill suggests the flash of a shortstop, though I certainly hope you’re not one.”

So, you’re not interested in flashy but may go for someone hot. Hermione would never admit to something like that.

“Actually, I’m a designated hitter,” he was in real life.

“A DH, how could I miss that? You come to the plate to hit, get on base, and score runs without the more serious responsibilities to help the team win.”

He laughed. That was well put.

“Yes, I’m strictly an offensive player. Is that a problem?”

He thought he’d throw in a chance for her to back out. She didn’t take it.

“Actually, if I needed someone to pinch hit, a DH, if one was available, would be perfect.”

“Really?”

“A pinch hitter is called in because runs are needed, right? A DH is supposed to be good at that,” she said, making sense and seemingly knowing what she was talking about.

“True.”

“I’m curious. How big and how hard a bat do you swing?”

He was wondering when she would ask. Wording was everything in baseball talk. If only you could see how big and hard my bat is right now, and I'm not even on base yet. He hoped the cold wine he was sipping might help lower the tent he was pitching at such an inappropriate moment and venue.

“How my bat rises to the occasion depends on what’s at stake, on the prize, but as you probably already know, it’s not only the size of the bat that matters but how you swing it.”

“And do you swing yours well?”

“That’s what designated hitters are paid to do,” he replied, trying not to laugh at how innocently she was projecting it all out to be. “I can tell you’re not a big fan of the DH. Which position player do you root for the most? Pitcher?”

He was just curious what she would say.

“Merlin, no! Starters only play once in four or five days and only a few can complete games consistently. Middle relief gets even more sporadic playing time and closers are only in the game in save situations. Pitchers are also the worse base runners. No pitchers for me,” she explained. “I do love catchers, because they’re involved in each and every play and pitch.”

Ron was definitely not a catcher. He wondered if he just misjudged him and quickly pushed Ron away from his thoughts to go back to their very enlightening conversation. She was quite comfortable with this and so far he had not seen her blush. It was time to up the ante.

“So, what do you think is the most exciting play in baseball? The grand slam?”

She shook her head, grinning, “Definitely not grand slams, I’m not the type. Actually, in general, I find homeruns too quick, the play seems over too soon that after the runner comes home it leaves me hanging…you know…wanting for more.”

Really?

“I prefer players and teams who manufacture runs well. Though, I admit, a timely unexpected solo homer has its place in the game.”

That’s a relief.

“I agree about grand slams. I like scoring runs but not if I’m the fourth one on the same play. As a DH, I admit to loving solo homers though I can be asked to manufacture a run once in a while.”

“That’s good to hear. What about you? What do you think is the most exciting play in baseball?” she asked him back.

“The squeeze play.”

“The squeeze play?”

“The squeeze play.”

“I’m not quite familiar with that. How does it work?”

She was lying. He could tell. Okay.

“It involves one player trying to bring home a runner from third base.”

“It does?”

“Imagine me, a base runner just off third base, ready and eager to come home.”

“Imagining…” an impish smile curved around her lips. She sure was being naughty tonight.

“You’re the hitter. I absolutely need your help to score a run.”

“Absolutely. I like that notion, of doing things in…unison.”

“You really want me to come home and you’re at the plate waiting for that perfect pitch.”

“Uh-huh…I definitely want you to come home. What am I looking for?”

“A ball that you can handle; something you can control. See, you know I’m coming and I know you’re trying to get me there so it has to be precise. Our execution of the play is quite important. Are you still with me?”

“I’m ready. What do I do?”

“You’re going to have to lay down …,” that is such a nice thought to linger on, “…a bunt.”

“A bunt…laying down one.”

“But not just any bunt.”

“Of course not,” she was almost whispering.

He leaned in closer and looked deeply into her brown eyes. She let him as he explained the rest of the squeeze play in a quieter voice.

“You have to lay a trickling bunt down the third base line towards where I’m coming from. And it has to be one that leaves your bat fast and far enough from home plate such that the catcher won’t be able to field it, yet slow and near enough home such that the third baseman will not be able to get to it, at least not in time to throw either of us out as you accelerate as quickly as you can towards first and I bear down with all that I have towards home.”

He paused. She was blushing, finally. He was probably flushed too. He needed another drink. A stiffer one. Where’s that waitress?

“The squeeze play,” she took some wine and recovered quicker than he did, “You’re quite right. The anticipation of it coming, seeing it slowly unfold, rapidly approach and then come to a frenzied…um…climax is quite exciting. I do have a question.”

“Yes?”

“If it’s a close play at home plate would you slide?”

He swallowed hard.

“Home plate is the worse place to slide short and be called out. I would charge; ram, if I have to, to score.”

She was grinning from ear to ear.

“A pinch-hitting DH who’s a charger not a slider. Tonight, that’s definitely what I’m looking for.”

“Good. I do have to be honest.”

“Yes?”

“I know you don’t care much for homeruns but tonight, I am swinging for the fences.”

“As you should with minor league pitching, though my only wish is that when you hit one out of the ballpark, take as much time as you can rounding the bases,” Hermione replied. “It is more…satisfying that way.”

“I’ll try my best. What if I hit the cycle and score a run on each hit?”

“Ambitious, cocky even,” she laughed and was eyeing him with mischief, “That would make for one very special night I wouldn’t mind being witness to.”

He lifted his wine glass.

“To the art of manufacturing runs and a well executed squeeze play,” he said.

“To swinging for the fences, solo homeruns and hitting the cycle,” she countered.

They were chuckling as they toasted. He didn’t know how she acquired such a good understanding of the sport and was very curious. This was turning out to be one very interesting night.

XXXXXXXXXX

7 February 2007 – Just Outside the Toronto Ministry for Magic.

It was way past 9pm before Harry and Andy were able to leave the Briefing Room. He was crankier, more tired and, judging from the weird sounds emanating from his stomach, hungrier than a woman who had been in labour for more than 24 hours. At least that was how Andy described him as the left the Ministry. He had not forgotten what he had been so eagerly looking forward to all afternoon.

“Um, Harry, where are we off to?” Andy asked him.

With hesitation, Andy climbed into the passenger’s seat of the Taurus and hurriedly fastened her seatbelt, tightly. While Harry knew she preferred to drive, he also knew she wouldn’t go where he wanted to go, so he securely entrenched himself in the driver’s seat, magically started the engine and put the gear in motion.

“To get some dinner,” he said, his voice calm and incongruent with how he felt.

Harry floored the gas pedal, driving on the wrong side of the road, speeding head on towards incoming traffic. Andy quickly turned on the Arthur Weasley patented Invisibility booster and switched the gear so it would fly, just in time to prevent them from crashing into a Beamer. He always forgot to do that.

“Great idea. I’m starving,” Andy replied, too excited to be genuine. She was onto him, “I know this great Italian place just off College and Grace.”

“I really don’t feel like pasta tonight.”

“What about some souvlaki?”

Harry shook his head, thinking about what he was about to do, working himself up to the task…

“No? Sushi?”

Floyd was the reason why he was in Toronto and had to stay…

“I guess not. Jerk chicken?”

Others referred to it as a sad obsession; an unfortunate delusion. The reason he was not physically in London and, by extension, the reason Hermione was going out with Malfoy…

“I know. Beef and vegetable wonton noodle soup.”

For the past year, Floyd had been wise enough to lay low. Harry was meticulous but there was no evidence to pin anything on him, big or small. His involvement in the plot against the Research meeting was something he could not miss; this was a rare opportunity to catch him red handed and get him to tell everyone how Ron died. To confess and to gloat as Harry knew Floyd wanted to do.

Floyd blamed him for his brother’s death and he exacted vengeance through Ron. Quid pro quo, Floyd taunted once. His presence in Toronto was for justice but with time and frustration it was dangerously bordering on retribution. And proving the untold truth about Ron’s death would also hopefully take away some of Hermione’s guilt and make it possible for them to start talking to each other again.

Andy realized where they were headed.

“Jeez, Harry. Are you still thinking what I think you’re thinking? They don’t have real food there!”

It was Screw Harry Potter Day. It started out with waking up in some stranger’s bed, agonizing over the fact that Malfoy had hoodwinked the woman he loved for a kiss and Merlin only knows what else, finding out Ron was a ghost and needing to see Hermione but couldn’t. Really, Harry had to vent his frustration on someone more deserving.

“At least have the consideration to drop by a hotdog stand,” Andy pleaded, a bit melodramatic.

It was obviously to detract him. Not working.

“I’ll be quick,” he said as he parked down the Ford Taurus in an alley close to the Ghoul Waterhole.

“It’s common sense not to pick fights on an empty stomach. Must you do this now?” she asked again.

He said to her as he got off the car, “Wait here.”

“Um, no,” came Andy’s terse reply and followed him.

Harry tried to reason with her, “He’s not going to do anything to me. He prefers me alive.”

“So you tell me and that’s so nice of him, but I’m not concerned about you,” Andy retorted. “I’m worried about what you’ll do to him.”

Harry did not argue. She actually had a good point. The last time he was alone with Floyd, well, suffice it to say that he lost it and was warned that if he hexed the Squib again, a restraining order was going to be issued immediately. That would be most annoying if it were to happen.

They were going into the Ghoul outside of usual Squib surveillance protocol. He reassessed his plan. If he went in alone, he could do whatever he wanted but the last thing he wanted to happen was for him to get Andy in trouble, or worse, killed, for this impulsive act that was really personal.

“Fine,” he said to her, then remembered something, “But can you look less…like you? Let’s not get the regular crowd too worked up.”

Andy, gave him a scathing look and transformed to a hag with a few missing teeth, a hooked nose and a really bumpy face. The last time she was in the Ghoul as herself, they attracted too much unwanted attention.

“Appropriate enough for you, laddie?” Andy asked rhetorically, “And remember, we’re not dining here. I don’t want to spend the night bending over a crapper.”

The Ghoul was packed for a Wednesday night. They slipped into a nearby freshly vacated booth and Harry hailed a waiter, ignoring the hag’s glare. He heard her. They were not eating there.

“We’re really hungry,” Harry told the waiter, “Two specials please.”

The waiter left quickly, probably excited that somebody actually ordered something, but not before Andy grabbed the menu and found out what the special for the night was.

“Flobberworms sautéed in Niffler dung,” her face contorted into a most disgusted expression involuntarily, “There goes my fucking appetite.”

Yup. It was close to that time when it was best not to get on the hag’s bad side.

“Just be ready,” Harry warned her. “Remember, no wands.”

“Don’t you think I need sugar in my brain for that?” she scoffed, but was met by Harry’s crazed expression from earlier, “Fine! Just let me know when.”

“When it’s time for ‘dinner’,” Harry said to her, proud he came up with that.

“Cute,” she replied sarcastically, just as a group of men came from the door marked ‘Employees Only’ right beside the bar. Five, six. Not too bad.

“Well, this is a wonderful surprise,” the tallest man in the lot said coldly, “Potter, you’re as pathetic as ever. And nice look Marsh. Lovely.”

Andy blew him a kiss and answered back, “Floyd, just being in your divine presence makes me want to puke all over.”

“What can I do for you?” Floyd asked, Harry thought a bit more anxious that usual. It was apparent Floyd did not want them inside the Ghoul.

“If you can hurry up the kitchen for our specials that would be great,” he answered, “We’re really hungry. Busy day at work. Something about the Research conference, you and tonight.”

Floyd laughed aloud and was joined by his minions.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about but if there’s anything else at all, you know where to find me,” came Floyd’s response.

“I’m sure your not dim enough to tell us what you’re up to so just do what you do best and I’ll make sure you get what you deserve,” Harry replied calmly.

They were interrupted by the waiter serving their specials. As Harry took a whiff of his cold wiggly grub he saw Andy shudder out of the corner of his eye.

“Hmmm. The scent itself is mind clearing, but I hear it’s delicious. By the way, congratulations are in order. Toronto is back in the Quidditch Cup finals,” Harry said to Floyd making conversation.

Floyd’s eyes danced with excitement at the mention of Quidditch, just as he anticipated. Harry knew it was going to come. Floyd would not be able to resist and he needed a reason to do something.

“Ah, Quidditch, yes, thanks. That makes me wonder if you’re going to go to the game. I hear your dead friend is being honoured. What a tragic accident, and very bizarre too. Falling off his broom during celebrations, not even able to savour his team victory. He was named MVP too, wasn’t he?”

“Greasy, so modest,” he replied in a condescending tone, “It’s just us, you can drop the act. You were there. I saw you and you wanted me to see you. We both know it was no accident.”

“You should really get on with your life and stop harassing poor innocent honest hard-working Squibs like me,” Floyd said mockingly, “I was here, in prison and it was an accident. What did the Ministry Healer say? That you’re delusional?”

Harry laughed derisively as he stepped out of the booth and stood in front of Floyd who was almost a full head taller than he was. He met his grey steely gaze, unflinching.

“I know you, you slimy, cocky son of a hag,” he was taunting, loud enough for most to hear, “You were there, and the only reason you’re not blabbing about it is that you’re someone’s bitch. She’s cut off your little wiener and got you by the balls so tight, you whimper when you move.”

“I am nobody’s bitch!”

Harry was glad that Floyd had as volatile a temper as he had and absolutely had no tolerance for public insults. That and he still fought like a girl. Harry saw his right arm swinging from the corner of his eye, caught it in time and twisted it hard behind his back. Floyd could only protest in pain. He would not be able to move without breaking it.

His cronies were shocked and were waiting for some direction on what to do. As he guessed, Floyd preferred the brainless brawny ones.

Andy was up from her seat and said to him nervously, antsy, “Harry, dinner looks to be ready. Overdone, if you ask me.”

Floyd’s eyes were watering in anger and pain. He called out to his men.

“What are you fools waiting for?!”

“Let’s have dinner, then.”

“Do something!” Floyd commanded.

As the mob closed in, Harry grabbed a handful of Floyd’s oily hair and dunked his face into the “special”, rubbing it in a bit for good measure, just as he planted a thunderous kick squarely at his first attacker’s chest, sending the huge man back and taking out two others in the process. And as he saw an Asian goon bearing hard on him, Harry instinctively pulled Floyd up by his tendrils and used his wet, dung-dripping face to shield an incoming punch.

“No!” Floyd objected, wide eyed, but it was too late.

Crunch!

That sound, music to Harry’s ears, remembering to not get in the way of any squirting blood.

“Ooops! I’m so sorry, boss,” his underling apologized.

He let go of a dazed Floyd, ensuring his face fell into the other full platter of the chef’s special, just in time to parry another fist coming straight at him, landing a good right uppercut, lifting his disoriented foe over his head, then throwing him down onto two others who were actually not that enthusiastic to join the fray.

Harry looked around. The Ghoul patrons were in shock but there were no more takers. Andy had easily disposed of the two that came at her.

“Feel better?” Andy asked him.

“Yes, much better, thanks,” he said to her, relieved, content for the moment. “And you?”

“I’m great. Quite happy, actually. You know how much I enjoy crushing marbles,” Andy replied, Harry feeling it for the two who were doubled up, hands on their groin areas, with tears in their eyes. Andy knew the essential pressure points, um point. “Now, can we leave and have real dinner?”

He took a twenty dollar bill from his pocket left it on their table. Just as they were about to leave, he turned to a livid Floyd, who was holding on to his bleeding broken nose, wiggly flobberworms seemingly liking his slimy greasy hair.

“By the way, the special was great. Send my compliments to the chef.”

“You’ll wegwet tis! You metter watch your mack, Motter!” Floyd screamed at him.

He laughed with Andy. Hearing Floyd say that made it all worth it.

Chapter 16 – The Purple Concoction

14 February 2006 – Some restaurant, knew earlier but not sure where now, somewhere in Toronto.

Window cleaner…poet…designated hitter

Hermione felt very hot as she looked across the table over to Roy. The poem had softened up her insides and ignited a small flame within her but talking about baseball doused kerosene into the blaze. It was an out of body experience, hearing her flirt with such reckless abandon and now this feeling that she could only describe as being consumed by wildfire. Uncontrollable, rapidly spreading wildfire.

Wildfire. It felt so hot it reminded her of very warm, un-air conditioned summers in her childhood days when the only solution was that one had to undress almost completely. She looked around. It was a good thing she still had control of that part of her brain.

It definitely did not help that she continued to think and want to think that Roy was just like Harry. When she learned Baseball 101 years ago, her highly competent and well versed teacher had wisely provided the class with concrete examples of position players. Harry was the DH and was her personal mental representation for a lot of the plays she had to learn. Images of him in the well designed body hugging Yankee pinstripes, no doubt, helped her retain most of the information after all these years. She couldn’t use Ron because, as much as she didn’t want to admit it, even then he was definitely a starting pitcher.

Ron never watched the game so she never did get to apply her knowledge of baseball talk on a man until now. That version of the squeeze play was way better than how it was explained to her. Her thoughts lingered on Harry and the squeeze play when a sudden realization made her break out into a chuckle. The other day when she inadvertently walked in on him and his girlfriend, he was definitely on his way to home plate and got thrown out sliding! Her teacher would be so proud that she came up with the one on her own!

“What’s so funny?” Roy asked, curious.

She really should just enjoy his company tonight and let Harry go. There would be plenty of time to wallow about her unmatched emotions toward her friend after; like the rest of her life. Ouch. That’s new.

“Talking about baseball just brought back some memories,” she said honestly, her almost immediate response a bit troubling to her that she was now so open to this man she just met a couple of hours ago, feeling like she had known him all her life and that she could tell him everything about her, even with more honesty than what she could ever tell Ron, Ginny or Harry.

And yes, she was definitely going to let him score a run once he got on base. Perhaps even walk him intentionally so he couldn’t hit that homerun he seemed to want so badly. At least not at his first at bat. Then she would let him score as many runs as he wanted to…well, as many runs as he physically could! She was grinning. She should really stop thinking about baseball! Hermione now understood what Ginny went through.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you. How do you know so much about baseball? Your fiancé?”

She shook her head, “He has no interest in Muggle sports. I picked up most of what I know from girl talk.”

Roy furrowed his eyebrows, “Girl talk?”

“I have a friend who used to date a guy from New York and sat through one Yankee game too many. Let’s just say that to keep her entertained, she studied the game and gleaned from it more than she should have. I had to learn the sport to know what she was talking about,” she replied, smiling, remembering those days.

For a period of time, Ginny couldn’t help but talk about sex in baseball terms. It was literally like tuning in to a sports radio station and listening to a blow by blow account of the game clueless, not ever having seen one played. Ginny was driving her insane. She had to do something and asked Ginny to teach Baseball 101 to her and to anyone who wanted to understand what she (Ginny) meant about corked bats, throwing change-ups and why speed at the bases wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“And you’ve watched games?”

“A few Yankee game highlights on video,” she replied, “Quite frankly, I find the actual game lacking in the excitement that Quidditch has.”

“I agree,” Roy answered back, with a glint in his eye, “We should talk Quidditch some time. But not just right now. Any more sports talk and we may have to stop and end the night due to an unexpected rain shower.”

His face reddened as they laughed. That would indeed have been most unfortunate. It felt good hearing that he too was having trouble with the intense heat that their flirtation was causing. It felt good knowing that he found her desirable. His eyes smouldered with want. It was imminent. They would leave soon, walk to her hotel room to undress and help each with their temperature issues. More kerosene…wildfire…hell…for what she was about to do …911…

She smiled and calmly excused herself. Ladies washroom or emergency fire exit?

Hermione found an alcove with a row of pay phones just off the women’s washroom and made a call from her cell. She needed the fire department.

“Hello…” answered a groggy woman’s voice on the other end.

It would be about half past three a.m. her time. She wouldn’t mind. This was an emergency.

“Hey, it’s me. I need a fireman.”

“Wait a sec,” Ginny whispered.

She waited and listened for her to come back on line. Crash!...Ow!... Meow…Blag!... Meowrr!... Sorry…Crash!

“Hi,” Ginny finally said in a normal voice.

“I guess you’re not at home tonight,” Hermione deduced from her apparent lack of familiarity with her surroundings.

“I thought I was until I realized I didn’t have a cat,” Ginny replied, Hermione not sure if she should ask what she meant by that, “What’s the fire?”

“I’m with a man.”

“Well, it’s about time,” Ginny answered back, “How was it?”

Before she could stop herself she said, “We haven’t done anything yet. Just warm-ups. It’s his first at bat.”

She decided to treat Roy's straight to second base bunt pre-game to simplify things.

Ginny became excited. What she just said and how she said it did not escape her.

“First at bat? I’m so glad you finally got to talk baseball. That’s wonderful!”

Hermione noticed she was talking unusually fast, like on a caffeine high, “That’s beside the point. I’m getting married. I’m not supposed to be doing this. I'm not supposed to be talking baseball.”

“Wait,” Ginny interrupted, “It’s his first at bat. You don’t call time out for that! The first pitch hasn’t been thrown yet. The game hasn’t even started. Who else is going to be in this huddle?”

Grrr! She shouldn’t have mentioned baseball.

“Are you listening to me? I want out of the game.”

“You didn’t have to call me for that,” Ginny replied, and that was just so true, “Why? Is he centerfield ugly?”

“No,” Hermione said with a bit more regret in her voice about what she had to do, “On the contrary. He’s hot corner stuff. He recites poems.”

“First base or third base hot?”

“Third, and he’s a DH.”

“You’re telling me that you’ve spent the night warming up with a baseball talking, pinch-hitting, third baseman-looking DH, who’s now in the batter’s box and you’re calling time because you want to be taken out of the game?!”

“Well, yes.”

“Are you crazy?!”

“Ginny, I’m getting married. I want to pitch; I want him all over my bases. All night I really thought I could, but now that it’s game time I can’t do this, not to your brother. I called because I need a reality check. Just be a good fireman and put out the fire.”

Ginny fell silent for a moment.

“Where are you?” she finally asked.

“A restaurant, a few blocks from my hotel.”

“Fine,” Ginny finally said, “Do me a favour. See if he’s still in the box.”

“What?”

“Just do as I say,” Ginny insisted and there was no time to argue.

Hermione peered from the alcove and saw that Roy was on his phone.

“Still there,” she reported.

“Wave to him and show him you’re on the phone just so he knows you haven’t left the ball park.”

“What?”

“Just wave,” Ginny was growing impatient.

She did. Roy acknowledged. He was still on the phone, too. Ginny was starting to annoy her.

“Now that you’ve managed to make me look like an idiot in front of my date, what else do you want me to do?”

“What do you care if you look like an idiot? You want yourself taken out of the game,” Ginny had a point. “Now, listen to me and listen closely. Are you sure you want a reality check?”

“Yes,” she needed someone to tell her that it was not a good idea.

“I will say this to you only once and all I ask is that you don’t tell anyone that I did,” this was unusual for Ginny, “Promise me, because I’ve already been told that this isn’t any of my business.”

Hermione had a foreboding feeling about what she was about to say, that it wouldn’t be what she wanted to hear.

“I promise.”

“Ron’s my bother and I love him. You’re as close to a sister as I’ll ever have and I would love for us to be officially related,” Ginny said, “But you shouldn’t marry Ron.”

“Just because you don’t…”

“This isn’t about me,” Ginny cut her off. “You shouldn’t marry him because you don’t love him, at least not that way anymore.”

Hermione was silent. She heard what she said, she understood what she said. She had to ask her.

“What makes you think that?”

“Because if you loved him that way you would have married him sooner. If you loved him that way you wouldn’t have the cold feet that has been bothering you since you got engaged. If you loved him that way you would have submitted your resignation from St. Mungo’s when you told him you would and it shouldn’t still be sitting in the bottom drawer of your office desk. And if you loved him that way you wouldn’t have had to call me tonight for a reality check.”

Ginny was right. She did not love Ron that way anymore. She knew the moment she realized she loved Harry after talking with her cheating mother. It wasn’t quite true until she heard it from someone else.

After a while, Hermione spoke.

“Since when have you known?”

“Just now,” Ginny said frankly, “I’ve wondered since you told me about your cold feet and that’s why I suggested the last fling, knowing you would not consider it seriously if you really did love him.”

“I failed the test.”

“It wasn’t a test to fail or pass. You found out the truth and that’s a good thing,” Ginny said to her, “Now, what you do with the truth is entirely up to you. Since when have you known?”

Hermione couldn’t tell her the truth about Harry, not yet.

“Since my Mum told me her sorry excuses for leaving my Dad,” she told the truth, not the entire one, but the truth, “Thanks. I have to go.”

“I want highlight reels and box scores if you decide to play, okay?” she could hear her friend smile.

“Just my luck. I called to talk to a fireman and I end up speaking with an arsonist.”

Ginny laughed as they said goodbye.

She took a moment to compose herself and just as she was about to rejoin Roy, she decided to call in another person into the huddle. This hesitation with Roy wasn’t totally about Ron.

His phone was ringing.

“Hi,” Harry answered knowing from caller ID that it was her.

His voice still sounded really bad. She really should check on him maybe tomorrow.

“Hi. Still at work?” she asked.

“Unfortunately,” he replied and then asked, “Where are you?”

Somewhere between despair and self destruction. “A restaurant.”

“Is the food any good?”

I’m not really here for the food. “It’s not bad.”

“What’s the matter?”

I love you and you don’t love me back. “I’m with someone. A man who wants to have sex with me.”

There was a pause pregnant with meaning. She looked over to their table. Good, Roy was still on the phone. He waved at her; she motioned back and slid into the alcove.

Finally, Harry said something.

“Is this about what we talked about the other day?”

Yes and no. “It’s no longer a hypothetical question, Harry.”

“I can’t tell you what to do but the hypothetical answer stands.”

“How would you feel if I went ahead and did this?”

“Ron would be crushed. It would hurt him like he has never felt before.”

“Not Ron, Harry. You. I want to know how you would feel.”

“What I feel doesn’t matter.”

It does. “Please. I just need to know.” I just need to know if you love me that way.

A gnawing pain had been building up in her chest and her eyes were already welling up with tears in anticipation of what she knew would come.

“I’d be disappointed.”

There it was. In black and white. As plain as it could ever be.

Not crushed. Not hurt. Not one pinch of pain. Just disappointed.

She thanked him and said goodbye as she could no longer contain the twisting and throbbing pain that erupted from within, sobbing almost uncontrollably as she found her way into the ladies’ room and into an empty stall, burying her face in her hands and just letting it all out.

Hermione was crushed like never before. She was hurting like hell and the pain was excruciating. It was as if her beating heart was put slowly through a meat grinder and that somehow it came out the other end, bruised and battered but mercilessly intact and still beating. And all she could think of to console herself was that finding out the truth now was a good thing.

Harry did not love her as her Uncle Frank loved her Mum and she wouldn’t have to wonder about it for thirty years.

XXXXXXXXXX

Just outside in the dining section, Harry was staring at his phone, trying to figure out exactly what that conversation he just had with Hermione was about.

Why would she tell me about Roy?

Did she want me to stop her?

Why would she ask what I felt?

He caught a glimpse of her as she went into the ladies room. He could only think that despite the openness and her uninhibited coquettish behaviour, Hermione was now having second thoughts about sleeping with Roy and needed someone to confirm that she shouldn’t. She probably did call him so he could dissuade her from going ahead. Telling him that it was no longer hypothetical would make him answer more truthfully. And asking him how he felt about it was to find out if she would lose his friendship.

What did he say? I’d be disappointed.

He had to call her back. Assure her that whatever her decision was he would remain her friend. Her phone was ringing. Then it stopped. He tried again and it was now not in service.

Harry pondered whether he should go and find out if she was okay. A panic suddenly washed over him. Floyd. He had a bad feeling that their earlier unpleasant interactions would make Floyd want to exact some form of revenge. He did try to lure Hermione before Roy could make a move. Floyd would likely try again. What if Floyd followed them to the restaurant and in desperation abducted her?

He was about to stand up to go to the ladies room when he saw her come out. There was relief that came as quickly as the dread did. She was smiling. Good. She was fine.

XXXXXXXXXX

A few moments earlier, in the ladies room, Hermione had just managed to finally get herself together and was using magic to remove the telltale signs of an emotional breakdown. She heard her phone ring. Just seeing his name on the caller ID was enough to set off tears again. No, she couldn’t talk to him. Not for a couple of days maybe. She turned her phone off.

She looked at herself in the mirror, magically retouching her make-up, having just decided what to do for the rest of the night.

You’ll be fine.

You’ll be fine.

She took a deep breath in, exhaled and practiced a few smiles. Good.

You’re fine.

XXXXXXXXXX

8 February 2007

Somewhere in the Britain, the Potion Master was busy. A light purple concoction was stewing in his large cauldron, and had been since he completed it yesterday morning when the final essential ingredient became available.

It was an age old relatively obscure underground potion recipe that he was diluting to a tenth of its usual strength. The ingredients were hard to come by, more so because for the first time, it was being mass produced. He tested it on a few human live subjects to ensure that it worked and that it was safe for use. It was.

Filling phials in his spare time since, he had already sent two shipments to Toronto and Floyd would get the first one within the next few hours. Creevey had better get him more phials quickly because he was running out.

An involuntary yawn escaped him. The clock read three a.m.

The Potion Master went to his stocks and from the cupboard took one of several bottled similar but darker coloured potions. He uncorked the phial and took his bedtime dose, deciding to turn in. Waving his wand, he cleaned up, making all the rubbish disappear, including the now empty carcass of Ragnok the Goblin.

A/N. We pick up the story from where we left Roy and Jane. The end of this chapter ties into the Prologue. It's about motive, intent, and doing things we don't think we are capable of. It is quite different from the last two fun chapters.

Chapter 17 – The Calm Before the Storm

Despite her seemingly jovial disposition, Harry could sense that something was different about Hermione after she came back from the ladies room. He peered into her eyes as he helped her into her coat and saw something he had not seen before. An unsettling emotion, an unrest, but what about exactly he was unable to recognize. She was hiding it and hiding it well. And because she was hiding it, it was definitely not a good thing.

If she were just any stranger, he wouldn’t have thought about it too much. He had been on those dates which started out great and lost steam in the end. He would have just gone with the flow. The Roy part of him was definitely not concerned but the Harry one, her friend, was.

She told him where her hotel was.

It appears she is going through with this. Was it the impending guilt that she was anticipating?

She preferred to walk and she suggested they take a more scenic route.

It was about five, maybe ten minutes away. Did she need more time to sort things out?

She mentioned the weather.

Kiss of death. That conversation on the phone, his or the one previous, had definitely killed the fire. Or, at least, it turned it down by a significant amount. Who else did she talk with?

“They say Toronto is getting eleven inches at least, maybe up to twenty.”

“I heard,” he said, biting his tongue.

Who was she talking with? Ron?

“It’s so nice out right now but the storm is supposed to be here any minute,” she said, more weather conversation.

He agonized over how to get to the bottom of this change before getting to her hotel. If she didn’t want to do this, they really shouldn’t.

“It’s the calm before,” he answered, surprised by the chuckle that he got from it.

She saw that he was puzzled and tried to explain, “That’s just so true in many ways.”

Something was definitely up. If only he could ask her pointedly. Wait. He actually could. Roy could. As he hesitated for a second, a question popped up in his mind and quickly disappeared. Are you sure you want to know?

“It’s okay. It okay if you change your mind about us going back to your hotel room,” Harry said, offering her a way out.

Roy was protesting, No, it’s not! No, it’s not!

If she took it, he was thinking, he would make sure she was back safely in her room and then figure out a more appropriate way to protect her overnight. Maybe, he could use the Anti-Polyjuice and spend the night over as ‘Harry’.

Immediately after Hermione excused herself to go to the ladies room, Harry had called his Toronto MLE contact and waived off the Auror who was watching her, saying he would cover for them until five thirty the following morning. The Auror was quite thankful. Well, Harry was just being considerate. If the Auror stayed, he could only imagine the difficulties that would present while writing a report. Roy’s agenda for the night called for extensive and in-depth, um, contact with the Protectee, which would be considered highly inappropriate. That would raise eyebrows in Toronto, and other unimaginable skin appendages in London.

“I want to do this,” she said decisively, then realized something, turned to him and said, “Unless you’ve changed your mind, then that’s okay, too.”

“Merlin, no. I want to do this, too,” Harry as Roy said quickly for the obvious reason, “You’re certain?”

“Positive.”

The fact that she was ‘positive’ about sleeping with Roy didn’t mean that her phone call to him earlier was not about needing a friend to tell her not to do it. Just how badly do you want to do this?

“How long have you been engaged?” he asked her and she looked at him for a second before replying.

“About six months.”

“Are you ready for the big day?”

“Do you really want to know or are you just asking politely?”

“I really want to know,” he said truthfully.

“Right,” she said playfully, she did not believe him. “I’m excited about the big day. Ecstatic it’s finally just twelve days away.”

“Tell me more about it,” Harry decided it was time to stop beating around the bush.

“What? Right now?” she was amused.

“Yes,” he tried not to make a big deal of it.

“You want us to talk about my wedding to someone else right now before you and I have sex?”

“Why not?” he challenged, “You’re obviously thinking about it and about him. Don’t you think it’s better if we bring it out in the open? Was that your fiancé you were on the phone with?”

She laughed as she shook her head.

“What?” he grinned at her, not knowing why she was laughing. And was that a ‘no’?

“You’re strange, do you know that?” she said, obviously perplexed about his intentions. “I would think talking about him and my wedding would be the last thing you would want to do.”

“It’s just curious. Why would an engaged, attractive and smart woman like you choose to spend tonight with a stranger?”

“I hope you don’t need me to spell that out for you.”

“I know the obvious ‘why’,” he replied, “But, why?”

She was still smiling, “Talking like a four-year-old now. The surprises with you are never-ending.”

He wasn’t going to let it go, “Why are you doing this?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Why risk losing what you have for something so fleeting?”

“Why do you want to know?” she repeated.

They were non-judgmental questions just needing plain simple answers. Harry was on the defensive; should he tell her the truth or lie?

Because I’m your friend and I want to understand. Because I need to know that you are sure about this. Because I don’t want you to screw up your life for one physical moment with a lowlife like me and regret it.

Harry felt telling her the truth would make Roy more desirable. He could just imagine Hermione falling for Roy’s charm even more.

What would the scumbag Roy say?

“No offence, but I need some assurance that this is a one time thing.”

“It is. Absolutely, one time only, no repeats,” she held up a sign with her hand, “Girl scout’s honour.”

“Not good enough,” he stopped himself from pointing out to her that she wasn’t and had never been one.

“I’m just not sure if I want to tell a stranger my deepest and darkest secrets,” she said to him. “I hate thinking that I could be conversation fodder.”

That was either true or she was stalling again. She wasn’t going to get off that easily.

“There is nothing more liberating than telling a stranger things about yourself you can’t share with anyone else you know.”

“Really?” she was sceptical, not about what he said, but likely about his true intentions.

“I don’t know. I just made that up,” he replied, trying to lighten things up. He didn’t want her to withdraw into a shell. “Don’t people spend a lot of money to see therapists to do just that?”

“True.”

“I have an idea. Let’s make a pact.”

“A pact?”

“A promise.”

“We just met. Don’t you think making promises to each other is a bit premature at this stage?”

“Whatever we say or do tonight, we won’t tell anyone else and we won’t discuss outside of Toronto. So you can be sure I won’t tell a soul.”

She laughed, “Sounds like you just want us to have an excuse to really go to town.”

“We’re headed there anyway,” Harry replied. “Why? Are you planning on telling him? Was that him on the phone earlier tonight?”

“No, it wasn’t him and I definitely don’t want him to know. I’m may be a tad vindictive but I’m not cruel,” she admitted.

He had a good guess why she would feel vindictive. That morning after she left for Toronto, Ron told him about their argument. So, if it wasn’t Ron on the phone with her, it must have been Ginny. He wished he knew what they talked about.

“Do we have a deal, then?”

She stopped walking just as flurries started falling from the sky. They were in front of the main entrance to a Muggle Hospital which also housed the Downtown Toronto Hospital for Magical Illnesses and Injuries.

“We should have a witness, for this pact,” she was making this crazier than it already was.

Harry looked around, looking to please. It was close to 11pm, a streetcar had just whizzed by and a few private vehicles passed. Pedestrians had seemingly deserted the streets in anticipation of the storm that was almost upon them. No souls around to harass.

“What about them?” he motioned to the two bronze statues right standing near the doors to the hospital.

“Them? David and Esther Maple?”

He walked towards and stopped right in front of the sculptures, knowing Hermione would follow. She stood right beside him, her shoulder brushing against his arm as she did. Her close proximity stirred an impulse to touch her. He felt her eyes on him and resisted the urge to look back.

“Founders of the Toronto Muggle and Magical Hospitals,” Harry kept his eyes on the inanimate objects in front of them as he spoke.

“He was Pure-blood and she was Muggle-born. They fell in love, unlikely and odd at a time when Muggle-borns were still ostracized by most Magical communities,” she added, her eyes on the happy faces of the unmoving figures.

There was something nostalgic and very personal about how she spoke about them that her voice willed him to turn to her. Time stopped, seeing her at that moment with light snow falling on her, pure white starting to cling to her brown hair, and the spotlight illuminating a most bittersweet expression on her face. “Not many know this but he was actually a Squib. That was their little secret they took to their graves. She convinced him to take credit for magical healing she did and he paraded her and her amazing magical gift allowing for those barriers against Muggle-borns to break down. They were quite a team. They were lucky they had each other.”

Hermione’s last few words hung in the air. They were lucky they had each other. He felt a tug in his chest but wasn’t sure why he felt that way. Forcing himself to refocus, he turned to her, a bit surprised that she was so near he had to step back and diffuse the seriousness of the situation.

“Wait. Are you Muggle-born?”

It worked. Her eyes lost the pensive look.

“And you think that would just be perfect if I were, right?”

“Absolutely a positive omen. Come on. I’ll go first,” Harry saw her grin and that was enough to tell him to go ahead, setting his left hand on the tablet that bore historical footnotes and holding up his right hand as he would have in a Muggle court of law, “I swear, in the presence of these two outstanding Healers, not to tattle about our adventures tonight. Whatever happens in Toronto, stays in Toronto.”

“I promise the same, as the Maples of Toronto bear witness,” she replied doing as he did, thanking the Maples and laughing about how ridiculous they must have looked to a passer by.

The snowfall was beginning to come down hard and they decided to continue walking back to her hotel.

“Your answer?”

“What was it that you wanted to know?” she asked him.

“The why behind the why.”

“Yes, how can I forget your imitation of a 4-year old asking a question?” she said, “And your need for assurance that this is a one time thing.”

“I’m on to you. Quit stalling and just answer the question,” he half-joked.

“You’re so impatient,” she answered, taking a few more seconds before finally addressing his question, “I have cold feet. And no, it’s not because of the weather in Toronto.”

“Bugger,” Harry had no idea, “Do you know why?”

They had to chuckle at that third ‘why’ question.

“Pretty much,” she replied.

“Cold feet are common,” they were, weren’t they?

“It’s really bad cold feet. The worst.”

“It can’t be that bad. It’s not as if you’re in love with someone else.”

She laughed. She sure was finding a lot of things funny tonight.

“I’ve been with him for ten years. He’s the only man I’ve ever been intimate with and I’m curious what it’s like with someone else.”

“And you think one night with a stranger is going to satisfy that curiosity.”

“Not to put too much pressure on you but, I certainly hope so. It’s better I do this now than after I make that official vow to be faithful.”

“You want to know if you’re missing something,” Harry could only think of one other reason, “You want to know how good or bad he is in bed.”

“My future husband’s sexual prowess is not on trial here. That’s not the point.”

Somehow, hearing her refer to Ron as her husband and her reference to his sexual prowess was very troubling. He preferred ‘fiancé’. Actually, just ‘him’ would be better.

“What is the point?”

“You should understand if you meant every word of your poem.”

“My poem?” Harry wondered if this was why she found the poem content excellent.

“Your deepest regret. I’m guessing, that was a moment in your life when you didn’t act on something because it was inappropriate to do so, and now, you constantly think how different or wonderful it could have been had you dared. After I get married I fully intend to honour my vows. I’m just trying to prevent having that regret for the rest of my life.”

Great! Just what he needed; her making his verse a part of this.

Somehow, he could not believe that Hermione could think about this, intimacy with someone else, as her potential deepest regret. That seemed too shallow, selfish even. But he found out things tonight he never knew about her. It made him think he really didn’t know her that well, at least, not as a woman.

Throwing caution to the wind was just so unlike her. She was always the one who reminded them to do the right thing. This was so obviously wrong, cheating on Ron two weeks before their wedding.

“But you know you shouldn’t do this.”

“Because it’s wrong?”

“You don’t strike me as someone who deliberately does something wrong.”

“Making the right choices all the time is a tough act and I’m due for a really bad one,” she seemed to find that funny, too.

“I have a feeling you’ll regret this in the morning,” as Roy he was trying not to care too much but couldn’t help himself.

“Maybe I won’t.”

“If you get caught you will.”

“Maybe I won’t get caught and maybe, I won’t regret it even if I do,” the words he heard just seemed not to belong to her. “If I don’t do this I know I’ll definitely regret it. And I’ll take ‘maybe’ over ‘definitely’.”

“You really want this last fling.”

“No strings attached. Just sex.”

“Is this for sure going to help? Do you think I can cure your cold feet?”

They were in front of her hotel. She stopped walking and faced him, her mood seemingly back to the one she had at the restaurant before the phone calls. It was snowing really hard now, blizzard-like.

Her eyes danced and her voice was playful, as she leaned over and whispered the answer in his ear. “I don’t know about cure but if we do what I think we will, you will definitely make them, and the rest of me, a lot warmer. Now, will you stop showing sacrifice bunt and just swing away?”

He smiled, his thoughts flashing back to six months of thinking about her this way and his curiosity now piqued about what she was thinking they would do.

Harry replied in kind, “I was trying to manufacture a run.”

Their eyes met and for the first time since he thought up of the hare-brained idea of sleeping with her as Roy Hunt, Harry was hit by a reality that this wasn’t going to be the all fun casual sex that he had foolishly led himself to think it would be, not for him and definitely not for her, despite what she thought. She wasn’t an unattached stranger and he wasn’t a stranger to her.

Suddenly, he realized that while they were merely acting on what they wanted, he should have been the wiser one to not let Roy Hunt get this far. He should have been the saner one to know better than tempting Hermione to the point of making this terrible choice.

She was getting married and while he wanted her so much, the long term effects on her for the lies of one night of temporal satisfaction was a great price to pay. They were toying with her marriage and her life. And if she found out it was him, he would definitely lose her trust and her friendship.

All night they were like two trains on the same track, gathering speed, headed right at each other and they passed the last switch a while back. Sleeping together was going to be a potentially massive train wreck that would affect so many lives. The question was, how does one stop a train wreck from happening when only one train knew it was about to happen? And if by a miracle he could avert the disaster, was it possible to keep it all a secret and not let the other train or anyone else know?

He pondered the alternative as they entered and crossed the hotel lobby, shaking off the snow from their coats. It was a peculiar coincidence, how not going up to her room was going to be his deepest regret and her deepest regret at the same time.

I’ll take ‘maybe’ over ‘definitely’.

Harry stopped momentarily and watched her as she entered the lift. He was torn, all logical reason telling him to cease, but by recklessly stepping into the elevator with her, by irresistibly standing so close to her and by allowing her to lean lightly against him, he made his decision.

XXXXXXXXX

Hermione could feel Roy’s body tense up and then welcome her as she leaned back against him. His lips grazed her neck briefly and his warm breath on her skin was causing an immeasurable longing deep within her. His hand was slowly stroking her arm and gently caressing her fingers. All her life she had always thought intimacy with a stranger was a paradox, and now here she was, moments away from doing something she never imagined she could do.

When he asked all those why questions and needed verification that this was a one time thing, she decided to lie and tell him the last fling story. The truth, her not wanting to marry her fiancé because she was in love with someone else, seemed too freakish and she did not want to spook him.

She was indeed overdue for a bad decision. Particularly tonight; especially tonight. All her life she always chose to do the right thing and this was where it got her. Heartbroken from a love she couldn’t have and about to marry someone she no longer wanted to be with.

She needed a break, a break from herself and from the misery her being her had caused. It was a rebellion, an uprising against the norm and what more could highlight such insurgence than having a purely physical, primal and instinctive night with a complete stranger. At least tonight, she would not deny herself the pleasure.

The calm before the storm was just about over.

And as the lift doors slid shut, alone with him in the tension filled enclosed space, she submitted to her fleshly yearning, facing him to meet his equally raw sensual desire. She recognized it for what it was. Unadulterated, primitive, intuitive, pure lust.

XXXXXXXXXX

A/N. We are all imperfect...I hope most will be forgiving...

Disclaimer : Harry Potter - JKR's. A Plea to End Unrest by Roy Hunt/Harry Potter.

A/N. It's been such a journey so far. We begin this Chapter a couple of hours after we left them at the end of the Prologue. It's long, sweet and fun in some spots but mostly angsty internal dialogue. It deals with sin, consequence, regret, forgiveness, and second chances. I realize these are pretty heavy, boring concepts to deal with in a fic that is supposed to be fun, but I'm a bit loony that way. It was eye opening for me writing it.

Over the next few chapters I’ll be flipping back and forth between the past (2006) and the present (2007). Hopefully the dates will help. I thought about rearranging it more chronologically but could not totally do it without disrupting themes and without losing how the past relates to the present.

XXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 18 – Of Sin and Consequence

February 15, 2006 – Around 2 a.m., Toronto

A lazy yellow light near the entrance sparsely lit the hotel room, illuminating its two occupants on the king size bed, both unclothed, sheets draped haphazardly over them. The room was now quiet, almost perfectly still, in contrast to the earlier frenzy it was a part of and a witness to.

Harry lay awake propped up on his left side and watched Hermione’s face as she slept, resisting the urge to touch her and interrupt the restful state she was in. His senses were still abuzz from their lovemaking and a smile formed on his lips involuntarily as he briefly reminisced how wonderfully unexpected the entire night had been. In one wanton night of attraction and seduction, he and the woman he had known for most of his life as a best friend had become lovers. In one night; for one night.

When they got on the lift he lost control as she brushed up against him. It was the strike of a match and a spark was all that was needed to set them off. He unleashed six months of yearning and wanting her this way, risking everything of his and everything of hers for this thirst for her, for a night of passion that would satisfy his burning desire. He had this one night and this one night only.

Seeing her, touching her and feeling her bare and without cover, connecting and communicating in ways they never did before, he now regarded her in a different light. He sensed from the moment they made out in the lift how different it was from his past trysts with other women. Tonight he wanted to give more than take. Tonight her want had become part of his want. Tonight, for the first time in his life, he felt how it was to make love to someone he cared about and there was satisfaction in it that he never experienced before. There was fullness to his satiety that stood over and above the hollow fulfillment of his past temporal relationships.

That night, she filled more than a physical need, something that he did not think he was looking for. And now that he had felt it, he wanted more than one night. One night wasn’t going to be nearly enough.

Harry looked up. The euphoria went away as he saw that the reflection on the dresser mirror was not his. What had he done? Blinded with single-mindedness to a misdirected purpose, he had failed to see that this was a possibility. What was he going to do?

He pulled her closer and embraced her, not wanting to let go. She stirred and maybe, instinctively thinking he was Ron, embraced back. She looked up at him with her still sleepy brown eyes and smiled. He smiled back despite the twinge of pain in his chest. This was stolen time and he was missing it already.

“You’re not normal,” she said to him softly.

“What do you mean?”

“You should be asleep, have your back turned away from me and be snoring by now.”

He chuckled, “Sleep is overrated. I don’t want to waste this moment on it.”

“I bet you won’t be as glib in the morning,” she thought it was all talk, “Don’t you have work? Like washing the observation windows on north side of the CN Tower?”

“Still waiting for a second verse, are you?”

She grinned, “Maybe, but also concerned that you might fall and have an untimely death. I don’t want you on my conscience.”

“Is that right?” he moved over her and kissed her sweetly; she kissed him back, stirring a yearning once again. “I wouldn’t mind falling off the tall, stiff CN tower if I go through the slit of a slightly retracted roof into the soft and warm confines of the Skydome.”

“You have a most foul mind!” and they laughed.

They gave each other slower, pleasant kisses as he said in between, “Me? That would be the guy who saw it fit to build a phallic symbol and a baseball stadium with a retractable roof right beside each other.”

He didn’t want the night to end. His kisses became more wanting, more seeking, more desperate. He left her mouth and with her permission muzzled her chin, her throat, her collarbone, finally setting on the almost faded inch long jagged scar near the center of her chest.

“Tell me about this,” Harry requested, wondering if it was the souvenir she got from a Death Eater during their Ministry of Magic visit in their 5th year at Hogwarts; he never knew it existed until Ron mentioned it a few months back.

She confirmed it somewhat, “It’s a reminder of necessary foolish bravery, fierce loyalty and standing up for what’s right.”

He moved on to a curious body imprint just above her left hip, “And this? What does this remind you of?”

She replied sheepishly, “Foolish trust and never to get mightily drunk with a girl friend ever again.”

A tattoo of a golden Snitch. He wondered how Ron felt about that. He touched a reddish area just at her left rib cage and she flinched, “And this?”

She didn’t seem concerned, admitting and teasing, “That? For foolishly not holding on tight.”

“Did that happen when we…”

She finished it for him, nodding, “Slipped rounding third a few innings back.”

“Are you okay?” he asked concerned he had injured her, well, physically. There was a stretch when he had been a bit rough.

“I’ll live and with a visual reminder of that special memory for a few days,” Hermione merely laughed, probably at his seriousness, and with mischief in her eyes matching his slow kisses and caresses.

A few days, he thought as he let her lead and reacted to what she wanted to do. She was getting married in a few days. Or was she? Since leaving the restaurant he had tried to get her to talk about Ron. About what this would mean to him and about how she felt about him. He wanted to get there but had allowed Hermione to steer the conversation away and he lost control in the lift.

He tried once more, just as they got into the room and into her bed last night. It might have been helpful to her if they weren’t making out and had more clothes on while they talked.

“Your fiancé…”

“Uh-huh?”

“What’s his name?”

“I can’t, not right now…”

“You’re marrying him…you love him.”

“Later…we’ll talk about him later, I promise.”

She did not want to talk about him, not that he could blame her for not wanting to at that particular time. She was naked, touching and being touched by someone else.

“He’s going to get hurt…”

“Not if he doesn’t find out.”

“He might, and he will if he does.”

“Unfortunate, but I can live with it.”

She really didn’t sound convinced that she could. He couldn’t stop and he was trying to persuade her to stop for them. But by that time, it was really too late to talk about Ron.

“You’ll feel bad in the morning.”

“I know I will and I’ll deal with it then.”

“I just want to understand. How can you love him and do this?”

“I can’t. I can only do this because I don’t, at least not that way anymore.”

As if that was all he was waiting to hear, he let go of his own guilt about betraying Ron’s trust. Not a moment too soon, he was immersed deep in her pulsating warmth, relieving himself of the unimaginable burden he had been carrying around for months.

The fact that he allowed Hermione all night to skip around talking about her fiancé was not lost on him. The truth was undeniable; as much as he wanted them to have a discussion about Ron he wanted this to happen and did not really want to talk himself or Hermione out of it. As horrible as that made him, all he needed to hear from her was a sign to make the act not as terrible, and when she let go of those words, he heard what he wanted to hear.

He was not delusional. Hearing her say it made him feel better in a way but it did not make what they were doing right. No reason, no excuse could ever justify his betrayal of Ron and his betrayal of her. He was a horrible person. Sin, guilt, remorse, but planning and hoping for no consequence. Horrible…

Ron was not only his best friend, he was family. He had done him no wrong. He embraced him into the Weasley fold, stood by him risking life and limb in his fight against Voldemort and saved him from himself after his honeymoon with professional Quidditch. And this was what he was doing to repay all that. This was what he was continuing to do. He could not stop touching her and kissing her.

How could he be a friend to them and do this?

Train wreck damage control was in effect. Ron would not be a problem. This was Ron. He would not know unless someone told him.

He looked upon Hermione with concern. He doubted that he could hide this from her forever and a huge consequence was most likely going to happen in their lifetime. How did he ever think he could do this and walk away with everyone unscathed? He could only hope that she would be forgiving.

Harry momentarily stopped making out with her. Maybe it was better to come clean and tell her right now. He quickly dropped the thought. Not now. He could not bring himself to ruin this moment. It was too late. What was done was done and if things blew up at least he would have this. Maybe he could tell her when they were back in London. Maybe.

“What’s wrong?” she sensed his hesitation and asked.

What was wrong? There were so many; so many to pick from. At their conversation from a couple of days ago, she did say something about breaking off the engagement if Ron did something like this.

Her declaration was tormenting him no end.

“How can you love him and do this?”

“I can’t. I can only do this because I don’t, at least not that way anymore.”

He had to ask her.

“What you said about your fiancé, was that the truth?”

“I guess we’re back to him again,” she replied, “You don’t know him. Why are you so concerned?”

“I’m just curious. I find human behaviour fascinating,” he hoped she would buy that and noticed she still was trying to avoid talking about Ron, “Why are you marrying him if you don’t love him anymore?”

She answered freely, without holding back, “That’s a good question. I just realized tonight why I’ve been having cold feet and I haven’t figured that one out yet. Have you ever been married?”

He shook his head.

“Here’s a question. Would you ever marry someone you didn’t love?”

“Of course not,” he declared truthfully.

“My, such lofty ideals,” she teased him.

“Why? Would you?”

“Possibly.”

“Yeah, right,” he taunted her back, “Miss I’ve-never-been-with-another-man-ever. I find that very hard to believe.”

“What!” she said indignantly, in jest, protesting being typecast, “You don’t really know me that well.”

Apparently not.

She continued, “People marry for reasons other than love all the time. Money, social status, lust, coercion, kids, temporary insanity, I can go on all night…”

“Fine. Tell me then, if you were going to, why else would you marry your fiancé if you don’t love him anymore?”

“Are you always this annoyingly inquisitive?” she meant it in a nice way.

“Only when I’m talking with someone obsessively evasive,” he retorted.

“It’s just not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“You want me to bare all, figuratively speaking, when all I know about you, which may or may not be true, is contained in one stanza of a poem,” she had this grin and he could tell that she was pulling his leg again.

“Will you answer the question for another of my verses?”

“That depends on how good the verse is though I’ll definitely be more compliant if you attempt one.”

Laughing, he moved over on top, taking care to keep most of his weight off her and gave in. He really wanted to know why she would go ahead and marry Ron. Holding her brown eyes captive, Harry thought for a bit about what to say and confessed.

“A Plea to End Unrest by Roy Hunt.”

Of luck, of destiny, or maybe desperation,
Tonight I took and stole one fateful night of passion.
And as you lie beneath me willing and undressed,
I’m asking you one question I hope you will address
For unless you do, my heart and my soul will not rest.

She looked back at him, smiling but puzzled about something. Harry could only hope his admission was not so obvious to her

“Well?” he waited for her verdict, quite pleased with what he came up on the spot. He never knew he could do that. “Am I worthy?”

“Your heart and your soul will not rest?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Unless I tell you why I would marry someone I didn’t love anymore?”

“Yes.”

“A bit melodramatic, wouldn’t you think?”

If he was a stranger, yes, it would be.

“I’m very curious,” he answered and hoped she wouldn’t ask why it was desperation.

“Nosy to the point of unrest.”

“You know I nailed it.”

She chortled at his cockiness. He was confident as he waited for the answer which he knew would definitely come. The possibilities of redemption were quite more substantial if she decided not to marry Ron. He had a conflict of interest and would try his best not let him affect her decision. Try.

Still basking under the effects of one of the most personal and most meaningful poems she had heard naked, and she had heard a few, Hermione lay feeling warm and fuzzy under him and his piercing gaze. She wondered how he could do that. Create something like that.

The poetry itself was music to her ears but she was more impressed by how he was coming up with verses that touched her in a very private way. Once again, he spoke as she imagined Harry would have and it did not help that as he laid on top of her the light in room brought out the green in his eyes even more.

Earlier, after some well deserved respite, she regained consciousness and with it awareness of him watching her slumber. Hermione tried to ignore him and pretended to be asleep. In as much as she enjoyed his company she had to pull herself back a bit and regroup. He was a one-timer. Pillow talk was not really necessary. For her it was downright dangerous to engage in something that would make her more emotionally invested in him than she already was.

But she couldn’t go back to sleep and as he finally touched and embraced her it was almost instinctive to embrace back. Roy was one of only two people she had been this intimate with. It was very hard and quite impossible to remain totally unattached.

Roy was really not as she expected her last fling would be like. The sex was great and it had been so long since she had great sex it was good to be reminded that it could be this wonderful. But there was more to him than just that.

It seemed like he cared more about her, about her life and about what she was doing with him. He seemed very concerned about how Ron would feel and he didn’t even know the guy. She had to distract Roy from pursuing a discussion about Ron most times that he tried to bring him up. She had hoped he would take a hint that, unlike him, she couldn’t think about Ron, not at that time. It was confusing what he was doing. Telling her all these things that should make her stop yet doing all else to make her want more.

“He’s going to get hurt…”

He was right but why did he care?

“Not if he doesn’t find out.”

She had no intention of telling Ron. As much as she did not want him hurt she had to do this for herself and would risk it. This was all about her, a purely selfish act, committed with the knowledge of how wrong it was. She was not disillusioned to think any reason could make it right. And the possibility of him knowing was close to zero. They were talking about Ron here. He wouldn’t know unless somebody told him.

“He might, and he will if he does.”

“Unfortunate, but I can live with it.”

Roy would have probably made more sense if his hands did not continue to touch her in her most sensitive areas. She really could say just about anything he wanted to hear then.

Hermione thought about this as she decided about Roy in the ladies room last night. Ron would be hurt by her act of infidelity, not speak to her, maybe even call her names. She could lose him completely, make the decision she had yet to make and not marry her, as she gambled all that they had, the good and not so good, over one night of self-centeredness. There were consequences for doing something wrong and for getting caught doing it. And she would deserve it, a fitting penance for wanting this, for wanting to be with someone else.

“You’ll feel bad in the morning.”

She was deliberately and knowingly doing something that she knew could damage the man she was about to marry, a man she cared about. By her standards she was a terrible human being and feeling bad would be an understatement. How did he know this for a fact?

“I know I will and I’ll deal with it then.”

She was supposed to be taking a break. She was supposed to not think about her real life tonight. Not about what to do if Ron found out, what to do about the disgust she would feel towards herself after, what to do about her fast approaching marriage.

“I just want to understand. How can you love him and do this?”

“I can’t. I can only do this because I don’t, at least not that way anymore.”

This stranger asked and she told him the truth sensing that was what he needed to hear. Maybe she was just thinking about it too much. She really did not have enough experience with affairs to really know if Roy’s actions tonight were normal or not and maybe if they weren’t, Roy was just above average, atypical, and she was just ‘lucky’ that she ended up with him as her last fling.

Her last fling. She still spoke as if she was going to go through with the wedding. And with Roy waiting for an answer she might as well think about one probing question she was trying to avoid tonight.

Why would she marry Ron knowing that she did not love him that way anymore?

Her break from her real life was over.

“Fine,” she finally said to Roy, feeling a bit claustrophobic she nudged him over to one side, “Possible reasons why I would want to marry my fiancé, in no particular order.”

“I just spent six months planning and preparing for a wedding, I must go through with it. The caterer, the reception hall, the flowers, have all been paid in full, all non refundable.”

It was a joke and he laughed.

She continued, “All those presents and pissed off guests who already bought one.”

“Of course, you should really take them into consideration.”

“We invited five hundred people. They could incite a riot,” she really thought it could happen.

“That’s definitely the last thing you would want to happen when you call off a wedding,” he was laughing with her.

“The convenience of having someone to get into bed with when the need arises.”

“I agree, sex is important. Seriously, anytime soon.”

“I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“As opposed to living a lie and hurting yours.”

“I want him to always be a part of my life.”

“He’ll get over it and won’t stay mad at you forever.”

“I owe him for not saying ‘no’ the first time he asked almost ten years ago.”

“You weren’t stringing him along for a ride. You shouldn’t feel guilty about that.”

She stopped, realizing what he was doing.

“Why do I feel you don’t want me to marry him?” she inquired.

“I’m just helping you sort your reasons out,” he explained, “If you want your marriage to work, you better come up with something better than that.”

It was a challenge, a good one. If Roy could dismiss her reasons for wanting to stay with Ron and go on with the wedding, they would not have a chance.

“I want to be with someone who loves me, someone who I care about, to make a difference in his life and to make me feel that my existence matters. He loves me, I care about him a lot and with time I want to learn to love him again,” she said more seriously, awaiting Roy’s rebuttal.

“And you think this is possible, learning to love him again.”

“He’s a good man. I think we just grew apart after years of not spending enough time with each other. If I spend less time at work and more time with him, share his interests, be a wife, it’s definitely possible.”

“That seems like a lot to give up,” he observed.

“We reap what we sow and we can’t have it all.”

“I agree,” and with that Roy seemed to have finally dropped his inquisition.

With an initial tentativeness she was seeing for the first time, he touched her lips with his and gave her a deep, rich, melancholic kiss, seemingly knowing what she felt as she heard herself admit that she couldn’t have it all. She might as well stay with Ron if she couldn’t be with Harry. Her existence mattered to Ron and it did not really matter to him.

She kissed Roy back with Harry in mind, feeding it with the throbbing pain in her chest.

XXXXXXXXXX

8 February 2007 – Hermione’s flat in London

Hermione woke up panting, out of breath and feeling unusually warm. After a year she was still having them; dreams, nightmares of real events about Roy Hunt, ones she tried to not think about when awake. The one she just had was one of the more pleasant ones to have but gave her one of the worst feelings after.

She glanced over to her nightstand where a cup full of Dreamless Draught remained untouched, deciding last night that it was about time to test if she was still having them. She had her answer.

I can live with it if he does.

He did find out and this was how she was living with it.

I know I will and I’ll deal with it then.

Feeling bad was definitely an understatement. This was how she was dealing with it; self-medicating with personally concocted potions so she wouldn’t be reminded constantly; so she wouldn’t hate herself too much. She thought about consequences that night and she never thought it could be this.

She let the tears out as she thought about Ron and about Harry. The overwhelming grief and regret always came with the memories. The old adage about it being pointless crying over spilled milk was so true but doing something pointless was all she could do. There was no fixing it. There was only living with the mistake of one night.

It was fitting penance for the consequence of sin.

After a long while, she got up and went into the shower, her internal clock telling her it was around six in the morning. Hermione had her day planned. If all things went as scheduled she would be in Toronto by noon London time and leave within twenty four, maybe thirty six hours.

She could not imagine this assignment taking longer than that. After all, there was only one question and the answer was a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. Five minutes would be plenty.

Of course, she knew that Harry would want to talk about last year. She wasn’t ready to do that but realized she would never be ready. Ginny was right; it had to be done at some point. He needed closure so he could move on and her giving him that would allow her to do the same.

Hermione loved Harry but even if what he professed to her was true, there could never be a life with him, not after what happened. There was no going back to the way they were before, either. The Harry she knew was a reasonable man. He would understand why this had to be.

They would have to live with it. It was the end result of their misdeed, punishment for doing something they both knew was wrong, and a harsh but apt consequence of sin.

Sin, consequence, remorse and, hopefully, eventually, forgiveness.

She got out of the shower and in her bathrobe mulled over what to pack. Toronto, February, Harry. Mindlessly, she filled her bag with the usual necessities, toiletries, some knickers, a few pairs of pants, a fluffy shapeless sweater and a couple of turtlenecks.

That quickly out of the way, she got ready for work thinking there was plenty of time to make it to Mexico. And if this thing with Harry took longer, she’d have to come back after her trip.

Mexico. Draco needed an answer and her initial impulse on the phone last night was to say ‘yes’ until she saw Ginny’s almost physiologically impossible neck dislocating ‘no’.

Being with him made her feel better about herself and that was a feat considering how she felt about what she did to Ron. The ‘why’ behind it was still beyond her but she had a few interesting theories. It definitely didn’t start out that way at their first meeting for Magorian’s trial.

The good feeling started around the time she gave him a second chance and began treating him like she would any other human being. All those horrible years at Hogwarts should have made that an impossibility. She could understand how Ginny and the rest of the Order felt about him but they would not understand why she was doing it. They would not understand why she was giving him the benefit of the doubt.

They would never understand until they did something unforgivable, felt remorse for it and lived everyday struggling trying to live with yourself and the fact that there was absolutely nothing that you could do to undo what you had done.

What she did to Ron was unforgivable. Guilt and remorse hounded her every time she thought of him and of Harry. She wished she could talk to Ron and at least express just how sorry she was for what happened. How she wished Ron could convince her that what she did wasn’t really unforgivable, but just very, very, very hard to forgive.

It was too late to ask for forgiveness from Ron as it was too late for Draco to ask for absolution from Professor Dumbledore for his intent. Never in her life did she think she would have something in common with Draco Malfoy. But just maybe, since she had forgiven Draco to the point of seeing him and believing him to be a reformed human being, there was hope that she could somehow forgive herself.

Making a difference in how Draco felt about himself, as he admitted last night, was also feeding the inability to say ‘no’ to him. Hermione remembered why she chose to be a Healer. She felt it was the best way for her to have an effect in other people’s lives, for her existence to matter. It was in her to want that, and with Draco, as with Ron, she could see herself doing that on a more personal basis.

No, she did not love Draco, not like she once loved Ron and definitely not as she loved Harry, though knowing what he was going through she did care more about him than she could ever imagine possible. She had to find out what this was, if there was really going to be more to it, something deeper and longer lasting.

Sin, consequence, remorse, forgiveness and a second chance to do right. For both of them.

And Ginny was perceptive in assessing that it was a steep hill. There was something within her that was driving a need to know sooner. The timing of her trip to Mexico seemed to make perfect sense.

She stepped out of her flat into her backyard and with her briefcase and travel bag Disapparated to the staff designated area at St. Mungo’s. At seven it was still relatively quiet as she made it through the hall and into her office, quite surprised to see someone already there.

“Good morning,” she startled him somewhat. Dennis was unpacking unused phials. “How was the date?”

“So-so,” he replied, “You’re here early for someone who’s on vacation.”

“I have urgent business in Toronto and I wanted to get some stuff done before I leave,” she answered.

“When are you leaving?”

“I’m hoping by noon,” she guessed his next question, “And no, I’m not staying for the conference. Is there anything you need before I go?”

“Just your signature to order more phials.”

“Drop it off on my desk and I’ll make sure to sign it before I leave,” she knew about the problems they were having with breakage trying to bottle one of the more highly unstable potions they developed recently. “When I get back from Mexico we should really have a look at that modified Wolfsbane potion. Surely, we should be able to bottle it without making the phial unbreakable.”

“Sounds good,” Dennis answered, “I brought in breakfast if you want some.”

Hermione thanked him and went into her office. She sat at her desk thinking more about the Toronto trip and about what to say to Harry. Remembering Roy Hunt and how he turned out to be someone else, it seemed only wise to have learned a lesson from that.

A sense of disquiet suddenly washed over her at the possibility of Draco turning out to be just as Ginny suspected. In a decisiveness she had not had since Ron died, she ignored the clamors of decency screaming from within her, disregarded the list of consequences that were going through her mind, took out Draco’s medical file from her briefcase and used her passcode to magically expand it to its original Michigan hospital version.

It took her over an hour to read it in its entirety and she did while slowly sipping a glass of Dennis’ apple and peach smoothie.

A/N. Most of this chapter is on Draco and his past.

XXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 19 – The Healer’s Notes

Hermione closed Draco’s file and reduced it to its one page purged version. She put it back in her briefcase not noticing the crease that formed on her forehead, her expression summing up her thoughts on what she just read. She was baffled to say the least.

The first entry into the Michigan hospital document was about a concussed and severely beaten up teenager who was barely breathing when Draco was brought in by his hysterical mother.

Blunt force head trauma, occipital bone fracture, intracranial scans negative for bleeds or clots.
Posterior rib fracture, collapsed left lung.
Hematoma, upper abdominal quadrants with rebound tenderness suggestive of internal exsanguination.
Multiple lacerations.
Unresponsive.

Immediate critical care measures were undertaken and he regained consciousness the week after. Ministry authorities came to ask him about how he acquired his injuries.

Patient claims he fell off a cliff.

Draco’s explanation was judged as highly improbable by the Healer at that time. Hermione agreed. It would have had to be a very steep, heavily wooded or extremely rocky cliff with a mind of its own to have caused the significant strategically located injuries he had.

Two days later, Draco left the hospital against Healer advice.

Five similar hospital visits happened in a span of six weeks, each time with injuries less severe than the previous. Despite his non-admission, the Healer in charge was of the opinion that the young wizard was likely participating in Muggle fisticuffs.

What followed were mostly Healer notes from one-on-one sessions with Draco. While he was seen initially for non-magical physical injuries, he was referred to a Healer counsellor, a witch shrink, on his mother’s request who had expressed concern that Draco was not adjusting well to his new environment, was not using magic as often as he used to and she feared he was a danger to himself. Being of age under magical laws, his attendance to the sessions was not mandatory; his words were he did it to get his mother off his back.

At eighteen he was described as severely withdrawn, apathetic, anti-social and met criteria for severe depression. He was never observed to be violent and never expressed any emotion other than lack of interest. He was not open to any intervention. In fact, the first nine sessions were very quiet.

The only thing he would admit to was having nightmares that precluded sleep. When asked what the dreams were about he said he could not remember.

I’ve prescribed hospital grade Dreamless Draught for Mr. Malfoy to address his exhaustion from sleep deprivation. The content of his dreams are definitely important. Maybe getting rest will help him open up.

But that really didn’t. In fact, the Healer noticed that the more rested he was the more edgy and belligerent he became. After several fruitless sessions, the Healer was willing to try another approach. With his mother’s help, she was able to convince Draco to attend peer counselling. The Healer notes summarized the change.

It is like night and day. He smiled for the first time during the session as I asked him about how he found peer counselling. His reply was that he found it ‘enlightening’. He was distracted for most of the session and the smile never left his face. It was apparent that it wasn’t peer counselling itself that impressed him. Will need to investigate further.

The session after, the Healer was armed with more information.

I asked him about one of the volunteer peer counsellors. He hesitated but I pressed on. He seemed like he wanted to tell someone, anyone. He finally confided that he was dating ‘Mia’. As Mr. Malfoy spoke of her I was reminded of how wonderful this feeling was once one found it. He was obviously love-struck. He said he was afraid of it, of what it was doing to him, of what it could do to him. He asked for advice. I told him he’d know what to do.

The breakthrough was momentous as Draco opened himself up for more scrutiny. Things with Mia were going better than he imagined. The Healer had a cautionary response to Draco’s news that he had signed up with her to attend a Muggle Law Program.

Much progress. Mr. Malfoy surprised me today. He admitted to not taking the Dreamless Draught since he ran out a week ago and dreamt again for the first time in a long while. I asked him if it was the same one that haunted him before. He nodded and had this knowing look, the one which one usually had after self-discovery. He declined my offer to refill his prescription saying the same dreams, while nightmarish before were now quite reassuring to have. Curious, I asked what it was about. As proof of just how far we’ve gone, he replied that our time was up.

From subsequent notes, Draco had brushed off questions about his dreams telling the Healer that it was quite unimportant now that they weren’t happening as often and weren’t really nightmares anymore.

We touched on Mr. Malfoy’s childhood today. It made him very tense but he admitted he wanted to talk about it too. He said he couldn’t tell Mia, at least not yet, and Mia told him he didn’t have to unless he wanted to. I have yet to meet this young woman if not just to satisfy my curiosity if she is as extraordinary as Mr. Malfoy speaks of her.

He lived a very sheltered life. His family was well off, Pure blood of the ‘purest’ kind, with no tolerance for much else to an extreme that earned his father a death sentence from Ministry authorities. The older Mr. Malfoy died in prison a few months ago.

He described his childhood as like growing up in a bubble and being taught to be protective of it. He knew only of his world, his bubble, and that all else around him was a threat to burst that. He spoke of what he referred to as numerous ‘vile’ acts as a student at Hogwarts, a school for young wizards and witches, acts he now was remorseful about, some he wished he never did. He expressed a seemingly sincere wish to go back one day and ask forgiveness from his former peers though he knew some of them would never accept his apology.

I asked about the bubble. He said it finally disintegrated one fateful night he spent on a tower with a wise, dying old man. What he and his mother experienced up until his father’s execution also made him see things in a different light. Reluctantly, he admitted that as much as he was sad for his mother, he was somewhat relieved his father was dead. He refused to expound.

Hermione noticed how the Draco’s Healer knew exactly when to push and when to back off. While Draco chose to keep some aspects of his life to himself, the Healer saw the bigger picture.

Mr. Malfoy came in troubled today. He introduced Mia to his mother and his cousins for the first time. As he expected, they did not approve of her but it bothered him how they never even gave her a chance. He had quite colourful language that I cannot repeat here; very upset to say the least. He questioned how they could judge her without even knowing her.

I enquired how Mia felt about it. He said he could tell, without Mia admitting to it, that she was hurt and bothered. He declared that he would not let her go through something like that again.

The Healer’s entries stopped a few sessions thereafter as Draco withdrew himself from treatment citing the reality of Law School and actually studying for it was going to be taking up a lot of his time.

Mr. Malfoy discharged himself from care today. I expressed my reservations to him that while we both agreed that he had gone so far in the past year, there were definitely some lingering issues about his family and his past that would be beneficial for him to discuss and dissect, particularly about his father. I somewhat disagree with his perception that he no longer needs the sessions to do that but am encouraged by his recognition that his gains continue to be a work in progress. I wished him all the best and quite awkwardly, he thanked me, as if it was the first time he expressed appreciation in his life.

The notes spanned over almost two years and there was silence until a single entry about a year ago. Draco requested and was approved for a prescription of hospital strength Dreamless Draught.

Quite a few obvious questions popped up in Hermione’s mind as she was reading the notes.

The Healer’s description of Draco at the first session was quite different from how she remembered him last. The Draco she knew would be a cocky confrontational whiner, cheat in a fight, definitely use magic as leverage, and never allow to be emotionally chopped up. Draco definitely did not fall off a cliff six times. He almost died. What and who caused all those injuries? And why would he lie about that?

What were the nightmares about? It was interesting to her how what he considered nightmares at one time became reassuring dreams. Were the ones before he met Mia the same as the ones she assumed he again began to have a year ago? He mentioned Mia passed away around that time. Did he need the potion then? She knew first hand how overwhelming grief could result into sleepless nights.

As she suspected Mia was quite instrumental in the change she had noticed and from how he talked about her last night it sounded like he was seeing her up until the time of her death. Who was she really? And if she were so extraordinary why would Narcissa Malfoy disapprove of her son’s relationship with her? Hermione wondered if Mia was Muggle born.

There was mention of cousins. She read somewhere that they stayed with family for a while when they first came to the States. What kind were they? Malfoys or Weasleys or somewhere in the middle? What was his relationship with them like?

Why did he come back? He was cryptic about it last night. Was it to start his apology spree as he indicated to the Healer years ago?

And the one thing that she thought the Healer never really touched on was whether or not Narcissa’s other worry about her son was addressed.

Looking back on the times she had been with him, she had never seen him with a wand. It wasn’t really odd considering his work was mostly Muggle related and maybe she was just reading too much into it. Maybe the reason why the Healer never discussed it was because it was never a concern, at least not to Draco.

Some of her questions could only be answered by Draco himself. She paused and contemplated about the rest. The way she saw it she had a few options. She could just ask him, though evidently had to be careful and creative about how so he wouldn’t find out about her reading the medical file. She could admit to seeing the file, not quite good for her colleague over in Michigan. Or, she could just carry on and look for answers to her questions even further without telling him.

The latter wasn’t really a great way to start a relationship and she was even starting to wonder why she succumbed to the pressure of opening the file in the first place. It seemed that while her experience with Roy Hunt provided the spark to her compulsion to read his medical file for self protection against possible deceit, there was nothing in it to suggest that she should doubt him. In fact, those first two years of sessions with the therapist made how Draco was today make more sense. And while she had valid questions, the normal thing to do in any budding friendship was to ask.

Hermione assessed the temptation to be covert in her quest for answers. In her heart she did forgive him for what he was in Hogwarts. With age and the pain that sometimes went with it, Draco’s transgressions of long ago, at least against her, were relatively benign. With forgiveness came delicate trust and a second chance. She hated not knowing for sure but she had no reason to doubt Draco’s sincerity at the moment. Playing fair was the decent thing to do.

On the other hand she had already read the file; she could not just stop and ignore the questions now. Not having answers to her questions was driving her mad and the sugar loaded muffin and smoothie breakfast she just had was making her all queasy.

Hermione picked up her phone and rang Ginny. No doubt she would still be in bed.

It rang a few times.

Come on, pick up…

And a few more…

“Hello,” groggy answer, hoarse, masculine.

After double checking caller id, she replied, “Well, it’s either you spent the rest of the night drunk and singing karaoke off the top of your lungs again or you took the wrong hormone pill and lots of it.”

“Are you looking for Ginny?” the man chuckled as he asked, she couldn’t decide if he was someone familiar.

“Which I now realize isn’t you. Yes, I am,” she was curious and concerned at the same time, “And who are you, why are you answering her phone, and if you hurt her…”

“Hey,” it was Ginny, thankfully interrupting her midstream and thankfully preventing her from saying some potentially libellous remarks.

“Who was that man?”

“What man?”

“The man beside you who answered your phone.”

“Oh, this man. A good question which requires…a more… thought out…answer...” there was definitely something more going on on her side of the phone than hers.

“Is this a bad time?” Just say yes.

She heard a cat meow in the background. She hoped it was a real one and it was walking away.

“No, go ahead.”

“It’s about Draco.”

“I think there should be a rule that we can’t talk about him before my morning coffee,” at least she now had Ginny’s undivided attention.

Tell her about the file, about him getting beaten up, about the dreams, about Narcissa and about Mia…

“I’m going to ask him to come to Mexico with me.”

Some very colourful language came out of Ginny’s mouth.

“I guess it was too much to hope to hear you say something reassuring,” she interrupted her.

“You have the wrong number if ‘reassuring’ is what you want.”

Ginny has connections in Michigan. She can find out who this Mia is, the family they stayed with in Detroit and maybe, even who beat him up.

Her friend continued, “Well, only Toronto can save your soul now.”

“Very funny,” Hermione replied though she knew Ginny was quite serious. She thought about it but couldn’t tell Ginny right now. It was only fair to give Draco a chance. She would ask Draco her numerous questions first and if she sensed anything amiss, she definitely would enlist Ginny to help her dig up for collaborating or contradicting information. “We’ll talk when I get back from Toronto.”

“Give Harry a kiss for me,” she could imagine Ginny impishly smiling at the remark.

Hermione chose to ignore it. Ginny was the one person who knew how she felt about Harry but she could not tell her everything that happened between them. A few months after Ron died when their collective grief was more manageable, they had a long talk about Harry and about Toronto. While Ginny was as incensed at Harry as she was the time she found out, Ginny was more forgiving than she was when it came to him. She had been vocal against Hermione’s choice to put off talking with him and even suggested that Ron probably wouldn’t mind if they ended up together. Again, she did not know the whole story and couldn’t possibly understand that it just couldn’t be.

The matter out of the way for now, Hermione donned her St. Mungo’s Healer’s robe briefly thinking how that conversation with Ginny was like deja vu. She made a mental note to press Ginny for more details about it at a later time.

She made her way to the Spell Damage ward where Argus Filch had been admitted after being found unconscious inside an empty Gringott’s vault. There was a sentry just outside Filch’s room and Filch’s primary Healer, Delilah Dogooder, a young woman who was a few years her junior, had just finished doing morning rounds with a few interns.

Hermione walked into the room and was excited to see that Filch was awake. Well, kind of awake.

“Do you have a moment?” Hermione asked.

“I’m so glad to see you,” Delilah remarked, “I sought your consult but was told you were away on vacation.”

Some vacation.

“I am but I thought I’d drop in and see how Mr. Filch was doing,” she told the truth, “He was the caretaker at Hogwarts while I was there. I heard he came in unconscious but I can see you’ve made some progress.”

The younger Healer blushed, “I wish my team could take credit for his state of wakefulness. Not knowing why he was unconscious we’ve held off most major interventions until labs came in. That is, unless it was the enema he mistakenly got instead of Mr. Gander over there that did the trick.”

A group of Healer assistants, old timers who she knew attended Hogwarts long ago, sniggered behind the counter just outside the room. Poor Filch.

“If he was unconscious because of toxins, the accidental enema may have indeed helped with cleansing,” it was plausible. “Differentials?”

“No obvious trauma, scans all negative, brain function tested normal. We’ve tried simple counter spells to revive him. His tox screens just came in and they are all negative. There’s no poison to detect to give him antidote for. We’re considering a few Dark Magic spells and I was hoping you could help us with it,” Delilah rattled off standard protocol. She was often brought in on ambiguous cases like this because of her knowledge of Dark Magic from her research and their Voldemort encounters.

Hermione had walked over closer to Filch, took out her wand and began examining him herself. Filch was in bed, in a semi-reclined position, unmoving, with a fixed stare that seemed aimed out the window. He had not really aged much.

“Has he moved or talked at all?” she asked, running her wand over him as she tried to detect any splattering traces of magic on the surface of his body that could suggest he was hit by a curse.

“No. Not since he was found this way when the assistants came in to check on him this morning just before shift change.”

Not a spell trace, unless it was minute. On next pass she focused on poisons. As her wand was over his torso, she paused and scanned back, slower this time. There was a hint of something foreign in his blood, familiar yet not. She scanned through and could only detect it in areas with the most concentration of blood, his heart and spleen. It was definitely not a known poison and would be easy to miss in the lab because nobody was looking for it.

“He has something in him that shouldn’t be there,” she said to Delilah, who promptly re-examined the area.

“Very subtle but you’re quite right,” Delilah concurred, open to Hermione’s finding, “I feel it faintly, but what is it?”

“I don't know either,” she admitted, “Was he on any potion or Muggle medication?”

“Nothing on Muggle or St. Mungo record,” Delilah answered. “Though there was an empty phial found close to his body.”

“Any trace of what was in it?”

“Lab found it clean, said it was brand new, unused,” came her reply, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“It’s not that you have a choice,” Hermione countered, the furrow back on her forehead. Filch would get ‘the Works’, the Healer’s code for extensive but really unpleasant blind poking and probing. It was anecdotally described as the equivalent to a thousand enemas. “But don’t exclude anything out yet. I’ll think about the Dark spells and get back to you on it. This trace of something could very well be nothing. It could be something he ate. Call me with what you find.”

Delilah thanked her as Hermione scribbled her number on Filch’s St. Mungo file. Despite her years of experience in healing, Filch’s case was the reason why she could never say that she had seen everything.

The interns had gathered around Delilah and were trying their hand at detecting what they just discovered in Filch. He was a great learning opportunity. The old Filch would have probably resented that.

Hermione turned around to leave, thinking she might make it to Toronto earlier.

“Sir, please let go,” she heard one of the interns was pleading.

“Mr. Filch,” Delilah said, her voice somewhat strained, “It’s okay. They’re just examining you.”

Filch moving on his own was definite progress. She faced the now building commotion behind her just in time to witness a strong swirling gust of wind fill the room and blow away most unsecured objects from their proper place.

Argus Filch had a wide smile on his face. In his hand was a wand he had wrestled from one of the interns. It was a wand with a glowing tip.

Curious.

Chapter 20 – A Squib or Not A Squib

15 February 2006 – Her hotel room, five fifteen a.m.

Harry was dressed and had been sitting on the edge of the bed for a few minutes contemplating if he should wake her to say goodbye. He never did with other women in the past.

He wanted to stay in bed with her, get up only when they were both good and ready, perhaps make passionate love once more and spend the day together. He could imagine them spending the week, the month, the year like this. He felt a tightening around his throat and chest.

One night with her isn’t nearly enough.

He really had to leave, soon.

Tick… tock…tick…tock…

If only he could stop time…

Tick… tock…tick…tock…

Destroy all existing clocks in the universe…

Tick… tock…tick…tock…

Including that on ticking time bombs…

Tick… tock…tick…tock…

Like this Roy Hunt affair…

Compulsion prevailed over letting go cleanly. He swept her bushy brown hair off her face and watched her eyes slowly open, adjust to the light and meet his. She smiled.

“I have to go,” he said to her quietly, as if doing so would make him feel better.

“I know,” she replied.

“I had a really great time last night,” he said to her honestly, taking her hand, squeezing it lightly.

“So did I,” she answered back.

“You don’t have to marry him,” he blurted out, hoping she would not see or hear the obvious.

It would be a big mistake but he could understand why after ten years with the same man she would want to try and fix what they had. She would refuse to admit failure and letting go was an admission of that. Some would call that tenacity; others stubbornness.

“I know I don’t.”

He couldn’t tell if she had indeed decided what to do. It was really not his place to ask, not even if he heeded the call of his conscience to drink the anti-Polyjuice that very moment and ask her as ‘Harry’. He could not begin to imagine how that conversation would go

Staying any longer was going to make him lose control.

Tick… tock…tick…tock…

“Take care of yourself, okay?” he said to her.

She nodded.

“You too.”

Harry leaned down, intending to kiss her on her cheek but instead, finding the edge of her soft lips and unable to resist its pull, turned into it fully, allowing himself to get lost in her sweet gentle reply. This would be the last time he would kiss her this way and he wanted it to be etched forever in his memory.

He left her room with a churning sensation in his gut as the tingling sensation of her mouth on his lingered. The storm of emotions within him had to be sorted out and dealt with but it would have to be when he got back to London.

A few minutes later he got a call that the Toronto Auror watching over her was in place. He focused on the task at hand, his real assignment. Armed with his transfigured wand, a signalling device and a handful of bogus research proposals, he walked to the Ghoul barely noticing the almost knee deep snow the blizzard had left all over.

At the entrance, he lined up behind a couple of other blokes he recognized from the day before, politely chatted about the snowstorm and listened as the guy in front of him bragged.

“Half an hour,” Harry heard him say as they handed in their work and waited outside for what he was told was verification, “Got him plastered over a couple of shots of good ole Jack D and he was singing like a canary. Getting him to write it out legibly was something else. How did yours go?”

He wanted to make sure nobody else would get any ideas.

“She talked all night about her work I can still hear her in my head. I need a couple of Advils and to get as far away from her as possible,” he feigned a headache for good measure.

The man laughed as the Ghoul entrance opened up for them. There were a few other men already inside. Breakfast was being served by the waitress and the barkeep was filling drink orders as Waxball appeared from the Employee entrance beside the bar. He was followed closely by Floyd, who was carrying a small rectangular wooden box which he set on the bar.

Harry watched him sit down on a stool and pass the time lazily away with a couple of coins in his fingers, rolling them on top of each other as he did the day before and staring at him icily with familiar deep hatred. Well, it was personal.

He found the man he sat with yesterday, Klys, in one of the booths and joined him. Looking around, almost everyone looked like they could use a good night’s sleep.

“Congratulations,” Waxball said to the crowd of fifteen, Harry noticed that he had all the submissions for that morning in his hand. “Our employer will be as pleased as last year. Unfortunately, she had other commitments she can’t join us this morning.”

Klys gave him a knowing look. Klys was right; she was a no-show. That was quite unfortunate. His instructions were to signal as soon as all the expected players were all in place; like now. He held the device in his pants pocket as he took out his pen, his transfigured wand, to activate it.

“But as promised, aside from monetary compensation you are receiving in your bank accounts as I speak, you will each get a reward for your contribution,” Waxball continued he had to pause, thinking it was important to wait to see more of this. “Something that was a product of the efforts of last year. I’ve used it myself and the first time is special so I can only suggest that you chose well.”

Waxball nodded over to Floyd who put his coins away and slid the box open. There was a silence in the room as every Squib and Muggle eagerly waited what it was that Waxball referred to as something they’ve always wanted. It was hard to see what exactly but Floyd took a small phial that he was able to completely wrap in the palm of his hand. He slid the box shut, turned away, uncorked and tipped his head back, swallowing. Potion. Purple colored potion.

“As Mr. Floyd prepares to demonstrate for us keep in mind that you’ll only have at most twenty four hours to enjoy the use of it. Have fun. You’ve earned it,” Waxball continued speaking, drawing his attention, then turned it over to Floyd who still had murder in his eyes as he looked at Harry.

“Mr. Hunt,” Floyd called out, “Join me up here. I need some assistance with this demonstration.”

Harry had a bad feeling about this. A very bad one. Even Waxball had panic in his eyes.

“Tom,” Waxball interrupted, “A volunteer isn’t really necessary.”

“Didn’t you just say ‘have fun’?” Floyd pointed out with an excited glint in his eyes, “Loosen up, it’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, let the man have some fun,” Harry said stood up and walked towards him, wand pen in hand, prepared for almost anything, “We all know he could use it.”

That drew laughter from the crowd making Floyd flush redder than Weasley hair. If he was a dragon there would be fire coming out of his nose.

Harry got to the front and faced Floyd, glaring back at him, the maniacal fury within his adversary transparent. He had to ask to confirm, knowing that Floyd was one to gloat.

“Is it true? Did you beat up a witch last year for being smart enough not to go out with a stupid git like you?”

Floyd replied, smiling, “She was begging for it. Halfway through, she wasn’t feeling so smart anymore. She deserved to die for being the intellectual snob that she was. Just as you deserve to die for messing with me.”

“Your threats really need a lot of work,” he mocked.

He leaned in close enough so only Harry could hear, “I hope you like green light because that will be the last thing you will remember. You’re a dead man, Roy Hunt.”

For someone who had been bullied and cursed several times by one of the most evil wizards of all time, he could not be intimidated any less. His bland, bored expression incensed Floyd even more.

Floyd stepped back and took out a wand from his pocket. There was definitely no reason to wait any longer to find out exactly what Floyd wanted to do. He was an expert on death, wands, and green lights associated with the two. He had seen enough of it to last him ten lifetimes.

Harry thought about the possibility of a known Squib like Tom Floyd gaining magical ability to pull it off. It must be from the potion he just took. He almost burst out laughing as he heard Floyd mutter several versions of how to say ‘Avada Kedavra’, thinking, ask me, I know exactly how to say it. Floyd was a pathetic ridiculous version of Voldemort.

While he would have wanted to wait and see Floyd fall on his face with his ambitious demonstration, it was best to call in the troops. He activated the signalling device.

In no time at all, about twenty members of the Toronto MLE barged into the Ghoul Waterhole from all entrances and exits. Chaos ensued as the waitress and the barkeep took out semi-automatics and began strafing the room randomly with rapid gunfire necessitating everyone to take cover. It was literally raining bullets and it was raining hard. A few buzzed by his head and splintered the wall behind him. One grazed his shoulder.

His heart was pounding, his mind was racing. Spells were also being thrown around, likely by Hit wizards, their aim quite atrocious. More gunshots came from different areas within the Ghoul. He was crouched on all fours on the floor, quite open to anyone who just aimed at him. Across the way he saw Klys’ lifeless body near their booth. One MLE was dead too. There was a clear necessity to do something promptly.

The bartender was reloading. As soon as he found cover beside one of the concrete posts, he got on his feet, quickly transformed his pen back to his wand and summoned every gun and rifle in the room.

Accio!

Finally silence. There was a sound of broken glass breaking even more in the distance as he stepped out from where he took cover, crunching noise as his feet walked on debris. At least twenty pairs of eyes peering from behind tables, chairs and walls were on him, with mixed expressions. He felt his heart gradually thud slower against his chest, the adrenaline die down, and this tremendous weight on his arms overpower him. He staggered and fell hard, the armful of heavy metals he was carrying spilling away from him, numbering more than the people in the room and more than he anticipated. Waxball must have had an arsenal nearby.

As if on cue, the frenzy around him resumed. Muggles and Squibs fought against the MLE and tried to elude arrest. Harry tried to get up several times but he couldn’t. He swore. He had to get back into the fight. Floyd. He had to make sure they got Floyd for Helga Braun’s murder. He looked around and he couldn’t find Floyd’s greasy hair nor the box of phials that was on the bar counter.

A warm wet sensation on his left side and back drew his attention. He gazed down. All he could see was red. On the floor beside him a thick puddle of it had formed and was alarmingly growing exponentially by the second.

Not good.

The room started to spin around him. He felt no pain, only numbness all over. He lost the feeling in his legs and instinctively was drawing deeper breaths as if he was not getting enough air. He could barely focus on the two wizards that came out of nowhere to help him.

“Yeah, he’s the one,” he heard one of them say.

The one what?

“The Brits are going to go ape on us. He’s fucked up!” the other countered.

I really wanted to hear that. Thank you for pointing it out.

One of them cast a spell and he felt an agonizing tightening around his leg. A pressure spell, he presumed, to stop bleeding.

“That takes care of that one for now.”

I prefer numb, really.

“What about that hole, gushing with blood?”

Great. A hole. Gushing.

He closed his eyes. He could feel his energy draining. Deeper breaths didn’t seem to help. So this is how it feels to die.

Funny. Voldemort had seven years to finish him off and no amount of Dark Magic could. And here he was, dying a Muggle death from a gunshot wound. And for someone whose life was fading away, he felt way too calm.

His life flashed before his shut eyes as a series of memories, flooding his thoughts. His father, his mother, Sirius, Professor Dumbledore, Ron, and Hermione. She had been there from almost the very beginning, from when he became aware of who he was. She knew him before the hype of his defeat of Voldemort and stuck by him when things were bad after Quidditch.

For the longest time, she was the one constant in his life. His friend, his anchor, his rock. She was his occasional crutch, keeping him steady when he wasn’t and his lighthouse, shining the path to help him see where he was going and what dangers faced him. His home was home because he knew she was just two doors down and only a knock away.

She said something that morning that hit a chord. It was about why she would want to marry someone she did not love.

I want to be with someone who loves me, someone who I care about, to make a difference in his life and to make me feel that my existence matters.

He now realized what the panic within him since her engagement to Ron was about. She was indispensable, irreplaceable. She made a tremendous difference in his life, her existence mattered to him and she cared about him; she had ever since Hogwarts. She was the one person who consistently brought a smile to his face and made him feel good about himself. Every time she called him, came over to his apartment, asked him to take her out somewhere, or just be with each other, she made him feel that he was important to her, that his existence mattered.

He had not considered it before. He didn’t think she could possibly need him as much as he needed her. He thought she loved Ron and was happy with him. But last night she admitted that she didn’t and she obviously wasn’t. He wanted to make her happy.

And last night he saw her bare and uninhibited, not only physically but emotionally, seeing her as she never showed him, as she never would have had he not been a stranger. Even for that brief moment with her, delusional a thought as it may be at a time like this, he was almost sure that she could be happy with him.

It was an undeniable truth. It was so obvious to him now. One night would never be nearly enough. Why didn’t he see it before?

The other wizard held something against his chest, “We have to get him to a Healer, quick.”

Hermione. Take me to Hermione.

“Help me get him up.”

So much to tell her.

“I can’t do it by myself. We have to take him Side-along together.”

So much to confess.

“Quick! Before he loses consciousness!”

I can’t die.

“Where exactly?”

Not yet.

“The entrance, to trauma!”

Not without telling her that I love her.

An unpleasant tugging sensation came over him. He blacked out.

XXXXXXXXX

15 February 2006 – Hermione’s hotel room, moments after Roy left

Hermione knew she had to get up soon. Granted that doing so would officially end her night as her alter ego Jane, she just had to. And she shouldn’t have kissed Roy that way when they said goodbye.

That’s okay. You won’t see him again.

She stood and wrapped the white sheet around her as she, on autopilot picked up her clothes and other misplaced stuff from the floor. She grabbed her purse and her phone fell off from it. She picked it up and turned it on. Messages. Her eyes were shut as she listened to them one at a time.

Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ginny, Ron, Ron, Ron

Just as she was finished with the last one her phone rang.

“Hi,” she said to Ron, the tears that had built up as she was hearing his messages from last night were silently falling now, the crushing weight of guilt bearing down heavily on her.

He asked how she was, worried about her.

“I’m fine. I just needed some time away.”

He said he understood; that Ginny explained how she needed it, how it would not be a good idea to go and see her last night, that he had to give her space. But that he wished she could have at least called to tell him she was okay.

“I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking,” she apologized. He was right; and she would have had she realized he might be looking her. “It won’t happen again.”

He repeated most of what he said in his messages from last night. He said he was sorry, too, about their argument, about how childish he was, admitting for the first time how jealous and insecure he was of Harry, mostly when it came to her, and how he would try his best not to be anymore.

There was, but now there was no reason to be. She felt a gnawing deep cut in her chest.

“I’ll call you back,” she managed to say, barely, “I have to go.”

She hung up just as Ron let her. She showered, hot, long, with more tears of guilt, remorse, and heartache, unsure of which was giving her the most reason to cry about and uncertain of what to do next. And after, Hermione couldn’t look at herself in the mirror, not only because she was so puffy-eyed from crying, but also because she just couldn’t.

Her phone rang.

The Toronto Hospital?

She was puzzled. Not knowing what to expect, she answered.

XXXXXXXXXX

8 February 2007 – Toronto, before sunrise.

As the Healers of St. Mungo’s were marvelling at the Squib Argus Filch’s fleeting late onset acquisition of magical capability, Harry could not have been more disinterested in what he was doing in Toronto. He and Andy were on a stakeout in their Ford Taurus, a few meters away from the back entrance of the Ghoul Waterhole.

It was almost six in the morning. He was cold, he was tired, and all night there was nothing out of the ordinary. He could have gone to London and back.

Having been both up since four the morning before, he convinced Andy to take a nap some six hours ago. He took the first shift and he would wake her if something happened. Nothing happened and he decided to let her sleep knowing that he probably couldn’t anyway.

In all likelihood, Floyd was just pulling a stunt and wanted to have fun seeing how high the Ministry would jump. Although his need to hurt Floyd was assuaged temporarily, his mounting frustration about him could not be denied. Almost a year had passed since Ron died and he was no closer to finding out what really happened and proving what he knew was a fact. Ron’s fall was not an accident. It was murder, Floyd had something to do with it and he had an idea how.

He told the London authorities, Kingsley, the Minister. They said they wanted to believe him but there was just no proof. He had physical evidence, but it was proof he could not show them and Floyd only knew that too well.

Quid pro quo.

How he hated that phrase! Floyd killed Ron because he held Harry responsible for Waxball’s suicide. He found out Harry was Roy Hunt and took payment in kind; a brother for a brother. And not only that, Floyd found out about Hermione and dragged her into it. He suspected that it was Floyd who made sure she would know without a doubt that he was Roy Hunt. Hermione was right. If only the Roy Hunt affair ended in Toronto.

Hermione was so distraught when Ron died. There was no explaining to her how it happened and that the Roy Hunt affair wasn’t about what she thought it was about. There was no explaining to her that Ron was murdered by Floyd. There was no explaining to her that he loved her when all she could think about was how hurt Ron must have felt knowing she had been unfaithful and how he didn’t get a chance to be angry at her, to tell her exactly what he thought. There was only the grief, remorse, and guilt she had to live with.

And towards him utter disgust. Not undeserving he stayed back. He wanted so much to be there to comfort her for Ron’s loss, and for her to comfort him, but that was not possible, not after what had happened. This was the consequence he was dreading. It was penance she imposed and he lived with for the past year.

As an Auror there were assumed risks. Retaliation against him for a job well done was one of them but for quite some time he could not grasp the idea that Ron was dead because of him and because of what he did for a living.

Had he not jumped at becoming an Auror to make sure Hermione was going to be safe would Ron be alive today? Would Hermione? Would Hermione have had that affair? Or would they all be in London right now, having dinner at their Richmond house, them a happy expecting couple talking about what color to paint the nursery and telling him how a wonderful godfather he would make?

Toronto was an assignment and it turned out to be much more than he bargained for. It was the good, the bad and the ugly. The Toronto mission made him realize that there was more to his feelings for Hermione than he thought there was. But because he took it, Ron died and Hermione wasn’t talking to him. And because of it, he could not be with her.

There was really nothing else he could do except hope she would forgive him, just enough to be in the same room with him or even start reading his letters. He had his own guilt about Ron and about Ron’s death to deal with and the only way he knew how was to focus his energies to bring Floyd to justice. He worked on the case feverishly until he realized they were right. There were no clues to uncover in London and everything led to Toronto. He had to go.

On record Floyd was in a Toronto Muggle prison the night Ron died, picked up by police after a scuffle in a club. But he was definitely on the pitch that night Ron fell. He had a theory about how Floyd was in two different places at the same time but the Muggle who he suspected Floyd forced to drink Polyjuice Potion to impersonate him for one night died of ‘natural causes’ just before Harry was to meet him months back.

Then suddenly, nothing. Floyd appeared to convert to a church choir boy, hair parted in the middle, neatly pressed, voice always perfectly hitting the high note. He became a legitimate businessman on paper but that was all hogwash. Twice Harry went over the edge to provoke him to prove that the Squib could do magic and twice he came close to being thrown out of Canada.

And he could not prove that the magic enabling purple potion existed. Floyd had slipped out that post Valentine’s day carnage at the Ghoul last year with it and Waxball was left holding the bag of research papers. He was going to be tried for Helga Braun’s murder and decided to make his exit by taking his own life. With Waxball’s death, they not only lost their link to the witch who was paying for and reaping the gains of his troop’s ‘research’ work, they lost the link to Floyd as well.

That was what was frustrating. His quest for justice for Ron’s death was not only because Ron was his best mate. He had to prove that it was not an accident. He had to prove it for him, but mostly for her. Hermione continued to blame herself for the ‘accident’, believing that had Ron not known she had an affair it wouldn’t have happened. To those who knew about the affair, her arriving at that conclusion was quite annoyingly far out and there was no convincing her otherwise. Rational thinking left Hermione that moment Ron died and her overwhelming guilt and grief took over. In her mind, none of this would have happened had she abstained from Roy Hunt.

Maybe he was delusional but he was hoping that if he could at least prove that Ron’s death was not an accident, that it was intentionally malicious and that it would have happened despite of what she did, it would make her feel better about herself, and stop punishing them for it.

This thing with Malfoy just proved how bad her loss of rational thinking had become. The thought of her with anyone else was gut wrenching but the thought of her with him was maddening. Pink Floyd may have lessened the exasperation he felt but as he sat in the cold, sleep deprived, staring at the dead stillness in the dimly lit back alley and simmering from thoughts of her, it was growing to dangerously high levels again.

He had to see her soon if it was just to tell her what a big mistake it was to trust that arrogant oaf. Ugh! Just imagining her say his first name made his blood boil.

A rustle behind mercifully distracted him. Andy must have shifted. All night he was hearing Andy’s breathing it reminded him of Hermione that first time they made love, how exhilarating it felt to watch her fall asleep in his arms and then have her soft breath lull him to rest. The evening with her was so special, not to mention amusing and enlightening, thinking about it always brought a bittersweet smile to his face.

The backdoor he was watching suddenly swung open and several of Floyd’s goons, five of them went off in different directions afoot. One got into a parked van. He nudged Andy.

“Something’s up,” he said to her, now fully alert and starting to get a rush.

Andy got her bearings back and asked, “How do you want to do this?”

Just then, Floyd’s tall figure emerged from the Ghoul with a small wooden box in his hand, paused at the exit. He took out a wand, conjured a dark colored backpack out of thin air and slipped the box in it. It looked like the same box he saw last year. His long legs started walking away from them.

Andy commented, “Fuck. You’re right, he can do magic.”

Harry replied abruptly, “I’ll follow Floyd on foot. Trail the one in the van and search it as soon as he gives you probable cause. I’ll meet up with you later.”

Floyd was a distance off and was quickening his pace. Harry donned on an Invisibility Cloak and walked briskly across the street from him. He was heading south towards Dundas, turning east at the Art Gallery and down the flight of stairs into the subway. Floyd joined a fairly small crowd of early morning commuters.

He got on the lead car and sat on an empty seat looking around as if waiting for someone. The train rolled off into the tunnel. The Squib seemed to be enjoying a carefree ride. An announcement came.

Arriving at College. College station.

The train stopped. A woman boarded and sat beside him despite the numerous empty seats. That was definitely not right. As the train left College Station Harry moved closer and was standing almost over them just as she gave him an envelope. Floyd looked in it. It was full of Muggle cash.

Harry was taking out his wand when the train experienced a sudden jolt caused as it ran roughly around a bend. His cloak must have moved because Floyd gave the wad of money back to the woman and began walking to the back of the car. He opened the connecting door and walked into the adjacent car, quickly.

He followed him between cars, taking his Cloak off in the darkness between. Greasy looked back, saw him and started running towards the very back of the train. Startled commuters expressed their shock as the two men ran from car to car. Harry couldn’t use magic, not in such public place and not against a known Squib. Floyd was bound to run out of space soon.

Somebody had sounded the emergency alarm and rightfully so. As he got into the last car, he was just in time to watch Greasy, open wooden box in one hand, take the same purple potion he saw him take a year ago. He smirked at Harry then Disapparated!

Argh!

Extremely frustrated, he went over to the spot where Floyd had stood just before disappearing. Something caught his attention.

There were two phials on the floor.

He picked them up.

One was empty.

One was full of purple potion.

Chapter 21 – Wanting the Impossible

Amidst the shrill ringing sound of the subway passenger assistance alarm, Harry looked around and noticed that the last subway car had emptied during the commotion. He quickly pocketed both phials and held on to them as he Disapparated just before the transit officers came.

In no time he was back in the alley where he and Andy had spent the night. Neither Andy nor Floyd’s henchman was there. He called her on the phone.

“Where are you?”

“Still on his ass,” she replied, “He’s stopped at the docks near the end of Cherry Street. His cabin lights are on and it appears like he’s picking his nose, disgusting pig. What about you?”

Harry told her.

“And Greasy?”

“He Disapparated on me in the subway,” he replied, “One can only guess where he is right now. But I did find a phial of potion.”

“THE potion?”

“I believe so,” Harry could not think that it was not the same magic enabling potion Floyd took before he Disapparated. “I gotta run it up to the Lab to see what they find. I’ll see about getting someone to take over for you.”

“Harry.”

There was something suddenly very odd about her voice.

“Yeah?”

He heard her sniffing.

“I smell something.”

“What?”

“Shit!”

“What?!”

“I um…found Greasy.”

“He’s there?!”

“The slimy freak is right beside me.”

Then the line went dead.

In a split second he Disapparated to where Cherry Street ended and had his wand drawn out. He didn’t know exactly where she was but he hoped he was close. The sun wasn’t up yet and there was an eerie silence in the darkness that made the small hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. He paused, trying to listen.

A distant sound of a revving car engine caught his attention and he saw a faint taillight speeding away about two hundred meters off to his left further up the shoreline. He ran towards its direction. On the single streetlamp in the vicinity, an almost used up light bulb flickered for the first time since he arrived and was struggling mightily to illuminate the surrounding area. He could barely see it but the Ministry issue Ford Taurus was there and its passenger cabin was empty. A sudden whiff of a familiar awful odour filled his senses. He needed more light.

Lumos!

He walked around and peered inside the car for a closer look, his wand lighting the way. A piece of paper was on the driver’s seat.

For last night - Quid pro quo

Surely, Floyd wasn’t so stupid so as to do anything to Andy. He wouldn’t want the entire Toronto MLE out for his blood at this point in time. On the other hand, he was a cocky son of a hag. Really concerned now, he scanned the perimeter for signs of human life hopeful when he got a positive hit. If it was Andy, she was very close.

He walked around the car once more, stood at the back and opened the trunk. The horrible stench overwhelmed him and on impulse did the first thing that came to mind before staggering back.

“Scourgify!”

A literally petrified Andy was in the trunk, eyes ablaze, furious as even he had never seen before.

“Rennervate!”

The moment she regained control of her muscles she immediate got out of the compartment, ran off to the nearby streetlamp, and held it for support as she retched her gut out. He could certainly understand why. Thankful that at least she was physically okay, his eye caught sight of another note stuck on the inside on the trunk.

I felt generous. Next time, she won’t be breathing.

As he glanced over to his partner who was cursing creatively in between the vomiting, he was certain that Floyd would eventually wish he wasn’t so charitable.

XXXXXXXXXX

Dennis Creevey quickened his pace and glanced over his back to make sure no one was following him. He had just met with the Potion Master and dropped off more St. Mungo phials. He reported the Argus Filch incidence and got the reaction he expected. They had no choice on the matter. It would have to be done to keep the lid from blowing off before the Toronto conference. With the Healers milling around the miracle Squib, the only question was who would do it and when.

And there was the other matter.

He stopped, looked around and phoned Lestrange. He told her about Granger having an emergent need to be in Toronto and the possibility that she would not get any additional potion prior to Mexico. The matter of her trip to Mexico wasn’t clear to him either.

Lestrange seemed unperturbed.

XXXXXXXXXX

Not a couple of hours later, Hermione stepped out of a cab and onto the curb in front of Harry’s rented Toronto townhouse. The slow, agonizing beat of drums against her chest was deafening. Unbeknownst why, she was overcome with a sense of dread as she visualized herself talking to him. She was scared and no amount of pep talk was going to change that.

You have to do this.

Right.

Get it over with.

Sounds splendid.

Hermione found herself facing the door. She took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly.

Ding dong…

She waited. Maybe he wasn’t home although the Auror at the Ministry said to try him here. She resisted an impulse to turn away. She wasn’t about to give herself a way out of this too quickly.

Ding dong…

She heard muffled voices within. The door flung open but instead of Harry she found herself facing a tall, blonde woman with blue eyes and a confident air about her. She was also wearing what looked like men’s clothes. Harry’s?

Ouch…

“Hi. Can I help you?” the woman asked.

“I might be in the wrong place,” she said, thinking that it was definitely possible that she was.

Or maybe she wasn’t. Was she just stupid and blind to not consider that this could happen? The woman confirmed that she was.

“Are you Hermione?” she asked, seemingly excited, giving Hermione that same uncomfortable feeling that this woman knew more about her than she would have wanted.

“Um…yes,” she replied.

“Come in,” the woman ushered with enthusiasm, stepping aside, “He’s just getting changed. This is unexpected.”

It was definitely unforeseen. She didn’t even think that this was a possibility and it was throwing her off. She needed to gather her thoughts and make sense of it before meeting him.

“I should really come back at a later time.”

“Who is it, Andy?” Harry’s voice flew towards them from deep within.

Too late. Best of luck.

“You’re not going to believe this. It’s Hermione,” this ‘Andy’ replied back.

She heard the sound of footsteps drawing near. It seemed from his reply that this, that she, was an ongoing joke between them.

“I swear to Merlin your pink knickers and a copy of Canadian Witch Has-beens will find its way on the Ministry announcement board if you’re making fun of …” he swung the door, opening it wider and saw her, “…me. Hermione…”

“Harry,” she heard somebody say his name.

Hermione was certain it was mere perception that they stood there frozen for quite some time. The sight of him siphoned the remaining air in her lungs and amplified the deafening sound of the beating in her chest. She missed him, no doubt. She missed seeing his untamed black hair, his warm green eyes, his mouth with that roguish smile and even the faint scar on his forehead that distinguished him from everyone else. She missed the playfulness in his voice that she just heard right now and the mischief in the look that he just gave the woman who answered the door.

This was why she wasn’t ready. She still wanted to be with him, needed to be with him despite knowing that she couldn’t possibly be happy with him.

He put on the dark green sweater he was about to before he came to answer the door. He must have just stepped out of the shower.

“This is a surprise,” he said, it obviously was for him.

Harry seemed more curious than happy about her showing up unexpectedly at his doorstep. She preferred it this way, to come unannounced. She did not want him prepared for their meeting. The less time he had thinking about what to say to her, the less time it would take her to do what she had to do, the less possibility of her needing medical attention for inability to breath. Focus. This is Order business.

“I was at the Ministry and they said I might find you here. I should have called,” she glanced over to the tall blonde woman, in apology. “If this is a bad time, I…”

He interrupted her mid-speech, shaking his head, “No, it’s not. We were just on our way out.”

‘We’ came out so naturally and spontaneously they must have been together for quite some time. He was joshing her about ‘pink’ knickers and she was in his clothes. He had finally found someone to do that with.

This was really good. He had closure and they wouldn’t have to do that part of the talk. Yes, she loved him, but like twice before she could move on, knowing there would be no resistance from him. Just what the Healer ordered, a definite conclusion. It was something that should have happened at Hogwarts.

“I’m Andy, by the way, Andy Marsh. Harry has told me a lot about you. I’m his partner.”

“I see,” was all she could muster to say as she ignored the green tinge that the surrounding seemed to acquire each time the blonde woman spoke.

They politely shook hands. Meeting Harry Potter girlfriends was not a great experience and this time she distanced herself, not judging this one’s suitability to her former best friend, not thinking how good enough she was for him. It was far too painful to go trek down that path this time around.

“She’s an Auror, too. We work together,” Harry explained.

Why he would think that she actually wanted to know that was beyond her.

“My condolences,” Hermione turned to her and said.

The remark was an attempt at humour, taking a page from Ron’s how-to-disperse-pain-and-awkwardness book.

“Thanks for empathizing with my misery,” she replied, chuckling.

At least she had a sense of humour. It was a good time to shift to more relevant matters.

“The Order sent me. I need a few minutes of your time.”

“The Order sent you?” Harry asked her.

“Yes.”

Harry started laughing hysterically; irritatingly hysterically. What was so comical?! She felt her face flush but recognizing beforehand how this, him provoking not so neutral emotions from within her, could happen, she willed herself to focus for a little while longer. She needed a simple answer if she could only hold on to her wits long enough to ask the question.

“The Order sent you?!” he repeated.

“I’ll report back that at least one of us finds that amusing,” she remarked sarcastically hoping to convey her displeasure.

“The Order sent her!” he said to his partner.

Andy laughed with him, a bit more contained, “I know it seems very funny right now but I think you should stop saying that. You look like you’re losing it.”

“I hope he takes something for this,” she addressed her.

She was half-serious and half-insulting, unaware of what Harry’s mental state and health was over the past year. Any good partner should know. Hermione noticed that she had transformed Harry’s clothes to a more feminine version.

“He’s normally morose and depressing. This is quite an interesting side of him that I haven’t seen before,” Andy replied and then turned to Harry, “Don’t rush. I’ll see you at the Ministry.”

Hermione stepped into his house and he shut the door, his inability to control the enjoyment he was experiencing annoying her no end. Not knowing the reason for his shared amusement with his ‘partner’ was disconcerting but she would never ask him why even if that was the last burning subject she had on her mind.

He led her into his living room and helped her out of her coat. A couch, centre table, a telly, a bookcase with generic literature. Except for some very healthy plants near the window, it was plain, impersonal, nothing to indicate who or what kind of person lived in the house. Curious, it even looked like it was space barely lived in. The plants were definitely not ‘him’. They were greener than normal as she thought that maybe they crashed Andy’s place more often.

“You just don’t know how funny it is you showing up after all that’s been happening since yesterday,” that would be the old Harry trying to share a joke.

“I don’t really care what you and your partner do to keep yourselves entertained,” Hermione replied, wishing it came across as more indifferent than sarcastic. She was having trouble not making it personal. “I’m just here to ask you a question.”

She settled as close to the entrance and as far away from Harry as she could. She wondered about Apparition wards and planned for the quickest exit route in case there was fire. The laughter and smile on Harry’s face finally disappeared.

“Tea?” he offered.

She shook her head. Firewhiskey.

“Coffee?”

“No, thanks.” Lots of it.

“Have a seat.”

“I won’t be staying long.”

She had no intention to. It was uncomfortable, them talking so distant, physically and emotionally.

“Are you here for the research conference?”

“No, I came just for this.”

“For the Order.”

“Yes.”

“To convince me to come back to London.”

“Yes.”

“I gave them my answer, twice. And still they send you.”

“The situation is desperate.”

“I can see that, but considering you won’t even open my letters, I find it hard to believe that you’re desperate to have me back in London, too.”

He was right. ‘Desperate’ would not be the word to describe her feelings about having him back in London. Conflicted, maybe. Chaotic seemed right.

“My personal preferences take a backseat to the greater good,” she replied, remembering how she was taking one for the team.

She certainly learned her lesson when she didn’t choose the greater good the last time she was in Toronto.

“I see,” he answered and continued, seriously, “I’m not sure if I should be flattered that I’m important enough for you to come or insulted that you did.”

“I stopped trying to figure out how you felt a long time ago,” that would be last year when she found out he was Roy Hunt, “I can’t help you with that.”

“You know why they want me back,” he had this tone; he was upset.

“We need to get more witches and wizards involved in the Order. You know the balance has always been tenuous at best. We can’t lose what we’ve fought so hard for,” she replied, doing what she said she would, make a best effort to get him to agree to come back.

Out of the blue, Harry startled her with an impassionate diatribe against the Order.

“Why can’t they just leave me alone?! All they want is a poster boy! And it will be like Cannon Quidditch all over again. I’m just so disappointed that you agreed to come because you of all people should know I’m done doing that!”

Hermione was taken aback by what he said but met his fiery gaze in kind. He was disappointed? In her?! He made it sound as if she was selling her soul to come and convince him to go home! That because she knew that after his experience with Quidditch he wouldn’t want to be their poster boy for recruitment, it was a crime to try and do as the Order asked!

Unable to hold back, she said icily, “I do know and I told them. I told them that you are not the same person ten years ago. That you’re not the fifteen-year-old kid they remember who wanted to be a member of the Order even before you could be. That you’re not the same man who saved Wizardom from Voldemort, risked life and all that was important to you because you believed in what you were fighting for.”

“What I did not tell them was that you’re now a selfish fool who would have no qualms about hurting people who care about you and that there was no one more important to you than yourself. I said I would go, do my best to persuade you to come, but I did not tell them how happy I would be if you said ‘no’. Because if you said ‘yes’, I would have to bear the burden of guilt thinking about all those people who will risk all that they have, their lives, their families, their future, believing in someone who was not worthy of the trust they were going to give him!”

He did not answer, the rage in him had obviously subsided and it was now mixed with palpable annoyance and obvious hurt. She had thought that for a long time but never said it to his face. She never had the heart to point it out, hoping that if she didn’t it wasn’t true. His inability to come up with a rebuttal said it all.

Tears were streaming quietly down her cheeks, crying for the loss of a good man, a man she once knew. She walked towards the front door, stopped right beside him, and without looking at him, said one more truth that she just couldn’t keep to herself anymore.

“You’re going to be a poster boy because you will choose to be one. It will be sad when you do. I don’t believe you were ever one before.”

As she walked towards the door, she brushed the wetness off her face and gritted her teeth to stem the dam from breaking and further flooding Harry’s living room floor. It was a lot to say to someone she never wanted to hurt, someone she would fiercely protect against being hurt, someone she cared about, the one man she loved. It hurt her to hurt him. The rest of the conversation would have to be put on hold after she got herself together. And if that didn’t happen within the day she would not be surprised.

“Wait!”

She stopped, mostly a reflex to his request. He had that power over her. Without looking back she could feel him approach. He settled in front of her, so disconcertingly close they were breathing the same air.

In her mind she begged in silence, Please, don’t make me hurt you more than I already have.

He stood there and didn’t say anything until she looked up and met his enquiring gaze.

“Do you want me back?” he asked her, softly, almost a whisper, with an evident desperation for the truth.

It was a question that meant more than the five words he put together and she quickly looked away because the answer would have been so obvious. She was not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing the truth and have him play her like he did the last time.

To want him was one thing but to be with him was just not possible.

Chapter 22 – A Life Sentence

Harry noticed her loss of eye contact and waited for an answer.

He was sleep deprived, tired and he just spent a good part of the morning doing something he wasn’t used to doing. Andy was all set to storm Floyd’s place with wands on both hands firing at will. If not for the phials and the first real chance of putting Floyd behind bars he would have had no issues with that and would have gladly joined her. Awkwardly, he played the role of pacifist, persuading her Floyd wasn’t worth losing her career and job over, and suggesting that it would be a great idea to give herself a thorough cleansing to fully rid herself of the Ghoul’s leftover special from last night’s menu.

It was Auror culture and a sport to highlight someone else’s embarrassing misfortune. It was bad enough being petrified by a Squib. They agreed that the last upsetting bit about her being trapped in a smelly trunk was not necessary to mention in their report and strutting into the station straight from the docks was out of the question. He insisted she use his place and his clothes, take her time while he delivered a report to Muller and the rest of the MLE about what just happened and about the night before. He ignored Muller’s glare and stressed that they were just having dinner when they were attacked and had to defend themselves last night.

His report about the purple potion and its apparent magic endowing properties elicited mixed reactions. There were quite a few sceptics who insisted and convinced Muller to await potion analysis.

He dropped by the lab and got a snotty git at service, a wizard by the name of Miles, known for lack of intelligence and sloppy forensics work. Seeing as he had already made a report he had to give this Miles the evidence. He gave Miles most of it. He decided to hang on to the phial filled with potion and hand it in later to Miles’ boss with whom he had more confidence in.

When Hermione showed up, he had just stepped out of the shower. They were about to go back to the Ministry to check on the labs and see if the Ministry experts were able to extract residues from the empty phial to support that it was in fact a magic enabling potion. Thoughts of Floyd and the case were gone the moment he realized Andy was not pulling his leg.

Seeing her for the first time in almost a year, he paused and for a while imagined her giving him one of her famous bone-crunching hugs, like the ones she used to give him at Hogwarts. He was quite jubilant that Hermione was in Toronto. She was actually here, in the flesh, and it took every ounce of his will power to not do something she would consider inappropriate.

The euphoria died down when he recognized that she only came for the Order and not to sort things out with him. It was disheartening to know that she wasn’t interested in doing that; that repairing their friendship was not important to her. And after that sank in, things went south fairly quickly.

He was miffed at himself for not having the self-control to keep his mouth shut about what he thought of the Order’s request and blamed his sudden belligerence on lack of sleep. He shouldn’t have taken it out on her and he was paying for it. Her retort to his angry outburst stung because it showed clearly just how low her opinion of him was.

But did she want him back?

The only reason he could think of why he would agree to come back to London to stay was if she did. It would be pointless, not to mention agonizing, to go back and not be a part of her life. All his unread letters to her asked that question. He wanted to know where he stood. He wanted to know if his deed was unforgivable; if this punishment was a life sentence. He had to know and he had to know from her.

“The Order wants you back,” she answered, walking away from him and deep into his living room, seemingly as far from him as she possibly could.

It was annoying and frustrating not to be able to get a straight answer from her. He could only believe she was purposely doing it to torment him further, not that he didn’t think he deserved it. She might as well just tell him ‘no’.

He followed her and stood about five feet away from where she was, between her and the only way out, “I know that. But do you?”

“I am a member of the Order. The Order wants you back,” she repeated, then said sardonically, “That’s not too hard to follow, is it?”

He had enough and decided that he had to be downright direct.

“Stop playing with words. You know what I’m asking. Do you want me back in your life?”

“You have your unopened letters,” she replied frostily, “The answer to your question should be clear enough.”

“You haven’t even read any of them.”

“I’d be reading tall tales and that would be such a waste of time.”

The piercing remarks were definitely getting to him. Cranky Harry resurfaced.

“Do you realize how maddening that is? You refuse to see me, talk to me and read my letters. How am I supposed to explain my side of the story and apologize?”

“Take a hint. You’re not supposed to because I don’t want your lame excuses or your pathetic apologies and particularly not your continuing lies.”

“But I guess you don’t mind lies so much if they come from someone else,” he snarled back.

He was referring to Malfoy, of course, and Hermione knew exactly who but chose not to bring him into the fray. The remark had done its job. She was insulted and she usually bit back when she was.

“Are we talking about Roy because that was last year and I don’t remember having this conversation?”

She chose to talk about Roy instead. The lesser evil? Interesting.

“No, this isn’t about Roy and you wouldn’t remember talking about Roy because we never did talk about Roy. You never gave me a chance!”

He wanted her to lambaste him; he wanted to hear her tell him how hurt she was. He deserved the lashing out and not the cold, avoidant, indifferent treatment of the past year.

“I was just keeping a promise I made that one stupid night! Do you remember or should I ask the Maples to remind you? What happened in Toronto was to stay in Toronto.”

Grrr! Really?! Honestly?! When so much was at stake?! Putting years of friendship and more on the line for it? Did she just mean they wasted a year of their lives not talking to each other because of that stupid pact?!

“Where we are now depended so much on that night,” Harry was ranting, “You expect to me to believe that was the reason you refuse to talk about it. It was a promise between two strangers!”

“It was a promise nonetheless,” she blurted out, “And as I recall it wasn’t my idea. You should have kept it.”

“I did, but I couldn’t anymore, not after Ron died. I had to explain.”

He couldn’t keep mum about it. But they were in so much grief and guilt, nothing made sense.

“Stop lying! Ron found out you were Roy and he found out what we did! You were the only one who could have told him.”

There was definitely nothing he could say or do to wipe the contempt off her face as she gave him a piece of her mind. If she was incensed at him because she thought he was the one who told Ron then she was angry with him for no reason. And besides, shouldn’t she be more upset about the fact that he was Roy?

“It wasn’t me! You’re not wrong often but you are this time.”

“Spare me the conspiracy theory!”

Trust was such a fickle thing. For years you nurture it and take care of it, allow it to thrive and grow, but once you lost it, it was so hard to get back. His words were no longer meaningful to her. Hermione knew why he asked to be assigned in Toronto and why he continued to be in Toronto. He told her before he left so she would not misunderstand the reason for his leaving. Obviously, she did not believe him about that either. He didn’t know how but he had to convince her of the truth that it was Floyd and that he had proof. First, he had to work on convincing her to at least listen and give him a chance.

“I admit. I wanted to tell him the moment I came back and saw that you were going to go through with the marriage. I was going to after the Quidditch finals. I wanted him to know if only to stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life.”

“I already made the biggest mistake of my life. Marrying Ron would have been a distant second!” she countered, making him wish she wasn’t as sharp as she was because every biting remark from her hurt like hell.

“Accident or not, Ron’s death wasn’t your fault nor mine,” he pointed out. “Stop punishing us for it!”

“Do you think I want this? I was unfaithful and I deserve the consequences of my misdeed. This is not meant to punish you.”

“It sure feels like it.”

“Well, it’s torture for me to remember Roy so can you blame me for not wanting to have anything to do with you?”

Unable to resist any further, he moved closer and reached for her hand, “But I want to be with you.”

She forcibly shook him off and recoiled, scoffing at his last declaration, “You don’t have to make me feel better. We both know that if you did, I would have never met Roy.”

“I had to protect you!”

“I was an assignment! Call me a moron if I’m wrong in assuming that having sex with me wasn’t part of it,” her eyes were ablaze with hurt and revulsion.

“It didn’t happen the way you think it did. I wasn’t sure how I felt about you then and you wanted a last fling,” somehow his well-rehearsed explanation did not come out as fluidly and as convincingly as he wanted to.

Furious, she yelled, “With a stranger! I never signed up to have one with a lying, sneaky, Polyjuiced traitor who was supposed to be my friend and my fiancé’s best friend!”

It hurt him to hear her say that for more reasons than the obvious. But it was the truth and he wanted her to say it to him.

“Were you expecting gratitude for sleeping with me?! Were you doing me a favour because I seemed so desperate?!”

“No, I was the desperate one,” he replied quietly, relative to the exchange they just had, “I had wanted and imagined such intimacy with you for so long and you were getting married. I was just a fool not to recognize sooner that I wanted more than one night with you; that my desperation had more to do with the fact that I was about to lose the woman who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”

She was crying, furious and shaking her head. He knew she was about to say more wounding insults, likely telling to stop with the lies. He cut her off before she could.

“I know you don’t believe me but it’s the truth. That night I spent with you as Roy I found out things about you and me I never would have had I not been the stranger that he was. If not for that fact, I would totally regret what I did,” he continued. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. Know that I never intended to. If I could do it all over again I would have told you how I felt when Ron first told me that you were getting married and you might have helped me sort it out. If I could do it all over again, I would have offered to be your last fling when we first talked about it, then I wouldn’t have had to lie to you.”

“There’s not much comfort there,” she replied, calmer, more composed. “The sad thing about that is I would have said ‘yes’. Ron would have still been hurt.”

“Yes, he would have.”

Harry wasn’t really sure if they could have remained friends either, not when he had realized he loved her and she was intent on marrying Ron.

“Were you ever going to tell me about Roy?”

He looked at her and watched her get hurt even more as he gave her his honest reply with a remorseful understated shake of his head. He couldn’t because he knew this would happen.

Despite the raw emotions they were flinging all over the place, their tones were now more serene and even. They had said a lot about Roy Hunt and not surprisingly he had old and new questions that needed answers.

Why would she have accepted his offer to be her last fling?

Was she only remorseful because Ron got hurt?

And, he had to confirm how and when exactly she found out.

But Harry couldn’t push her anymore than he already had. At this point, he knew she just didn’t trust him enough and any questioning would be met with more avoidance if not open hostility. He had to step back and work on regaining some semblance of credibility. He wondered how long that would take.

She said in a more relaxed voice, “I came to ask you not to send me anymore letters. I came to tell you that we can’t go back to the way it was before and to ask you not to hope for that.”

With those words his worst fear just became reality.

“Retribution for being ‘Roy Hunt’?”

“No. A most unfortunate outcome.”

“A life sentence?”

“I can’t imagine it being otherwise.”

After hearing her talk about him and Roy he couldn’t either and the implication of it being so was hard to swallow. He had hoped for her forgiveness and it was forgiveness that was evidently never going to come. But just because he couldn’t see it didn’t mean he couldn’t wish that it wasn’t unforgivable. He had to try and reason with her.

“Ron’s dead, there is nothing that can bring him back to life. No penance, no act of repentance.”

“I agree, but I can’t look at you and not be reminded of what I did to him, of what a terrible person I am. I can’t live my entire life thinking that.”

Hermione was about to cry again and she really didn’t have to explain. He realized why she was asking what she was asking for. She needed closure and she needed him to accept this consequence of what they did. That consequence was he couldn’t be a part of her life. He felt intense heat starting to build up in his head.

She asked him, “You understand, don’t you?”

He did and he didn’t, and the mixed emotions enraged him even more. It could have been so much different but it wasn’t. It could have been different had he not been foolish enough to come up with the Roy Hunt idea and to think he could get away with it. It could have been different had Hermione not been so guilt-ridden about the entire episode and was just half the self-flagellating…person that she was. It could have been different had Ron lived to tell them exactly how he felt.

Hermione might have thought it was justified but to him it was unacceptable. She didn’t want him back in her life. The finality of it was all too sudden. Justice was too swift, his sentence laid down even before he could defend himself and the punishment was harsher than death. And to make it worse, she wouldn’t even give him the right to appeal.

Harry could only see red; fury for the predicament they were in, sore at himself for what he did to her and at her for deciding on this long before she came to see him. He had to vent on something else. Or someone else.

I can’t look at you and not be reminded of what I did to him, of what a terrible person I am.

Did she only mean that about him or was this the same thinking that made her date Malfoy?

And despite knowing better, he let go of the next thought that came to mind.

“I understand completely. What you’re doing makes perfect sense,” he said with an overpowering sarcasm she would have had to be brain dead to miss it. “You won’t give me a second chance because I make you feel bad and yet you’d rather be with a vile, arrogant, less-than-human oaf!”

A/N. Did quite a bit of rewriting on this chapter. The original was definitely not Portkey worthy :P. Even this one would probably get razzies but the outcome had to be congruent with the other version.

XXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 23 – One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

Harry suddenly felt like they were in a boxing match and the bell rang to signal the start of another round. He couldn’t keep track but from the bruising he felt they had to be deep into the match.

This round certainly got off on a good start.

“What?!”

If his Malfoy tirade stumped her such that she could only come up with a one word reply that was victory in itself. Hermione had an incredulous look, as if she could not comprehend how he arrived at that conclusion. Harry had also blindsided her with his sudden outburst about Malfoy and she was definitely irked that she was being goaded into an argument about the ferret.

“I can certainly understand why being with such a lowlife who is an ass beyond imagination makes you feel loads better about yourself! Your one mistake does pale in comparison to what he’s done in his lifetime!”

“This isn’t about him!”

“It is now.”

“Who I want to be with is none of your business,” she hissed, her features hardened to match his.

She was trying to not get her boyfriend involved in all this, being as protective as ever, as expected. Well, that was just too bad because he had a bone to pick about her dating him. Did she just say ‘want’?!

“There’s something seriously wrong with you if you can say what you just said about him and not throw up!”

Hermione had a slight crimson shade to her complexion. He actually missed seeing that.

“We haven’t spoken to each other for almost a year. Do you really want us to argue about Draco right now?!”

There it was. Her calling him by his first name sent sensations of prickly needles up and down his entire being, equating it to being seen by a first-time acupuncturist schooled through distance learning; unpleasant. She had a good point that there were other better things to talk about. But he just had to get this out because it was killing him to think they were going to become more intimate than how he saw them in the Prophet if they weren’t already, unless he intervened.

“Yes, lets,” he dared her, “What the hell are you doing with Malfoy?”

“I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question,” her tone smouldering just like the look in her eyes, and it wasn’t the hot and sexy kind.

“He is so wrong for you!”

“And I suppose you would know who’s right,” she scoffed, “Don’t make me laugh.”

“If there’s any laughing that going to happen it’s going to be by him sniggering about how he duped you,” he retorted, “So, do share. Why him?”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t that obvious? He’s evil.”

“He’s a saint compared to you.”

“If Malfoy was one, heaven would be hell. He’s a Death Eater.”

“Was a Death Eater,” she corrected him.

“Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.”

“I disagree.”

She was just saying that to win a point. They both knew that with Death Eaters it was a one time registration and death was the only reason why membership wasn’t renewed.

“Do you really think his Aunt Bella would stand for such disrespect from her own family?”

“She disowned him years ago. He no longer is family.”

“That should tell you a lot about the git if even his family can’t stand him!”

As he expected, she had an answer for everything. Harry didn’t know that Lestrange disowned Malfoy and Hermione talked as if it was for a fact. He was deep green with envy from thinking that something so personal could only come up during intimate conversation. And with jealousy showing its ugly head there was this nagging question in his mind about whether or not she had sex with him. It just had to be asked and there was no other way of asking it.

“Have you had sex with him?” he sounded like an envious ex-boyfriend.

“What do you care? It’s only sex, right? We’ve had it with each other a couple of times and it didn’t mean a thing.”

“Maybe not to you.”

She snorted a reply. He had a quick flashback of their first ‘meaningless’ night and remembered her naked body, her distinct body art, upset at his imagined image of Malfoy being privy to that.

“So, compared tattoos with him yet? The skull and snake on his arm must just make you want to get another one that’s more edgy than a Snitch.”

“Thanks for reminding me to have this useless reminder of you magically removed!”

Huh?

This was what he was going to look forward to; a lot of evasive answers with a splatter of hostility.

“Are you punishing yourself for Ron?”

“What?! Of course not!”

“I get it. You’re doing this to feed your saviour complex.”

“Where do you come up with these ideas?! Divination?!”

He carried on, ignoring her sarcasm, “You’re taming the bad boy, saving one soul from hell, doing something good to atone for your sins, and maybe even raise Ron from the dead. That definitely sounds like you.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.”

“Why not? Am I making too much sense? The other logical reason I can think of is that you’ve always fancied him and was just too ashamed to admit it until now.”

“I should have known better than to stay and listen to this,” she murmured under her breath.

She was looking around the living room, orienting herself, trying to find her stuff and wanting to exit. What else could he say that was sure to elicit a good long response?

“You’re doing this just to be spiteful because you know that going out with Malfoy would hurt me the most.”

Harry didn’t really think that but he got her attention and she spat back, “Do you think that I sit down and plan my life around what would make you feel bad? This may be a shocker to you but I don’t think about you night and day and nor do I have the time for such a pointless exercise!”

“Tell me then, what is the point of this Malfoy exercise? Or is it as worthless? I hope this isn’t about trying to prove that a Muggle-born can be good enough for the snobbish, Pureblood aristocrat that the ferret is.”

“He’s no longer that. He has changed!”

“I agree. He’s no longer a ferret. He’s now a chameleon, a double-faced monster. That’s all the more reason not to trust him. Malfoy is a mean spirited asshole. He’s not even human. Admit it. This doesn’t make sense to you either. Don’t you remember all the things he said and did to you at Hogwarts?”

“He apologized and I forgave him!”

“He doesn’t deserve forgiveness for what he did!”

“It was a sincere, heartfelt apology!”

“I seriously doubt that he even knows what those last three words mean!” her continued support of this suspect change in character was so mind numbing he went on a tirade, “How can you believe him? Alarm bells should be going off in your head! You’re smart, the most intelligent woman I know! How gullible can you be?”

“I fell for ‘Roy Hunt’, remember? That should give you your answer.”

Naturally it would be his fault that she was naïve to the point of accepting Malfoy’s word and his word alone!

“What proof do you have that this change is real, that this apology is genuine? Did you just believe that he has turned his life around because of his good behaviour for ten years? His volunteer work for good causes? It’s a smokescreen. That’s hardly proof even if it is true!”

She had enough and while he had been cautious not to get too close to her, her impassionate support for Draco brought her closer to him, close enough to reach and grab if the need arose. And her proximity was doing just that.

“Let me ask you this. Aside from turning his life around, what does he have to do for you to believe that he has changed? Turn in Lestrange and all the other Death Eaters when he doesn’t know where she is or who they are? Drop his family, friends and life to become a full time vigilante and take out some bad guys like you’re doing? Or maybe you expect him to wear a cape and start playing super hero. What payment do you require?”

That dig on his quest for justice for Ron’s death was definitely unwarranted. He wasn’t a vigilante; it was his job to prove Floyd was a murderer. This was about Malfoy.

“Really, other than die knowingly for someone else for a purely unselfish reason, I can’t think of any other thing.”

“Ugh! That opportunity does come up quite frequently everyday!” she said sardonically.

“If he has trouble finding one, I’ll gladly help,” he offered.

“And what about you? What do you have to do for me to believe that ‘Roy Hunt’ was not just about you wanting casual sex? That I shouldn’t think of it as a back stabbing traitorous act? What should I ask of you before I forgive you? Or do you think that because you’re Harry Potter I should just take your word for it? Because right about now, I’m thinking what you did to me last year was way worse than what Draco did to me at Hogwarts. He was a bully and an enemy ten years ago. His animosity was expected. But you, you were supposed to be my friend.”

Her words walloped him in the gut in rapid succession and took the wind out of him. She was nuts comparing his transgression to Malfoy’s. He just couldn’t answer her question right now, he had to back pedal and deflect.

“This is not about me. This is about you going out with him. He is evil to the core. He may not have cursed Professor Dumbledore to death himself but he wanted to. Should I even mention what his murderous intention did to Katie Bell and to Ron? He let Death Eaters into Hogwarts! He used Unforgivables! One doesn’t change once one gets to that point!”

“And why not? Why is it so impossible to believe that even the worst person can reform? He was young and impressionable with a need to belong. He grew up with hatred and he did not know any better!”

“Is this what this is about? Proving to the rest of the world that someone like Malfoy can change? Because if it is, it will not be worth it even if this reform that you speak of were true. Think of what just being associated with him can do to you. You’ll lose your family, your friends and your career. How can you risk everything that is important to you for someone like him? How can you let him touch you? How can you let him kiss you? And really, how can you even think for a second that he could be interested in you for purely normal reasons?!”

That last remark wounded her and tipped her over the edge.

“Just because you don’t fancy me doesn’t mean no one else does!”

Argh! What a stubborn woman! After everything she still believed that he didn’t care about her that way. How could he prove to her that it wasn’t about the sex, that he loved her, that he wanted her for the rest of his life?

His ears were ringing, exacerbated by the equally furious expression on Hermione’s face, heat from within him craving for any outlet.

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Too bad because that’s exactly what I heard! And right now I would rather kiss him than kiss you!”

Really?! That was definitely a low blow. All the frustration emanating from the end result of his misdeed boiled over the surface and if there was one thing that he would prove at that very moment it was that she did not really mean what she just said. How could she rather kiss the ferret than him?!

The row of potted plants along his window exploded one after the other. He was told that having plants in the house would help him find inner peace.

His gut told him to work on bridging the vast emotional gorge between them and since verbal language seemed to be not effective, he had no choice but to resort to a more primitive form of communication. In one swift unexpected moment, Hermione’s body gravitated towards him and clashed against his, narrowing the gap and obliterating physical space.

He grabbed the small of her back with one hand and pulled her slender frame against him, hard, uncompromising. Before a word of protest could come, his mouth descended upon hers as an eagle would sweep down for prey, crushed and ravaged them with a determination and certainty that he should have had sooner, refusing to acknowledge what she just said.

Her toughened mouth was pursed tight; avoiding, not surrendering, the heated protestations coming from her throat required no translation. There was justified fury within her wide open eyes. It encouraged him. Wrath towards him, he decided, was way better than indifference. Did she not just admit that she would have said ‘yes’ had he offered to be her last fling? He’d have to be a dunce to not know what that meant. And if he misunderstood then it serves her right for not being clear about it.

Harry pulled back an inch to let her verbally vent her ire, challenging her piercing anger with defiance.

“How dare y...hmp!”

He did not let her finish. He moved into her slightly parted lips and pried it open with his, rough, relentless, unforgiving, with the intent to force them into submission. And submit she did. He saw her eyes flutter close as her mouth softened under his. Her hands and arms stopped pushing him away. Did she just kiss him?

“Take it back,” he said against her lips.

“No…” came her incongruent throaty reply.

Hermione was definitely kissing back. Harry had to be certain so he let her lead and he immediately felt her hot tender lips move on his, slowly at first, hesitant, quivering. Then she let go and gave in, and he was overwhelmed by the intense longing he felt from her as she did. For a moment the powerful sensation of her desire staggered him, this being the first time they would share a kiss as their normal selves, if he could call them that. Her fingers raked through his hair sending pleasurable impulses throughout him. The feeling of her entirety voluntarily seeking to be closer to him, straining up against him was very heartening. It was the high of knowing that she wanted him.

She opened herself up to give him access, her tongue welcoming his in a warm loving embrace, causing wondrous tugging and pulling in his gut as he immersed and lost himself in her essence. She tasted of something sweet and rich, just like the full kiss they were now mutually engaging in, her breath warm and lips affectionate, her familiar flowery scent filling his senses with a headiness that made him fleetingly forget the troubles they had.

They lost themselves to the moment; their kiss deepening by the second. She was tugging at his sweater and pulling him closer even though they were as close as they could get. Well, almost…

He freed one hand and slipped it under her fluffy sweater. The mere contact of his searching fingers on her warm bare torso was exhilarating. Expertly unclasping her brassiere, he quickly found one perky peak and stimulated it with his touch, thumbing her hardened nipple, eliciting from her a whimper which he took as a positive reaction.

Despite all that was said, he could feel that she wanted more just as he did.

Crash!

Something came off the hook and splintered into many pieces on the floor as they collided hard against the living room wall. Harry pressed his hips against hers, feeling every soft curve of hers fit into him just as perfectly as he remembered. He paused to breathe but his break was instantly interrupted by a scorching hungry kiss. It was obvious that she was searching satisfaction for the same thing he was. His hands were having their way under her sweater, stroking, finding their way down her back and past her Golden Snitch, which she said was a reminder of him, and beyond, caressing. Their united sighs of pleasure were enough to drive him insane.

Harry lifted her effortlessly and they continued to kiss as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried and settled her gently on his couch, under him, her brown locks splaying against the cushions. He glanced quickly at her face, reluctant but needing to meet her gaze, unsure of what emotion he would find and how she would react. The contact was brief, bittersweet, causing a dull ache in his chest and it was just as well that she was the first to look away, maybe not wanting to linger on that feeling either.

She pulled off the sweater that he had just put on, the cold draft that hit him gone the instant she wrapped her mouth tenderly on his bare neck, tracing it with her warm breath from just below his left ear to where it met his shoulder and down his chest, as her fingers dug into his firm back muscles.

Encouraged, he started undressing her. Her fluffy sweater joined his on the floor and before she could continue what he had interrupted, he hovered between, kissed, and gently grazed his day old stubble against her breasts, eliciting a pleased moan from her. Then he took one of them in his mouth, unremittingly licked and sucked until she could not take anymore.

She cupped his face with both hands, pulled him up towards her and kissed him fully on his mouth again, more needy, more wanting, more passionately, just more, naked hot skin touched and ignited as they embraced. The last time he felt this great was the last time he was with her.

And like the last time, it ended sooner than he hoped it would. There was unmistakable growing dampness on her face and he tasted tears. He felt her sob and that brought him back to the reality of their situation. Hearing it he couldn’t think she was crying of happiness. It was likely about Ron. He let go with reluctance and her hurt, tear stained appearance made him pull back.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her, touching her soaked cheeks with the back of his fingers, trying without success to wipe the tears off her face and kicking himself for, once again, losing it for temporal gain.

Hermione got up, pushing him off her as she did. She sat beside him, retrieved her clothes and put herself together.

Without looking she replied quietly, but hurt, “You shouldn’t apologize. Pride is quite overrated anyway. I shouldn’t have come. Is there anything else you’d like from me?”

The first thing that came to his mind was ‘forgiveness’ but knew her question was not really a question. And it would be better if she could give that to him willingly. He put his sweater back on feeling cold more than he thought he should.

“I missed you,” he said to her hoping that what just happened between them meant she missed him too and that she would at least admit to it.

No such luck. And just when he didn’t think things between them could get worse, they were. He could be such a bastard when his temper got the best of him.

“Are we done here?” she asked, her eyes bloodshot from the crying and indignation.

He had to do something. He thought back to the reason she came to see him.

“You don’t have my answer yet.”

“I thought the fact that you’re finished being a poster boy was a definite ‘no’.”

“It wasn’t.”

He had to come up with something.

“So, when shall I say will we expect you?”

“I’m not saying ‘yes’, either.”

“I’m tired of the games, Harry. I have a life to get back to. Is it yes or no?” she asked, indifferent, almost as if she really didn’t care what his answer was anymore.

“I need time to think it over,” he didn’t.

There was something about what she said that challenged him.

You’re going to be a poster boy because you will chose to be one.

She was right; it was a choice. He could be more than a poster boy if he chose to. Hermione seemed to think he would and he had a lot to prove to her and to himself.

And despite the outward hostility, her arduous response continued to burn his lips and skin. It was an encouraging indication that her heart wasn’t in agreement with her mind. A part of her wanted him back in London. A part of her wanted him back in her life. He knew what his answer was but he needed time with her away from everyone else, particularly Malfoy.

“Let me think about it,” he said to her.

“Fine. I’ll be at the Chelsea until tomorrow night,” she replied as she gathered her coat and purse.

Tomorrow night. That was all she was giving him. That was all the time he had.

He thought of her question. What indeed could he say or do to prove to her that there was more to how he felt about her than the lies and the deceit? It was true. Personally, what he did to her as a friend was more reprehensible than the verbal and emotional abuse she received from Malfoy as a teenager. Granted that his intent was less heinous and made the act more forgivable in his thinking, could he prove his intentions? And if he could, could he even assume that she would look at the mitigating circumstances surrounding his error the same way he did? Or did she expect from him some unreasonable act of sacrifice, just as he expected from Malfoy?

Like accepting that they could never go back to the way they were before; like understanding that he could no longer be a part of her life; like willingly serving his life sentence.

He needed her forgiveness for something which she considered unforgivable. It was akin to being put on death row, being next in line to get the needle, and only a pardon could save him from certain death. She did say he should stop hoping for a second chance. But if he could not hope for that what else could he hope for?

She did kiss him back. He could not give up. He could not allow her to leave without fixing this.

You have to woo her back. Regain her trust.

That’s kind of hard considering she thinks I’m the lowest of the lowlifes.

Lower than Malfoy is pretty low. So, you’ll need a lot of help. First, get her to spend more time with you.

Did you see that last look of loathing she left me? She can’t stand me.

True. But think. There has to be something that will make her have to.

What about Ron? Ron does need to talk to her. And maybe Ron can help me out.

Maybe, but don’t get your hopes up too much. Besides, you can’t tell her about the Ghost, not right now.

Why not?

Imagine how much worse she would feel when she finds out Ron chose to be one. You’re in the dog house. In fact you’re in the dog house’s flea house. Don’t be the bearer of bad news on this one. Take her to Ron and let him tell her himself.

She did come to see me against her will for the Order, for the ‘greater good.’

The greater good. That’s the key.

Hermione was ready and almost at the door.

A sudden inspiration hit him. Hermione could help with the Floyd case. He really could use her knowledge on potions and having her work on the case would make her see for herself that what he was saying about Floyd was true. If they found proof that Greasy murdered Ron, things would be perfect. Ron should know for sure how he died and could point them to the evidence.

But he would be putting her in a lot of danger. Floyd had already cursed Andy; if Hermione stayed to help him, Harry could only imagine what despicable acts Greasy could do.

On the other hand, letting her go back to Malfoy was just as distressing. And once she left, the probability of fixing this was going to be close to zero. At least in Toronto, he’d be around to protect her.

This wasn’t going to be an easy sell but he had to try.

“I need your help,” he blurted out, walked hurriedly past her and blocked her path to the door so that his presence was impossible for her to ignore.

“No,” she said emphatically and stepped to his left to avoid him.

He moved and persisted, “I’m on a case, about the research conference.”

It was best not to say anything about this being related to Ron, not yet.

“Whatever it is, the answer is still no,” she reiterated, now trying his right.

“It’s something big. Healers and researchers are in danger,” he knew it was underhanded but he was desperate, “You don’t want anything bad to happen to them, do you?”

“I may be gullible but I’m not falling for that one,” she rolled her eyes in disgust, “Get out of my way.”

He took from his pants pocket the small phial containing the light purplish concoction.

“It has something to do with this potion. You know a lot about potions. I need your help.”

Even she would know that was the truth. She did know a lot about potions, a hell of a lot more than most of the Ministry personnel he worked with and he could use her help.

“I just need to prove what it is and what it does. You should be back in London tomorrow in time for dinner.”

Hermione paused and looked at the phial and its purple contents intently. It was a good sign that she was at least considering it. She silently asked for it with an open hand and Harry gave it to her without a second thought.

As Hermione scrutinized it with more detail, his phone rang. It was Andy.

“Hi. What did the lab say?”

She had a bit of bad news.

“No residues at all from the phial?!”

He said it so loudly that Hermione turned towards him. According to the lab, it appeared that it had never been used before.

“That’s strange because I was sure it contained the potion he took just before Disapparating. What would he be doing with an unused phial?”

Andy opined that he was either wrong or the lab fouled up the test. The news wasn’t that bad considering he still had the other one. Harry told her he would call her back.

He turned to Hermione to find her with a most perplexed expression.

Before Harry could ask what the matter was, with seemingly all the emotional anger and frustration he knew she felt, she hurled the glass phial hard and fast towards the concrete wall behind her. He wished he had more control of his ability for unintentional wandless magic. A sinking feeling washed over him as he saw the phial fly away beyond his reach, already thinking that the one lead he had to prove that Floyd could do magic, that Floyd killed Ron, that could possible redeem him in Hermione’s eyes, was about to explode into nothingness.

Harry drew his wand out even if he knew it would be too late.

XXXXXXXXXX

A/N. We’re going back to the past in the next 9 chapters to find out what happened after Toronto leading up to Ron’s death.

A/N. We’re leaving the present to go back and find out what happened last year after the carnage at the Ghoul. Originally, the intent was for them to flashback on it with Ron’s help, to explain why Hermione is the way she is with Harry in the present, but it took a life of its own and before I knew it there were nine chapters. Yikes!

XXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 24 – The Petulant Patient and the Healer In Training

15 February 2006 – Somewhere dark and cold.

Beep…beep…beep…beep…

Will somebody turn that blasted alarm off?

Whoosh…whoosh whoosh…

Jeez! Trying to get some sleep here!

“Pressure’s dropping!”

Who’s there?

“It's the blood bypass device. He's been on it than most have been able to tolerate. He can't stay on it for much longer.”

Where are the lights?

“I can’t see a thing. Get that sucker in here. He needs more blood replenishing potion.”

Who are this people?

Beep…beep…beep…beep

“You’re losing him, Healer Stitchworthy!”

“He’s some kind of Brit hero. We can’t lose him. Get next of kin in here!”

Right. Healer… hospital... gushing hole… good luck finding next of kin.

“I have the wife.”

Wife?

“I’m not his wife. He doesn’t have one.”

Hermione?

“Oh, Harry…”

Hermione. That bad, huh?

“Are you family?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then you don’t belong here. Find me someone else. How’s he holding up?”

“Not good. You need to control that bleeder.”

“He has no one. I’m as close to next of kin as you’ll get.”

Yeah, it’s a long story. Best listen to her.

“Clamp! Young lady, there are rules…”

“I know the rules! The rules don’t apply to him and I'm not going to let some hospital quill pusher make decisions about his care!”

I prefer her, too.

“Thrombocorpusculus! I will have to ask you to leave.”

No!

“Let me be clear. I’m not leaving until you fix him. Get me the forms for next of kin substitute and if you do your job you won’t need me to make a decision. Now, stop arguing with me and just save his life!”

“Fine! Somebody, get her the forms and make sure she signs them! Release clamp, gently... Damn!”

Beep…beep…beep…

“Harry, hang in there.”

I’m not planning on going anywhere. I just wish I could see or feel. Wait…I think I do feel you. You’re running your fingers through my hair. That feels really nice.

“You can’t die.”

I agree.

“Not like this.”

No.

“We’re going to grow old together.”

I’d like that.

“You, me, Ron…”

I prefer you with me and not with him.

“And the woman you’ll finally allow into your life…I promise not to be so critical…”

She’s already in my life. It just took me a long time to realize it.

“We could be neighbours.”

Better roommates; bed mates.

“Unfortunate kids with bushy brown, stubborn black or fiery red hair running in the backyard…”

Ha! I agree, that’s actually quite funny to imagine.

“Hopefully not getting into half as much trouble as their parents did…”

I seriously doubt that you’ll get that wish.

Whoosh…whoosh…who-

“No…”

Uh-oh…

“He's rejecting further bypass. You don’t have much time.”

“I hear that! Clamp! Almost…”

Beep…beep…beep…

“He’s going down the drain. Pressures are bottoming out.”

Hermione, don’t stop talking.

Beep…beep…beep…

“Replenishing potion dose maxed out.”

Beep…beep…beep…

“Shut that alarm off for a moment! Thrombocorpusculus! One more…”

“Harry…”

Don’t cry. I’ll be fine.

“Harry…there’s so much…tell… you…I…without…life…never…same…”

Your voice is breaking off. Can’t seem to focus.

“He’s…flatline…lost…much…too late…stop…let go…”

“Harry…love…”

I didn’t quite get that. What did you just say?

“I lo…”

Hermione?

Hermione?

XXXXXXXXXX

18 February 2006 – St. Mungo’s

Harry woke up feeling weak and exhausted. Every muscle and joint in his body was mush and it took a while before he could recognize the somewhat sunlit room he was in, longer than he should have considering he had spent a couple of months in the very same place the last time he was injured. He was in a private suite at St. Mungo’s

Hopeful, he glanced over to the corner where an old, evidently oft used two person recliner was nestled against the window and was disappointed to find it empty. It was a donated piece of furniture and he remembered when movers brought the seat in brand-new. It was years ago, some weeks after his Quidditch ‘accident’.

“Right there,” Hermione directed the two wizards to the spot, “Off to the right a bit, no back, forward, there, that’s perfect. Thanks.”

She was ignoring him on purpose as she gave the movers a galleon each and disappeared out his door. Did she leave?

Not long after he asked the question in his mind she came back, wand in hand and trunk in tow. A couple of flicks of her wrist later, a bookcase and a lamp stand appeared out of thin air, shortly followed by a parade of what looked like Healer school textbooks from the trunk, in some arcane order, finding their designated spots on the shelves.

What did she think she was doing? This was his room, that was his corner, and he did not ask for this reading nook.

Satisfied, she then sat on the new furniture and bounced on it a few times, reclined, then bounced a bit more, more than he thought necessary. This was quite unlike her, looking silly, obviously to get some reaction from him.

It was his first week in the new private wing and his physical injuries were continuing to heal. He had finally resigned, severing all ties with the Cannons and he had a persistent foul mood, reminiscent of that summer after the Triwizard Tournament when he was told to stay at the Dursleys against his will.

He wanted to leave and go home. All he had on his mind was that he was thirsty and nobody would give him a drink stronger than freshly squeezed OJ. Harry knew better than to ask. After all, he did voluntarily sign up for the treatment. Hermione made sure of that and he was annoyed at her for knowing just what to say to convince him to do so.

“It’s a disease, there’s a cure. You know where this is going and you know nothing good can come out of it. You have to do this, for yourself. But if you don’t think you owe yourself that much then do it for those of us who need the old Harry back. And do it for those who care about you. Just think about your Mum.”

Harry recognized that it was a rant from frustration and he didn’t think she even realized what she just said until she spoke all of it straight from her heart. Bringing his Mum up was not fair and it almost brought him to tears thinking how badly she must feel that the boy she had so much love and hope for ended up an alcoholic at 20.

It was easy to acquire but not easy to kick the habit. The physical symptoms of withdrawing from alcohol were not so bad though they were somewhat dulled by the alcohol substitute potion, ASP for short. The battle with his mind, his craving was worse. At one point, he gave Hermione his wand because he was afraid of what he would do with it.

Harry had no desire to and refused to talk to anyone, at least not pleasantly. He would only speak in one word sentences when asked, if he was so inclined to respond. Healer assistants were scared of him and there were only a handful willing to be assigned to his case. He had been biting everyone’s head off, including hers. And the worst part of it was that he was aware of how rotten he was to others but it seemed that it was the only way to relieve some of the internal fury he was harboring.

The tensions within him had peaks and valleys and yesterday, his volatile temper wreaked havoc in his room as a hurricane would have, sending a couple of hospital staff scurrying away in fright. Hermione stayed, by herself, matching his anger with her determination to break through his childish tantrum. She was right; it wasn’t his fault that the team wasn’t competitive; it wasn’t his fault that the Cannons owner took advantage of his popularity to make money; it wasn’t the end of the world that he would not play professional Quidditch. There were plenty of things to do with his life other than wallow in self-pity and continue to want to drink himself further into depression.

Her words stung and as she attempted to touch him, an invisible force repelled her and threw her back a few feet. Seeing her wince as she gingerly got up, he was jogged from his mental idiocy but was hit by a Healer’s petrifying curse before he could reach her to find out if she was okay.

And here she was, the day after, fine as if nothing happened, looking silly.

“What are you doing?” he had a Muggle magazine in hand, staring but not reading.

“Huh?” she acted surprised, “Are you talking to me?”

Her shock though feigned was not inappropriate because he rarely initiated conversation.

“If you intend to work here eventually you should stop doing that. You look kind of ridiculous.”

“I don’t think anyone can say that once they’ve sat in it. It’s fantastic. No magic can conjure one so cozy that’s why I bought it from a Muggle store,” she replied and ushered him, “Come. Try it out.”

Still feeling bad about what he did yesterday, he sat beside her, did as she did a few times and remarked truthfully, “It is quite comfy.”

“I told you so,” she had a satisfied smile on her face.

For the first time in a really long while he looked at her, really looked at her. Having admired her for her wit and intelligence all their Hogwarts years and recognizing her bossy and controlling nature for what it was (the overwhelming need to prove that she was right because of an unfounded insecurity which she had finally overcome with recognition for her role in Voldemort’s defeat), he could not help but wonder. If he did not grow up the way he did, he wasn’t sure if he would have forged such an unlikely friendship with the bushy haired bossy voiced know-it -all he first met on the Hogwarts train and he would have missed out on being friends with someone so extraordinary. Only someone amazing could have put up with him these past trying weeks. That, or she was crazy.

He could not help but wonder if he would find himself where he was now had he fought for her instead of stepping aside for Ron. Seeing her everyday this past week irritated him, made him angrier with himself and he now realized why. While he did not know if Hermione would have been interested in him at all, he could not help but think that his act of ‘sacrifice’ for his best friend cost him dearly.

Despite the cheery disposition and the constant energy she exuded, Hermione looked exhausted. Between her classes, keeping him company and revising for her final exams, he suspected that she barely slept since he was hospitalized. Ron was still with the team and she had not seen Ron in a while.

This morning, he overheard a couple of witches gossiping in the hallway that she received permission from the school not to attend the remaining sit-down lectures so she could be in the hospital with him. He suspected that this was brought about by the fact that he was being weaned off the ASP, and outbreaks like yesterday were likely going to get worse before they got better.

She didn’t have to do this.

“You don’t need to be here,” he told her, wanting her to be and not be at the same time. “You should be studying, in school, or in the library.”

“Your room is loads quieter,” she replied. “You rarely talk, you ignore me, and I can’t imagine a more perfect place to revise.

She was kidding, of course, and he sheepishly grinned, embarrassed at how preposterous he had been acting.

“You can’t camp out in here,” he pointed out. ”Aren’t there rules?”

“Since when were you ever concerned about rules?” she commented, “Your Healer figures you need company, one you won’t jinx on purpose.”

“There will be rough times,” he said to her seriously.

She knew that kicking his craving for the bottle would be a war against himself and the reason why Healers thought it best that he stayed at St.Mungo’s for a while.

“I’ll be here.”

“What does Ron think about all this?”

“He’ll be fine with it. I’ll owl him later.”

Harry didn’t want any trouble and was concerned about her answer, well aware how Ron disliked her making decisions like this without asking him first. He left it at that, knowing it was done. She was a stubborn woman; he knew that as well as Ron did.

“I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“It happens.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“I’ve been hexed worse than that. I’m fine, really.”

“Say something else, like how I should learn to control myself and not let my magic get away from me,” it was odd that she didn’t say something like that.

“What’s the point? You already know.”

He did.

“I am sorry.”

“I know.”

And from being close friends, the look in her eye as she said that reassured him that his apology was accepted and that all was forgiven. She took the advantage of his momentary good mood and summoned a couple of books from the shelves. As she handed one to him, he groaned in jest.

Chuckling at his reaction, she said, “That should keep your mind off firewhiskey, I would think.”

“Or drive me straight back to it!” he kidded then realizing that Hermione couldn’t tell, he tried to put her mind to rest, “It’s a joke.”

“Are you sure?” she asked again. “There’s other stuff if you want.”

She rattled off a few titles from what he saw was his shelf.

“Confessions of a Recovered Alcoholic, Your Liver Your Life, A Brain Cell Dead A Brain Cell Lost Forever, Sex and Alcoholism Don’t Mix…”

He had to interrupt, thinking that if he was going to read anything else from his shelf he would have to repopulate it with more innocuous material, “This is fine to start with, really. I’ve always wanted to read it. I just never had the time.”

And to convince her that he was sincere and prevent her from enumerating more book titles, he opened the cover to the thick thousand-paged book she handed him and read the title.

'Hogwarts: A History'

And that was how they spent most of the week, reading. She was right; it did keep his mind off drinking and his moodiness and cravings were under control. Though during one visit his Healer warned them that the worst was yet to come as his ASP dose was decreased further.

As Harry awaited his true test of resolve and determination, Hermione’s exams were coming up, too. It was quite evident that her stress levels were going through the roof.

“I knew the Hogwarts founders were friends but I didn’t realize that Gryffindor and Slytherin were that chummy,” he spoke to her the day he turned the last page over.

She was pacing by her nook, one of those question and answer review books in hand, reading and then muttering to herself, which he was so used to now. She interrupted her monologue.

“Best friends. Almost like brothers,” she answered absent-mindedly, still in thought about her answer to that last question.

“And Hogwarts taught a Squib that first year it opened.”

“Helga Hufflepuff sneaked her into her House. The young girl’s parents pleaded and she could not say ‘no’.”

It still amazed him what and just how much Hermione remembered. He was sure she had not read the Hogwarts history book since their first year.

“I like Helga,” Harry shared, “She was such a free spirit. I just can’t believe the student almost got through the first year without anyone noticing.”

She went over to the bookcase, returned the one she had in her hand and browsed. He joined her, put the Hogwarts book back, while searching for another one to read. It seemed he had tripped her brain auto replay.

“Well, I read somewhere else that she was great at potions, herbology, care of magical creatures, and surprise, surprise, divination,” she added and he had not a doubt that was what was written in some book.

She took another reviewer off the shelf and handed him a non-Healer hardback. He took one look at the title, ‘My Life as an Auror’, and promptly put it back. Subtlety was never one of her strongest suites.

“The other three Founders finally realized that another Hufflepuff student was helping her with spell work and she was dismissed from the school soon after, technically not for being a Squib, but for not being able to perform magic to complete assigned work,” she continued, handing him another book. “I think it was unfair. She was only twelve and I can only imagine she must have been devastated.”

“Yeah, they should have let her finish,” he agreed.

‘Unlock the Professor In You’

He put it back, as well.

“And her name was…” her voice trailed off and she turned to him, “What was her name?”

Was he supposed to remember that?

“You didn’t tell me there was a quiz at the end,” he teased her, “I should have taken notes.”

She chuckled; reached for the Hogwarts book, found the spot almost instantaneously, her eyes darted across the pages, up and down, then shut it, frowning.

“Hmmm, I could have sworn she was named in here,” she said, putting the book back.

He saw her stifle a yawn and rub her tired eyes gently.

“You need a break,” he snatched the reviewer from her hand and prodded her to her recliner.

“I can’t, the test is next week and I’m behind schedule.”

He was quite familiar with her schedule.

“One would need a Time-Turner to keep up with your timetable.”

Harry had an idea.

“Lie back, close your eyes,” she did as she was told, one of the few times he had seen her do so, “I’ll read the question, you answer, and I’ll let you know if you’re wrong.”

Hermione must have been beat because she didn’t even protest.

“If I don’t answer, wake me up.”

“Sure, I will,” they grinned, both of them knowing he was lying through his teeth.

He continued to help her revise the rest of the way. She would leave the hospital really late and arrive somewhat refreshed the following morning, though definitely not as much as he was. One time, a new Healer’s assistant even thought she was the patient.

And when she received a Howler from Ron (he guessed Ron finally got her owl about her spending time at St. Mungo’s), she quickly went into the anteroom, cast a Muffliato spell so he wouldn’t hear, and when she came back her immediate answer to his inquiring look was that they would talk about it after her exams. He was angry with Ron, not for being upset at her, but for his thoughtlessness, sending her a Howler just before her final tests. He decided not to make matters worse for her and to talk to him about it after.

Then, a couple of days before her weeklong exam period, he woke up in the middle of the night cold, his entire body shaking uncontrollably. He had a blinding headache that could not be relieved by anything the Healer could give him and his muscles hurt from his involuntary shivers. This was what they were expecting, his reckoning. It was bound to happen and it could happen on and off for days. His Healer and her two assistants were there. There was nothing they could give him, other than putting him back on a slightly higher dose of ASP.

Doing that would not be good. It would be a set back if he succumbed to its temptation.

Harry found the tremors worse when he was still, so he paced around his room. After what seemed to be an eternity but was in actuality just two hours, he couldn’t take it anymore. He could feel that he was about to break out and lose control of his magic. And he agreed with his Healer that it would be cruel to petrify him in his condition, not to say that doing so would prevent him from firing off accidental curses.

Finally, one glass window shattered into a trillion tiny shards, and just the look of fear on the faces of the others in the room was enough to make him ask for relief. Hermione was livid the following morning. They all knew how important it was for him to get past this but nobody had any answers to the conundrum they faced.

Concerned and despite his objection, Hermione spent that night with him.

It was around four a.m. when the trembling roused him from deep slumber. Learning from the previous night’s experience, he got up, wrapped his blanket around him and started walking to and fro. Every now and then he would look over to Hermione on her cozy recliner, sleeping in her pajamas, book open off to her side.

After about ten laps, Hermione must have sensed him watching, or heard his teeth chattering and woke up.

“What can I do?”

“Go b...back…back to s…sleep.”

She got up instead and made a cup of jasmine tea.

“Have some. It’ll warm you up a bit,” she said, handing him the cup.

His hand was shaking horribly as he tried to take it and he swore when some of it spilled.

“It’s fine, it’s only tea,” she reminded him with a reassuring voice, “Here, let me help.”

Hermione took his right hand, placed the cup in it and helped him steady his grip with the other. She gave him an encouraging look as he, with her assistance, brought the cup to his lips, taking a couple of small sips. A few more later, he felt warmer though the tremors persisted and his headache was reaching his threshold level.

“Headache?” she guessed.

He nodded gingerly.

She pulled him towards her couch and told him to lie down. He did, closed his eyes and was amenable to anything that would make all this go away.

“I have something to tell you, but don’t laugh too hard.”

She was hovering over him from behind.

“Uh-huh.”

Her fingers lightly touched his face.

“The first time we met, do you remember?”

She applied deep circular pressure along certain lines and points on his head and neck.

“The train, you were helping Neville,” he was not trembling as much anymore.

“To find Trevor,” she was all set to laugh and he wondered what this was about, “I was the one who let Trevor out of his compartment.”

“Really?” he couldn’t help but laugh with her, as she continued to work wonders with her fingers. “Why?”

“It was silly, really. Looking back now, it was actually cruel. I could have damaged Neville for life had we lost Trevor. But I wanted to meet you.”

“You let Trevor loose because you wanted to meet the boy with the scar?” he found that amusing, though if they weren’t friends he would have probably been offended.

He kept his eyes closed all the time, concentrating on her voice and the pleasant relief of her touch. She was still smiling. He could tell by how she sounded.

“Sad but true.”

“Well, was I what you expected?”

“Actually, I was kind of disappointed. I thought you’d glow like how I pictured you when I read about you. Or at least be cuter.”

“At least you thought I was cute!”

They shared a laugh and then fell into a comfortable silence. By the time she stopped he was no longer shaking and his headache was bearable. He thanked her and they went back to bed. When he woke up at seven she had left for the first day of exams.

It was fortunate that the attacks did not happen during the day because Hermione had asked the Healers to let her know so she could come. However, every night that exam week the headache and the tremors came, and every night she stayed up with him, prepared tea and they talked while she made his headache and shakes go away.

On the fifth night, she woke and got up, groggy, hair tousled and eyes barely open. She was so tired that when she sleepwalked over to make tea, she brought him an empty cup then slipped in beside him in his bed and cuddled. He did not have the heart to wake her to tell her the good news that his headache was tolerable and he wasn’t shaking anymore. A few minutes later, prudence forced Harry out of her cozy embrace and he slept in the comfortable but less stimulating recliner.

Months after, whenever they spoke of that time he would tease her about how she took advantage of his condition to cop a feel. She would always go deep red and, with a straight face, tell him he was lucky that was all she did. Of course, they were smart enough never to joke about this in front of Ron.

A rustle outside the door interrupted his nostalgic trek and he heard her voice before he could turn.

“Harry! You’re awake!”

A vision of brown hair, a whiff of her now familiar perfume and a much needed hug later he was beaming as she pulled a seat closer to his bed and sat, eyes brimming with tears of joy.

“You gave me quite a scare,” she declared.

After that night with her, all of a sudden, it seemed very personal.

“You?”

“Well not just me? Everyone else.”

She motioned over the gifts and cards of well wishers he had not noticed earlier and mentioned who had come to visit and when. She looked worn out, maybe even lost weight since he last saw her. A sudden panic came over him.

“How long have I been out? What day is it today?”

“The 18th.”

“February?”

“Yes” she was puzzled by his need to know. “Why?”

The 18th, the wedding was eight days away, if it was still on. He looked at her finger and her engagement ring was still on it. His disappointment was hard to hide and she noticed.

“Sorry, you didn’t miss the wedding,” she smiled, thinking he was teasing her about not coming. “And being best man you do have to wear a tux.”

Harry did not smile back. Hermione obviously did not know about Roy because she wouldn’t be talking to him like this if she did. He was trying to muster enough courage to tell her everything but telling her about Roy seemed to be not an option.

“That night, why did you call me?”

The change in her expression was immediate. She knew exactly which night he was talking about.

“I had a question,” she answered.

“You wanted to know how I would feel.”

Hermione nodded, “And you told me.”

“Why did you want to know?”

She was having difficulty answering, “Because you’re my friend and I needed to know what kind of a friend you were.”

“And was I the kind you expected me to be?”

“You were.”

He could not help but think there was more to it than that.

“How was it with the stranger?” he asked her.

“I had a good time,” she admitted, “Until the crash the day after. You were right. It wasn’t worth it.”

He wasn't sure if he felt good or bad about that.

“You should call the wedding off. You don’t love him.”

Hermione was caught off guard by his very direct suggestion but before she could answer, red hair appeared at the door.

“Harry! Blimey! It’s great that you’re finally back. I thought we would have to have the ceremony in here. It was going to be hard fitting five hundred guests.”

Ron continued to talk excitedly and Harry just nodded and smiled when he laughed, not really hearing much of what he was saying. He glanced over to Hermione and caught her shake her head slightly, her eyes confirming that Ron didn’t know. It was understood that if there was anyone who was going to tell him, it was going to be her.

“What were you thinking summoning a bunch of firelegs in the middle of a gun fight?” Ron commented, “Immobilizing everything would have been loads better.”

“Yeah, it would have been,” he replied, "Next time I’m in one I’ll remember that.”

“Hermione has been so upset, she’s been having trouble eating and sleeping,” Ron shared with him and he wondered if it was because of what she did or because she was about to marry someone she didn’t love.

She replied, “He’s been fussing more than his mother.”

Ron responded, “I’m only concerned about you. I can only imagine us talking endlessly about your dress not fitting on our wedding day.”

Harry thought to himself that an ill-fitting dress was the least of their worries. He was trying to figure her out, trying to see if he could pick up anything subtle that would indicate she was not certain about going ahead with the marriage.

Ron dropped his voice, “And she hasn’t let me come near her since she came back from Toronto. Maybe now that you’re fine she will.”

Really?

“Ron…” she expressed her disapproval of him inappropriately telling Harry that intimate piece of information.

“It’s only Harry.”

“We have to go.”

“We’re meeting with the Reverend for some last minute stuff,” Ron said, “Maybe I can still convince him to wear a Cannon Quidditch robe for the ceremony.”

Hermione gave him the look.

“What?” Ron didn’t think there was anything wrong with that, “He did it for Charlie. Although, he definitely needed the added protection of a dragon keeper’s robe in case the dragon got away!”

He and Ron laughed, Hermione smiled, though he was pretty sure he and Hermione were finding something else amusing, about her brief, one-time career as a dragon keeper. It was too bad they couldn’t openly share the laughter.

They left. More well wishers came, friends, Ministry officials. He had some time to go over the cards and gifts, some from people he knew and a lot from strangers. He may have missed reading a few due to the sheer volume.

Later that day, he met with his assigned Healer and was told that if the muscle-strengthening potion worked he would be discharged the following day.

“Do you have any questions?” Healer Dogooder asked.

“I mean no offence but I’m just wondering why Hermione wasn’t assigned to my case.”

The Healer smiled, “If I were sick, I would want Hermione assigned to me, too. She did ask to be head Healer for your case but was declined.”

“Why?”

“St. Mungo’s has an enchanted patient registry system. When a Healer signs on with his or her wand, the system verifies a few things, like if he or she is indeed a certified Healer, not suspended and the like. There are certain rules that it adheres to and there are no ways around it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“One strict regulation is that unless in an emergency, we are not allowed to treat family. We’re thought to be less objective hence less effective Healers when we treat a loved one. It’s rare for friends but in your and Hermione’s case, the registry seems to think that you are close enough for this rule to apply.”

Interesting.

Harry definitely had to talk Hermione into calling her wedding off. He had to let her know that he loved her. He wondered if she would come and visit again tonight because tomorrow just wasn’t soon enough.

Chapter 25 – What Curiosity Killed

The visit with the Reverend was uneventful except that it took longer than they anticipated. To describe Reverend Gershom Jugmaker as a senior member of the London Society of Magical Union Binders would be an understatement. The Reverend was ancient and considering his age, his frequent trips to the bathroom for a chronic medical condition was par for the course. Ron did point out that it was amazing that he was still alive so being able to go on his own was a miracle in itself. He had married every Weasley couple since Ron’s grandfather and tradition was definitely not to be broken with them. It wasn’t worth thinking otherwise.

Reverend Jugmaker went over the ceremony with them, reminding them of certain cues, what to expect, what to say and when to say it. He stressed definite no-no’s, like forgetting their vows, forgetting the name of the person they were marrying, forgetting who they were.

Coming from someone wizened it was fitting and it only heightened her awareness of the seriousness of the entire matter. Going into a magical union was not something to be taken lightly. Not many young couples chose to do it, opting for the more modern and legal but non-magical binding ceremony, because of the complications should the union fail. It was a lifetime commitment and unlike Muggle vows, death literally was the only thing that could dissolve it.

It was noon and Ron had to leave her to join the Cannons at the training facility. They defeated the Harpies in the semi-final game last night and were set to meet the Toronto team in the championship match in a few days. With this run for the Queen’s Cup, their manager wanted them focused on the game and required the team’s presence everyday.

Hermione was on her way to the Daily Prophet to see Ginny. They had not really talked since she came back from Toronto as Harry’s grave condition kept everyone in the family pre-occupied. It detracted from her impending marriage to Ron and her affair with a stranger, and now that Harry was definitely on his way to a full recovery, she had no reason to procrastinate about her problem.

It was really a no-brainer; even Roy the Stranger knew the answer. She couldn’t marry Ron, not after realizing that she did not love him that way anymore. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them. And meeting with the Reverend made her decision more concrete in her mind. It was the right thing to do.

But she could not tell Ron. She tried a couple of days ago but realized she couldn’t. Not yet anyway.

“How is Harry?” Ron asked.

He just came home from Quidditch practice and she was in bed, tired and sleep deprived. It was the night after the Healers at Toronto successfully repaired Harry’s bleeding heart and that morning he was deemed stable enough to move through the inter-hospital Patient Transport Closet, which worked on a principle similar to the Vanishing Cabinet.

“He’s still in deep sleep,” she replied.

As Ron leaned down to give her a kiss, Hermione flinched. Thankfully, Ron didn’t seem to notice. She definitely needed to tell him, not about Roy because it wouldn’t make a difference, but about not wanting to marry him anymore.

“He’ll pull through,” Ron reassured her, knowing how worried she was and trying to make her feel better, “He always does.”

Although Ron had a point, that thought did not make her worry less.

“How was your day?” she asked him as he put away his Quidditch robes.

“The practice was great. Mike is really getting better at honing on the Snitch faster and both Jeremy and Felix are natural Beaters,” Ron talked excitedly. “We’re going to cream the Harpies tomorrow. This is definitely our year.”

Hermione had heard that a few times before but this time she believed it. Although underdogs because not many of them had playoff experience, it was their year. They had a strong solid line up with experienced players and their closest rivals were not as talented as they were. Ron was playing very well and was the top contender for the season’s MVP award. After years of chasing the Queen’s Cup it seemed that Ron would finally get what he wanted. She was proud of and happy for him and his elated voice said it all.

“So, Miss Granger, barring any injuries, kidnappings or emotional breakdowns amongst the team members, you will be marrying a Quidditch Champion!” he gave her a sloppy kiss on the forehead, making her break out into a bittersweet smile.

Ron did not see it. He was brimming with happiness and was singing some Cannon ditty on his way to and while inside the shower. Her stomach did a back flip. She supposed that even the most insensitive version of Ron would be distracted if she called the wedding off on him during his team’s run for the championship. The Cup was what he had been working so hard for all these years. This was important to him. This was the worst time to do this.

She couldn’t. Not right now. What she was about to do was going to cause a major upheaval in both their lives and with both of them being public figures the event would be magnified a thousand fold. She could just imagine the circus that would ensue and that would distract Ron and his teammates further.

Hermione supposed that waiting a few days until the championship game was over would not matter. As she heard him in the shower she thought about how to tell him, but by the time he had joined her in bed, she still had not come up with a good one.

Ron snuggled up behind her, kissed her hair and the back of her neck as he often did to start something. This was going to be painful. She closed her eyes, thinking that if she didn’t see his disappointment it wouldn’t hurt so badly.

“Not tonight,” she heard herself croak.

He stopped, her words still hanging in the air. She could feel him looking at her face and imagined the irritation and doubt she was causing. Closing her eyes did not make her feel less bad for him.

"What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m just tired.”

She heard him exhale in frustration and flop beside her.

“You’re tired because of him.”

Not this conversation again. She was weary of this talk. It was petty and childish.

Hermione sat up and faced him, annoyed, “Harry is in the hospital. He almost died and he still could.”

“I know that,” he replied, sitting up too, just as frustrated, “But why do you always have to be there for him?”

“Because I’m his friend!”

“I’m your fiancé and I always seem to come second!”

“Don’t be juvenile!”

“Why does it have to be you? Why can’t it be someone else?”

“He has no one else!”

“That’s just it! He pushes everyone else away so he has no one else! And he’ll never have anyone else because you’re always there for him!”

What?

Ron got out of bed and turned to her, telling her in a more calm tone, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t go there. I’m just saying you need step back. Let it be someone else. You can’t always be there for him, definitely not after we’re married, and he won’t see that he needs someone until he wakes up and there’s no one there.”

He left the room, as upset as she was. She buried her head under her pillow, which quickly absorbed her warm, wet tears.

Hermione pressed ‘5’ on the Daily Prophet lift and listened as the aged structure creaked its way up.

That night, Ron was annoyingly right. She needed to step back. His diatribe on her relationship with Harry made her realize a few more things. She was always there for Harry not only because she was his friend and she cared about him, but because she wanted to and had to. The fact that he had no one else was a non-factor because even if he did, she would still want to be there for him.

Had she really unwittingly all this time prevented him from needing someone else? Maybe subconsciously she had always wanted him to not need anyone else because she wanted him to need her. She hoped not because she knew now that getting him to need her was a pointless endeavour.

Since their conversation, she did as Ron asked and kept her presence in Harry’s room to as less as she was able to tolerate. With her thoughts about the wedding in a state of flux, she decided to withdraw her vacation request and work, as there was never a shortage of that. She was on night shift over the next three days and nights were preferable because not only would she not be at home when Ron was, things were relatively quiet and she could sneak down to the private ward and check up on him. She reasoned that since she was working, that was part of her job, never mind the fact that she was not authorized to have anything official to do with his care.

Finding him finally awake earlier today was a huge relief. And again, he had asked about Roy so plainly, without a tinge of jealousy or anger, it hurt her to answer. Then he told her not to marry Ron with an abruptness that caught her off guard.

How did he know for a fact that she didn't love Ron? It was unusual to hear Harry say something like that and it made her wonder where such conviction was coming from. Or was it because he knew her well enough to know that she would not have gone through with the fling if she did?

Hermione could not tell anyone about her decision not to marry Ron, not before she told him. It would not be right if he were the last one to know. She was thinking about what to say to Harry when Ron came into his room.

As she got out of the lift it took no time at all to find her red haired friend at her cubicle tapping away on her keyboard. They were supposed to go out for lunch but Ginny had a few deadlines to meet and they bought food from the cafeteria instead. They commandeered one of the smaller meeting rooms.

“That’s great,” Ginny said to her upon hearing that Harry had finally woken up, “I’ll drop by later to visit.”

“Delilah said he should be out by tomorrow.”

“I still can’t believe you agreed to have that flirtatious bimbo take care of him,” Ginny, surprisingly, disapproved of Delilah Dogooder.

“She’s a pretty good Healer and I trust her,” she replied, “And I think she knows it pointless to flirt with an unconscious man. Where is this vileness coming from?”

“You didn’t notice her with the guests.”

“Which ones?”

“Every male guest save for Mad Eye. Just ask Tonks.”

“She’s just friendly,” dismissed Hermione, really thinking Delilah was misunderstood.

“It’s unfair that just because Harry is friends with you he can’t be your patient.”

“Uh-huh.”

Hermione actually agreed that she was too attached to him to have any consistent objectivity and it was risky to put her in charge of his care. When Harry flat lined on the OR table in Toronto, her mind went blank for a moment before turning back on when they asked her approval to stop resuscitation. What she did after was a blur and a bit embarrassing. It was time to talk about something else.

“So, tell me about ‘man with cat’.”

“Nothing to tell, really. Just the usual,” Ginny answered, evasively.

“Must be serious if you’re not sharing,” she remarked, fishing.

“No, it’s not,” a slight pink blush crept on Ginny’s face which Hermione thought was interesting.

“Fine. You can have your little secret for now,” Hermione felt generous, considering she had secrets of her own, “Just tell me he’s not married.”

“No, he’s not married and it’s really not serious,” Ginny insisted, and did the same thing she did earlier; divert their conversation. “But tell me about Toronto.”

“It was cold, the hotel so-so and the conference started off weak…”

Ginny interrupted her just as she thought Ginny would, “I don’t care about the bloody place or the bloody conference. I want to hear all about the hot DH you dated!”

They both laughed.

“I really shouldn’t. We promised we wouldn’t tell anyone else,” Hermione had every intention to tell her but felt a bit bad about breaking their pact.

“A promise to a guy you don’t know. Yeah, I agree, you should take your clandestine tryst to the grave,” she rolled her eyes up, “We don’t have to talk about him. We can talk a bit about baseball.”

She couldn’t help but laugh and she couldn’t say no.

“Spill it. I want details,” Ginny was grinning, pleased that she was going to.

And Hermione told her all about Roy, well almost; from the time he spoke to her first to how they parted ways the following morning. It took a while as they were interrupted by fits of laughter about how so unlike her this ‘Jane’ character was and her feeling too embarrassed to continue. Ginny insisted on hearing every moment, dismissing her reminders of the time, and her nearing deadlines. Of course, Hermione omitted any reference to Harry, about how Roy reminded her of him and did not mention her calling him into the huddle with a late phone call.

Ginny was beaming after, happy for her, she guessed.

“I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I didn’t either,” her face darkened as she remembered Ron.

“This final box score is outrageous,” Ginny was keeping score, “He’s a dream. Women would kill for this. I’d like to meet this guy. No, I’d like to date this guy. What was his name?”

“No, you can’t have his name,” Hermione said to her but she had already magically turned on a Muggle computer, bringing up the Prophet research database.

“Come on,” Ginny tried to persuade her, having no qualms using her work for something so personal. They were just having fun, “This taps directly into the Ministry records. It’s up to date. He may have a picture here. I want to know how he looks like. Squib you said, right? And lives in London, maybe. Male 25-30…”

“The answer is absolutely ‘no’,” she said emphatically as Ginny entered the search parameters.

“Five thousand returns. A first name would narrow this down a bit more. You did exchange first names, didn’t you? Aren’t you interested in what he really does for a living?”

Ginny was a journalist and was as persistent about getting information as a bloodhound was for blood. Hermione had his full name from his rendition of his poems. Or at least what he said his name was.

“No, I’m not interested and stop asking me for his name. Don’t you have actual work to do around here?”

“Oh, shit! The time,” Ginny remembered something, “Don’t move. This is not over. I’ll be back in five.”

Hermione wanted it to be over but before she could tell her she was leaving, Ginny disappeared, leaving her in the meeting room alone. She cleared up the table, getting rid of their rubbish, when she noticed that Ginny had left the computer logged on. The cursor was blinking on the box labelled ‘first name’. Adjacent to it was ‘last name’.

As a researcher she had compulsions she no control over and they had a saying that while curiosity killed the cat, the cat had nine lives, and only animagi researchers should be really worried. Without second thought, she filled the empty boxes in.

ROY HUNT

The screen refreshed in an instant and she could not have been prepared for what she was about to read. Her heart raced a thousand thumps a minute and she had to sit down as her legs almost gave way. The picture on screen was definitely the attractive man she met in Toronto. She read it, the long list, con after con, on women, young and old, theft, robbery, deception, each the same but different. Known associates, criminals, Dark wizards, details blurred as the information went into her mind and she could not make sense of it to know what to do with the facts.

She read as fast as she could, hoping at some point there was something that would say this was a mistake, or he had a twin brother with same name, something that would not make her come to the conclusion that she had spent the night with a con man and start thinking if there was more that was taken from her aside from her pride and dignity. Ginny would be back soon, and this was definitely something she could not tell her right away, not until she could think.

Finally as she got to the end, a puzzling entry caught her eye.

Arrested 12th February 2006 for attempted robbery. Charged with six separate counts of theft and convicted. Incarcerated since arrest at Auror Facility in West London. For transfer to a Squib-Muggle Prison.

But how could he be in two places at the same time? He was in Toronto on the 14th. Or was he?

With a sense of foreboding, she opened the link to his arrest record dreading what she would find. She felt blood drain from her face. The arresting officer on record was a Hit Wizard.

H.J.Potter

Without much thought, she cleared her search findings and brought the screen back to where Ginny left it. She paced the small room, thinking. The booming in her chest had not eased and she could hear the sound of her heart beating in her head. Where to start?

Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Maybe there was some other explanation. But the only thought her mind could focus on was how Roy constantly reminded her of Harry.

Harry was in Toronto working on an assignment. He called that morning and he sounded sick. Was he really sick or was it because he didn’t have his own voice? Hermione was privy to information about a newer Ministry version of the Polyjuice potion, which was longer acting and voice altering. Could he have been on Polyjuice all along?

They were supposed to have dinner that night but something came up at work. He had to cancel and minutes later she met Roy Hunt.

That first conversation, she was about to leave but Roy knew just what to say to keep her interested.

“Of course Weasley’s much better and thank goodness Potter’s gone…”

And all night, Roy asked very personal questions about her and Ron and seemed like he cared about what her answer would be. She remembered how a few times it felt strange, as if he was trying to make her stop what she was doing.

“What would your fiancé think?”

“How can you love him and do this?”

“Why are you marrying him if you don’t love him anymore?”

That explained why he was so sure this morning that she did not love Ron. His reference to the stolen night in the poem was now glaringly obvious. And during the phone call to him, Roy was on the phone too.

She recalled the events of that night for the second time that afternoon and viewed it in a totally different light. Harry as Roy fit like a glove and explained the little things Roy said and did that she had thought odd. It made a lot more sense to her thinking it was Harry and now that she had, she could not think otherwise.

What really happened? Why did it happen? What did it all mean?

All she did that night she did with him and not with some stranger she would never meet again. It was Harry who she told innocent lies to, flirted with, and seduced. It was Harry she kissed, touched, and had sex with. It was Harry who did all those things to her, too.

It was taking a long time for that to sink in. This was Harry, her friend. They had been through so much together. How could he do something like this?

He appeared to act willingly and she could not believe he was being forced or Imperiused. Why would he do such a horrible thing? And whatever reason he had, surely, he knew this would hurt her if she found out. Did he think he could get away with it?

No doubt he was in Toronto working as Roy Hunt. But she could not imagine that the things they did was part of his job. He chose to drink Polyjuice Potion and be Roy Hunt while he was with her. He chose to be a stranger and she could only think that the reason had to be because he wanted it that way. She simply could not come up with a rational explanation to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Most of all, he had all night to come clean but he did not.

Sometimes remembering every single detail was not a good thing. Roy said something to her that night that coming from a stranger was quite appropriate.

“I need some reassurance that this is a one-time thing.”

That was all he wanted, a one-time thing and he didn’t even want her to know that it was him. Did he think her so desperate to have a last fling that he decided to ‘do her a favour’? Was she a side trip from his assignment, ‘might as well have sex with her because I’m here and she won’t even know it’s me’?

She was shaking, from anger, from disbelief, from heartache, from being betrayed by someone she least expected would.

“Are you okay?” she didn’t notice Ginny was back.

“Um, yes. I’m fine,” she managed to say without crying.

“You look pale,” Ginny was really concerned.

“I’m okay, really. We had a busy night and it’s finally caught up to me,” she explained, “I should go.”

“Have you thought more about what you’re going to do about Ron?” Ginny asked before she got to the door.

All of a sudden even the answer to that question which seemed like a no-brainer moments ago was muddled.

“Gin, I know you mean well but I just need you to back off right now and let me sort this out,” she said with a seriousness that took Ginny aback.

“Your wedding is in eight days. Surely you’re not thinking about going through with it, are you?”

And give Harry the satisfaction that I’m going to do what he wants?

Hermione snapped at her without meaning to, “Maybe I am, I don’t know! I need time to think!”

Ginny steadily looked at her and waited.

Seeing Ginny’s reaction she calmed down and realized that she shouldn’t take it out on her, “Please, just give me some space and I swear you’ll be one of the first to know what I decide.”

“Okay,” Ginny replied. “Fine. I’m backing off. But just to let you know, I’m not buying a wedding present.”

They both smiled weakly and gave each other a hug before she left. As much as Ginny was her closest friend, this was something she had to deal with on her own.

Chapter 26 – A Moment of Sobriety

Hermione was in her St. Mungo office later that afternoon getting set for work, sensing the beginnings of a very bad headache. She acquired some much needed sobriety a couple of hours after her Roy Hunt discovery.

You’re a scientist. You don’t have any proof.

Your gut feeling could be wrong.

Harry would never knowingly do something to hurt you.

There is a logical explanation for this.

Roy may have not been Harry.

Roy may have been Roy and Roy in jail was an impostor.

Or the bloke you met may have been someone else posing as Roy. That means you could have been duped by some stranger posing as a con man. And you thought you couldn’t feel more stupid than you already do.

Whoever it was it was someone who knows a lot about you and who is very much like Harry.

Talk to Harry. Ask him about his assignment. He’ll sort this out.

There is a rational explanation for this.

He’ll say it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t him.

And in the end she sat there, feeling calmer but not better. It was now clear to her why she instantly jumped to the conclusion she did.

A mad part of her wanted it to be him.

Harry had been calling and leaving her messages. She just could not get herself to pick up, afraid she would start accusing him over the phone and making a much bigger fool of herself.

Looking at the hospital Timeteller, she still could go and visit, get this confusion and delusion over with. It was then that a couple of owls dropped a rather large parcel on her desk and saved her from further pathetic internal ramblings. It was a package from the Toronto Hospital. More legal disclaimers to sign?

Hermione opened and peered into the box; her heart started to race once again. A wallet, two cell phones, a wand, loose Canadian change, a hotel card key, a receipt, a note, and a bottle of Advil regular strength liquigels spilled onto her desk as she emptied its contents gently.

The note read ‘Personal Effects – H Potter’.

Weren’t you looking for proof?

The wand was definitely Harry’s, she’d recognize it anywhere. One of the phones was his too but access to it was magically locked so only the owner could use it. The other phone was unfamiliar, one of those common, uncomplicated, generic ones altered such that the batteries never went dead. Haphazardly written on the back of it in black permanent ink were the initials ‘RH’.

She perused the wallet, prepared to see Roy Hunt’s picture and she did on a singular ID card buried within bills of Canadian dollars and British pounds. The receipt was from the Amor Ninho. It listed what she and Roy had for dinner and was date and time stamped just before she and Roy left.

Hermione didn’t know what to think anymore. The supporting yet circumstantial evidence, her initial gut feeling and her continuing delusion were conspiring against her battle to stay sane. Theories swarmed her mind, relentlessly pitting one thought versus the other.

Her now splitting headache screamed for respite. Without even thinking, she grabbed the bottle of painkillers, unscrewed the cap and tipped a couple on the palm of her hand. Strange. Two different color fluid capsules, red and orange, not quite the over the counter Advils she was familiar with.

An idea came to her naturally. Taking both pods to her potion work counter, she put one color pill in each of her two smallest cauldrons and dissolved them into amplifying solutions. It did not take long for her to confirm what they were as she used revealing spells. The red one was in essence Polyjuice with a strand of a budgerigar’s vocal chord, the added component that made possible voice transformation, and the orange one contained anti-Polyjuice which she had helped a Ministry Unspeakable create just recently.

It was Harry.

Exhausted from the internal conflict she had been through the entire afternoon, she finally got to some questions she knew she should answer. What was the big deal if it was Harry? Didn’t she just admit that she wanted it to be him?

Didn’t she contrive that elaborate plan, in which use of magic was considered, to convince him to be her last fling before Roy showed up? Just sex, one time, and not to talk about it outside Toronto? Didn’t she get what she would have asked for? It felt kind of hypocritical that she would be livid at him for something she wanted because he did it in a different way.

Harry would never mean to hurt her. He did dissuade her from having a fling but maybe when he realized that she was going to go through with it, he thought better him than some other guy who would not do a proper job of it, a noble act to spare her from an unpleasant experience. And like her, he didn’t want the awkwardness after and found another means of doing that.

Not that she thought her anger was unreasonable; what he did was sneaky and she would have preferred knowing it was him she was spending the night with, particularly during the more intimate moments. But Hermione suspected that the fiery emotions she had earlier had a lot more to do with the fact that she was hurt because of the way he chose to do it, which only belaboured the point that he was not interested in her the way she would have wished. She decided it was downright childish to be furious at him for not being in love with her.

Hermione sighed, aching but tranquil, now fully accepting what happened for what it was. It was a fling, a one time thing, and she enjoyed it. It was never meant to last, whether it was with Harry, Roy or someone else. And as intended, she should let it go. She remembered their ridiculous pact, to not discuss it with anyone else and not if not in Toronto. The promise wasn’t so silly after all and it made sense to start keeping it.

She gathered his stuff together and put it back in the box, planning to drop it off at the private ward’s assistant desk before her night shift started. As she sealed it and removed any trace of it being sent to her, she did not notice that Roy’s phone had vibrated and a message flashed across its screen.

Quid pro quo.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sometime later within the private ward, Harry was looking out the window and could tell it was getting late. He had been stuck in his room all day taking as much muscle strengthening potion as he could but still could barely muster getting himself out of bed.

Dean and Kingsley had dropped by earlier and gave him an update on the case. As he knew from before he lost consciousness at the Ghoul, the deep-pocketed financier witch was a no-show. Waxball was arrested and charged based on the evidence found with him. His vault at the Ghoul was searched and in it were some of Helga Braun’s private items and research papers. Murder charges were about to be laid upon him when he died of an apparent suicide his first night in jail. Tom Floyd was nowhere to be found and there was not enough evidence to arrest him anyway even if he did show up.

Harry told them about the boxful of mysterious purple potion and what he suspected the potion was. From what they gathered, there was nothing like that found at the Ghoul but they would ask the Toronto MLE. Investigations were still in progress and gag orders were in effect for both the Toronto and London MLEs. All the press knew was there was an altercation post Valentine’s Day and the conflict resulted in five dead and fifteen wounded. There would be no mention of Squibs; Canadians were a conscious lot about profiling and the International Healers Association with the World Research Council immediately issued a request to not mention that it involved research, which was peculiar.

And with the case in Toronto ongoing, the MLE decided to use Roy as bait for a while, just in case somebody wanted to tie up loose ends. Roy Hunt’s file was released through Ministry records and another Polyjuiced impostor was going to be transferred to a minimum-security facility.

He had been calling Hermione all afternoon to ask if she could visit but she wasn’t picking up and had yet to return his call. One of the Healers did say she was working tonight and Emerg was packed with patients from a massive potion factory accident.

Seated in bed, the last visitors long gone, stacks of well wishers’ cards and notes on one of those adjustable patient tables in front of him, Harry was trying to pass the time away. He wanted to leave his room to find Hermione but he knew she was busy.

Harry crumpled one of the parchments and sent an arching shot through a magically contrived Quidditch goal, straight into a rubbish bin at the far corner of his room, finding its bottom and amongst several other death threats. He read the next one, grabbed a parchment and, with a quill, wrote a letter of thanks. It went on the pile that would go out via Owl post in the morning. The one that followed was familiar. Some anonymous lunatic sent him numerous notes with the words ‘Quid pro quo’ on them. The more the merrier, he thought. He’d have more paper Quaffles.

Crushing this one with his hand and aiming for the hoop, it sailed a couple of inches to the left and landed on the floor.

“You were always a shoddy Chaser, Harry,” a recognizable female voice said from the entrance.

He turned and smiled as Ginny crossed the room. They kissed each other on the cheek.

“Yes, I was,” he agreed, staring at the obvious indication of more missed versus made shots. “Aren’t visiting hours over?”

“Who said I was visiting?” she replied jokingly, pulling a seat closer. “I used my press badge and told them I was interviewing you. It’s a circus out there with that factory accident. Staff, patients, family. Hermione barely recognized me when I bumped into her in the hallway.”

Hermione was busy.

“How are you?” Ginny asked.

She took out a couple of green bottles from a brown bag, unscrewed one and handed it to him. It looked like it was something from a liquor store. She wouldn’t dare get them both in trouble with Hermione but he could never guess when that mischievous Fred and George side of hers would make an appearance.

After the challenge of getting him fully sober, Hermione could not make herself any clearer about her thoughts on him drinking again. And while he had his addiction totally under control, the rare glass of wine he took at dinner was not known to her.

“I’ve been worse. I could be better,” he replied, taking it and reading the label. “NABB?”

“Non-alcoholic Butterbeer. It’s new, always meant to try it, gross Muggle trademark rip-off,” she explained, as she opened the other one for herself, and toasted, “Congratulations.”

He gave her a puzzled look as their bottles chinked.

“On making Auror.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks.”

They took swigs. He forgot that it was a ‘promotion’. It seemed so long ago when he accepted Kingsley’s offer so he could go to Toronto but he knew for a fact that that the Auror office did not make such personnel changes public. It was actually quite the opposite.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“The Toronto press,” Ginny replied, “The Toronto MLE is refusing to comment on what that incident at the bar was about but some writer got wind you were a sort of Brit hero and it was easy enough to dig up your story. Someone from the Ministry Human Resources blabbed about your recent promotion; got a mere slap on the hand. You were a Toronto headliner alongside the mysterious events that happened. The Prophet put you on page two the day after.”

“Only page two? I’m deeply offended,” he said poker-faced.

“I’m sure you are,” she replied, knowing he was being facetious, “Be thankful or you’d have to go through twice as much mail as you are now. What was the assignment in Toronto about? ”

“You know I can’t tell you,” Harry answered, thankful of the Auror guidelines for non-disclosure, “Can you stop working for a few minutes?”

“Nobody wants to talk about it, so everybody wants to know,” she laughed.

Her work frequently required sensitive information and despite knowing MLE were on strict rules not to talk to press, she asked the people she knew anyway. None of them would ever admit to violating Ministry rules.

After breaking up years ago, he and Ginny remained friends. Hermione had tried to get them back together when they both became available and they dated once to get her off their backs. What they had before they acknowledged as puppy love. And besides, they were now different people, with different experiences and baggage, both jaded and cynics. Neither of them was looking for something lasting, neither of them wanted long term commitments for somewhat different reasons and they were mature enough to admit that. They said no because they did not want to hurt each other.

“The Toronto article was a work of fiction, sketchy at best. Was Hermione involved in any of this?”

While it seemed that Ginny was just fishing, Harry was concerned about giving her any more ideas. She was very good at what she did.

“I can’t tell you,” he answered truthfully.

“You don’t have to. I know she was.”

Dean. He wouldn’t.

“Having fun tricking old boyfriends for information?” he accused her playfully.

She laughed.

“Why else would you finally accept the Auror post Kingsley’s been offering you all these years?”

She had a good point.

“A more exciting job? A pay raise? A different partner?” One who could keep his mouth shut?

“I find it hard to believe that your epiphany was merely coincidental with being assigned to a case in Toronto where she just happened to be.”

“Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.”

If Ginny knew then Hermione would, too, and if not yet, eventually. Hermione’s interrogation of what his exact assignment in Toronto was was going to be a very interesting one.

“Dean caved about Hermione being involved a while back, though that was all he would say about the case. I’ll tell him you win,” Ginny said with finality, ending his speculation and quashing his hopes.

“It’s so obvious I can’t believe she hasn’t come to that conclusion yet.”

She hasn’t?

“And a good thing, too.”

Definitely a good thing.

“Why is it a good thing?”

“She’s distraught enough as it is. Her leaving a job she loves, getting married, her Mum’s affair, Ron. The last thing she needs is guilt over how she almost got you killed in Toronto.”

“It wasn’t her fault. Why would she feel guilty?”

“I’m not saying she will but she’s so stressed right now she just might. You know how she gets sometimes about feeling responsible,” then Ginny mentioned something he was unaware of, “Remember that time after your accident? She felt guilty about that.”

“Why?”

“She felt she could have done something to prevent it like helped you pick a better team or stood up to the owner to tell him to stop taking advantage of you or spent more time with you,” Ginny explained.

Really?

“So, now is really not a good time to risk her thinking crazy like that again.”

He felt relieved. At least Ginny was not inclined to tell Hermione about why he took the Toronto assignment. But what was the point of this conversation? Ginny wanted something and like most women he knew, she was taking her time getting to the point.

“She said you were working and she never saw you in Toronto until that morning you were in the hospital. Is that right?”

Somebody, please, stop her from asking all these questions.

“I can’t tell you anything about the case,” he repeated.

“I’m not talking about your case,” she replied, “You were there because of her. I assume that either you or some other Ministry official was watching her all the time. You know what she did in Toronto.”

“She attended a conference.”

Ginny knew he knew and he was contemplating what to do.

“We both know she did more than that. She called me that night.”

He just had to bite, hook, line and sinker.

“Why did she call you?”

“She wanted me to stop her.”

An unpleasant sensation washed over him, now knowing for a fact the Hermione, at one point, wanted to back out. When she called him, she wanted him to do the same.

“You didn’t.”

He didn’t either.

“Why would I? I suggested it to her in the first place.”

“A really bad idea.”

Ginny’s and his.

“Maybe so, but it did make her realize one important thing,” she paused, and looked at him seriously, “You know what I’m talking about.”

He did and he did not have to say it.

Ginny continued, “I love Ron but he doesn’t have a clue and it’s her call if she doesn’t want to tell him. They’ll both be miserable for the rest of their lives. She shouldn’t be marrying him.”

“You’re worried that she’s going to,” Harry realized she wouldn’t have mentioned it if she wasn’t.

“It’s so obvious what she should do but she’s thinking about this too much. There’s something important she’s not telling me and she won’t talk to me anymore,” Ginny was rarely wrong about things like this, “I’m fine with that. I’m just concerned and kind of hoping she will tell you and you can talk about it.”

Harry wasn’t so sure about that. If Hermione wouldn’t tell Ginny then chances were she wouldn’t tell him. She told Ginny to back off and he was wondering if she would do the same to him.

“You will talk to her about this, right?”

“I will.”

It wasn’t before long when Harry’s veteran Healer assistant ushered Ginny out, insisting that he needed rest. He was able to convince the tyrant that he had to finish writing thank you notes. It took another hour or so before he was done.

He couldn’t sleep. So, she was going to try and make things work out, try to fall in love with Ron again as she said she would. He imagined him telling her again she shouldn’t go ahead with the marriage and asked himself just how prepared was he to tell her how he felt? Could he take it if he professed his love for her and she told him the feeling was not mutual? He probably could, though not very well.

Someone rapped on his door. Odd.

“You never knock,” he smiled as Ron joined him.

“Which just goes to prove anyone can change,” Ron joked back. “How are you?”

“I could be better,” Harry answered as the Healer’s assistant waved to Ron who waved back, “How’d you get past her?”

“Matilde’s husband is a huge Cannon fan,” he explained, “I gave her a couple of tickets to the game against Toronto.”

“I heard you had a great game against the Harpies.”

“You should have seen me, I was in the zone,” Ron always looked like a little kid when he talked about Quidditch, “You are going to come to the Finals. I won’t take no for an answer.”

He had never gone to a live game since his ‘accident’ but this was a must.

“Of course, I will,” he figured a long time has-been like him being there wouldn’t take away from the attention the game and Ron deserved, “What are you doing here so late?”

“I brought her dinner,” that was nice of him, “I heard about the factory accident over the news and figured she would never take a break unless someone was around to remind her to. She finally did when things quieted down half an hour ago.”

“She loves what she does here,” Harry said to him, hoping Ron would pick up on what that meant.

Ron hesitated and then asked, “Can we take a walk?”

Harry had wanted to since he woke up and Ron had this rare look that he wanted to talk about something serious.

“Sure. But I am going to need your help.”

He took his wand out, conjured a wheelchair and levitated himself into it. Uncharacteristically, without a word or jibe, Ron pushed him out his room, down the corridor, into the lift and down to the second floor. Harry had been there a few times before. It was a restricted staff only area but there was no one around and Ron seemed to know his way. He took him into this long alcove with glass windows overlooking down below to a still busy St. Mungo Emergency Room, summoned a wooden stool tucked away in the corner and sat beside him. They both spotted her at the same time.

They just sat and watched her for a while as she checked up on the patients, talked with the families and guided the younger Healers. It was like déjà vu. When he was a long term resident in the hospital years ago, Hermione sometimes took him here. She watched and learned, and talked about healing, why she loved it, and how the place had so much potential to be chaotic, and on appearance, it was. But she found order in it because when faced with something emergent as a Healer you had no other recourse but to save the patients’ lives first. There was no room to think about other things. As he watched the frenzy around her, he knew that to her, being in the midst of it was calming.

“I’ve been watching her all night,” Ron broke the silence, “She’s great at what she does.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“The London Flamers have asked me to join their team next year. Nothing’s official yet but today, I said yes.”

This was a total surprise. Ron had always expressed his desire to be a Cannon lifer. Harry looked at him and he was still looking at Hermione. He was doing it for her.

“She can stay here. That’s going to make her happy,” Harry stated the obvious.

“I thought so, too, when I told her,” Ron replied. “She said she was but she wasn’t quite as happy as I thought that would make her. It was almost as if she actually wanted to leave this place.”

Harry recalled what Hermione said about how she could love Ron again.

“She’s must think if she stayed here she’d still be too busy and not have time with you.”

“I wish it were that but, lately, I can’t seem to figure her out. There’s something different,” Ron said to him.

“Do you think whatever it is will go away?” he felt sorry for him.

Ron shook his head.

“And I can’t ask her what the matter is. Not with the Finals coming up,” Ron admitted honestly, “I have a bad feeling about this, Harry. It’s distracting but I’d rather not know for sure what it is than know what it is and have to deal with it right now.”

“I understand.”

Harry did. It wasn’t because Hermione and their relationship weren’t important. This just couldn’t have come at a worst time for Ron. The Cup Finals was a big thing for many professional athletes and it was rare to get the opportunity to be in it more than once.

Had he not been too wrapped up in his needs and his wants, he would not have trivialized how what he did and what he was about to do would affect his best friend. When did he start being so selfish?

He imagined that if he told Hermione about how he truly felt about her, Ron would eventually know. He couldn’t think of doing that, not to Ron, and not after what he had already done. As hard as it was for him to wait, he would. He would wait and hope that Hermione would do the right thing.

Chapter 27 – The Long Wait

Hermione woke up to the sound of her pager’s alarm. It would be 5am, just an hour after the last Emerg patient that needed her care was transferred to the ward. She kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, trying to remember where and which bed she had managed to crawl into when she decided to get some rest. As she recalled where her aching feet foolishly took her, she hoped the sound of her pager going off did not wake him.

Sitting up on the old comfortable recliner, she opened her eyes and tried to focus in the dimly lit room. The sudden smell of strong coffee expedited the return of her mental alertness and she instantly saw a cup of hot steaming java being offered to her. So much for hoping.

“Good morning,” she heard his voice, and a searing pain cut through her chest, unexpectedly.

“Good morning. Thanks,” she replied as she reached and took his offer.

Their fingers grazed incidentally and that had new meaning, evoking a yearning to have them touch a little bit longer. With care, she willed her eyes to meet his warm gentle gaze. That hurt as well. She wondered how long this was going to last. She came to his room to watch him sleep and see how she felt about him. As she sat there in the dark she was surprised by how she had no anger and thought that was a good sign. She was merely disappointed and it was funny in a cruel sort of way that both of them felt the same way about each other post-Roy.

“You had quite a night,” Harry sat beside her. “Ron and I were watching from the gallery.”

“It was unreal,” she shared. Talking about work was easier, “We were fortunate we didn't lose anyone.”

“What happened?”

“An accident. The potion factory apparently got a shipment of unfrozen Ashwinder eggs and it inadvertently came in contact with skrewt fire-expelling end cuttings and Peruvian instant darkness powder.”

“That must have been quite an explosion,” Harry would know what such an interaction would result in but had a frown in his face she guessed what he was thinking.

“It was and yes, it was a definite violation of a few Ministry statutes on possession and handling of dangerous materials,” she added, “Kingsley’s got someone on it already. Don’t you even think about working until you’re fully recovered.”

“I wasn’t,” he denied but she knew otherwise, “Fine. I was, a little bit. But I am fully recovered. I’m able to get up and walk on my own this morning. I made you coffee.”

She was shaking her head, unable to remain serious. Just the way he said it tugged at her heartstrings.

“Unless you plan to serve Death Eaters coffee at work, I think you need to be able to do much more than that.”

“Oh, I feel that I can do much more than that.” he replied in a casual way that reminded her so much of Roy a few mornings ago and she blushed before she could tell herself not to. “Delilah did warn me about this.”

Delilah? This? For a moment she thought he was flirting with her then she happened to glance down and realized something.

“Oh, the potion side effect.”

“It’s not painful. Just uncomfortable.”

“The strengthening potion affects all muscles including those ones,” she said to him, professional and to the point, making a valiant effort not to look, “For obvious physiological reasons it is worse, or some would say ‘better’, in the mornings. The potion actually has recreational uses.”

“I can certainly understand why,” he replied, “Delilah knows of some remedies and said she might be able to help.”

That skank! Ginny was right; she was a flirt! If she wasn’t a good Healer…

“But I’d rather not wait. Can you do something about it?”

She could but if she did what she knew would help it would be totally inappropriate on so many levels.

He seems to think it’s a big, big problem.

It’s a big problem all right but you’re so not helping.

“There is a suppressing draught but the risk of an adverse reaction to multiple potion use is not worth it. You could stop taking the strengthening potion but you definitely need it. You can, um, relieve yourself once in a while but if you’d rather not do that or can’t, the only thing you can do is not to think stimulating thoughts.”

Hermione tried to tell him plainly, thinking that was so easy for her to say. His arousal was sparking provocative ideas of her own.

“We should talk about something else,” he hurriedly suggested.

“Good idea,” she quickly agreed, as relieved as he was, and his choice of ‘something else’ effectively doused their growing discomfort.

“So, Ron’s going to be a Flamer.”

She acknowledged with a sound as she sipped coffee. The fact that Ron did that for her had not sunk in yet.

“You can stay in London and continue your work here.”

“I could.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

For work, yes; continuing to see so much of him, not really. Their close proximity was already stirring memories of her night with him and it was difficult to not think about what it would have been like had she known. Moving would have been a great excuse to stay away from him.

“It is,” she said to him then joked, “I hate packing and moving.”

He laughed somewhat, “Ron is unconvinced you’re happy about it.”

“Really?” she frowned, not realizing she had been so obvious even Ron picked it up.

What Ron had done completely surprised her. He always said he was going to be a Cannon forever and agreeing to play for the London team was never an option. It was one of his wedding gifts to her, he said, so she wouldn’t have to leave St. Mungo’s.

Ron should have told her first before making such huge decision. He was certainly making things more difficult. Even coming last night to make sure she took a break, waiting for hours until she could, without a complaint, then sitting with Harry up in the gallery were all quite strange. She must have not been paying attention but since when did he become so thoughtful and interested in what she did?

“Well, I didn’t see it coming. I was so looking forward to being a Cannon wife.”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Harry. He had heard her rant too many times about her impending membership to that club.

“You shouldn’t marry him,” he repeated what he said to her yesterday. “Even if you learn to love him a second time, what’s different that you won’t lose the feeling again? Seriously, you’re thinking about it too much.”

She guessed that the fact that she had not called off the wedding was misleading. The truth of the matter was she wasn’t thinking about it anymore, even though Ron’s recent behaviour was making her feel extremely guilty about what she had decided to do. And while in the heat of the moment, when she found out about Roy and was being pressured by Ginny for a response about Ron, she might have considered briefly going ahead with it just to spite Harry, it did not take long for her to calm down and realize that her breaking up with Ron was not connected to Harry being Roy.

If it were not for Ron being in the midst of Quidditch playoffs she would have told him already and Hermione was resolute that Ron would be the first to know. She heard herself saying to Harry the same thing she did Ginny.

“I know you mean well and I appreciate the concern, but I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“What is it that you can’t talk about?” he said with a hint of frustration in his voice.

Hermione looked at him and said with finality, “Harry, let it go. Trust me, okay? I’ll do the right thing.”

And for the first time, she wondered if this concern about her apparent path to unhappiness meant more to him than she thought. Of course, if it did then he would have told her by now that he was Roy Hunt, and that she shouldn’t marry Ron because she should be with him. Yes. She was losing it. Again.

“You’re right,” Harry finally relented, “I should trust you. You always do the right thing.”

“Well, almost always,” she smiled sheepishly, remembering Roy.

“Yeah, almost always,” he smiled back.

Hermione recalled what made her decide to sleep with him. No wonder Harry did not sound too distressed about her sleeping with another man.

“What?”

She must have laughed. It was tempting to tell him but accepted the fact that they would never share a laugh about the humorous moments of that night.

“I just remembered that day when you were shot, at the hospital, they thought I was your wife,” she watched his reaction as she said it and kicked herself for setting herself up to be more hurt than she already was. “It seems funny now.”

“I actually heard that,” he replied, with a strange amused expression she had never seen before.

“You did?”

There was no need to panic, yet.

“It sounded intense. Anyway, thanks for stepping in and being my next of kin.”

“That was nothing.”

It was just nerve-racking when they asked her permission to cease trying to get him back from clinical death. She refused and was quite glad that she wasn’t thinking like a Healer at that precise moment in Toronto.

“You were crying when that machine stopped working.”

“You’re my friend, you were dying. I got a bit emotional,” she admitted, it wasn’t totally improper.

“You said something.”

“About?” she asked, holding her breath.

“Something about there being so much to tell me. Do you remember?”

“It was a very distressing time, Harry.”

She did recall and she would never forget. The overwhelming need came over her as she thought he was indeed about to die and it had to be said. She told him that she loved him, that her life would never be the same without him. Then she told him she loved him, again. What if he heard all that? That would still be friend appropriate, wouldn’t it?

“Here’s a thought. Pretend that I’m about to die. What would you like to say to me?”

An involuntary nervous laugh came from within her, and she almost snorted her coffee. He was asking, maybe he didn’t hear her after all. She quickly came up with emergency evasive maneuvers, lame ones.

“I don’t know, Harry. This is way too early to be doing this.”

He laughed with her but with seriousness, insisted, “Come on. You said there’s so much to tell me. Tell me one thing.”

“It’s different,” she was smiling, embarrassed at what she had gotten herself into and not prepared to say exactly what she wanted to tell him. And if there was so much to tell him then, there was definitely more to tell him now. “It’s very different when you’re actually dying.”

“Don’t you think it’s wrong for you to hold back until I’m about to die? I could step off the curb today, get slammed by a bus and you won’t get to tell me.”

That was graphic. Of course he made sense. It was a foolish game that people played. Might as well admit to that.

“You’re quite right and it’s really stupid to wait but I still can’t tell you. How about I tell you when we’re 60?” she proposed, thinking by then all this would not matter.

“What if I don’t get to live ‘til 60?”

“Let it be an incentive to stay alive then.”

She was only half kidding about that, sometimes horrified by his risk taking behaviour. His signing up to be an Auror was a good thing except for the dangers she knew he would be more than willing to take.

He persisted, “If it’s important enough for you to tell me as I’m dying, it should be more important for you to let me know while I’m still alive.”

“Harry, it’s embarrassing and it’ll be awkward. I can’t tell you.”

“This is me. You can tell me anything.”

“I hate to break this to you but that’s not true,” she had to be honest about things she could be honest about.

“Will it be less embarrassing if I do the same?”

“Are you telling me that you have something similar to tell me?”

“Loads.”

This was unexpected. She couldn’t tell if he was teasing or serious. He looked serious.

Harry continued, “Perhaps we should start being more honest with each other.”

Hermione thought that was rich coming from him. Or maybe he was going to confess.

“Really? Then you should have no problem going first,” she challenged without sounding threatening.

She noticed the hesitation as she awaited his answer. He was thinking about what to say and for someone who had ‘loads’ to tell, he couldn’t come up with one to tell her, either. There was no reason to get her hopes up.

Her pager sounded. She was needed urgently in the Spell Damage Ward.

“I have to go,” she made her empty coffee cup disappear and got up. Sensing that he felt bad, she tried to make him feel better, “Don’t worry about it. I can relate. It is easier said than done.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he tried to explain. “Can we do this later? I mean, sooner than we turn 60, maybe in a few days?”

“That sounds good,” Hermione answered. Strangely, it gave her something bright and cheery to look forward to and could not resist saying to him, “Until we do, maybe you should watch out for that bus when you step off the curb.”

He nodded and smiled as she left to attend to a patient.

She was curious about this being-more-honest-with-him proposal that he had. Doing it after calling the wedding off and after telling Ron he gave up his career with the Cannons for nothing sounded like splendid timing to her. It would be like spring cleaning, an emotional cleansing. Who knows? She may even go totally mad and tell him the entire truth.

The rest of that morning flew by quickly. By the time she had endorsed her last critically ill patient to the Healer taking over, it was 10:00am. Tired and sleepy, she went home, flopped on bed with her eyes closed, wondering if Harry heard her confessing that she loved him, wishing fervently that when she woke up, it would be the day after the Quidditch Finals.

More than one could ever imagine, Hermione was rooting for the Cannons.

XXXXXXXXXX

19 February 2006 – London Auror Office – 2 p.m.

“Thanks Harry,” Kingsley said to him as Harry changed in prison clothes, “But are you sure you’re well enough to do this?”

Delilah did discharge him from care earlier that day. He had to continue taking the muscle strengthening potion for another two days but if he could walk out of St. Mungo’s under his own power, he should be well enough.

“I’m fine.”

Doing something was better than moping at home, and thinking about Hermione and Ron. Not 12 hours ago, he almost gave in to the temptation to tell her he loved her. Didn’t he say he would wait until after the Finals? Trust her to do the right thing? Ron was distracted enough as it was.

But the uncertainty was killing him. If she stayed with Ron he was already thinking of the stupid things he would have to do and it was driving him crazy. Not knowing exactly was frustrating and he was really curious what it was that she wasn’t telling him, those words that she said to him as she thought he was dying. He wanted it so much to be the same thought he had about her.

When he saw her sleeping in his room, he struggled to rein in his desire to join her. Harry missed her, touching her, kissing her, more so now that he knew how it felt with her than when he was clueless before. He was almost certain that his undisciplined muscle group that did not escape her notice was the way it was not so much because of the potion he was drinking. No, he did not want to spend time thinking about her and not be able to do anything about it.

The Quidditch Finals could not come soon enough and the Cannons absolutely had to win.

Work was a great escape and he happened to be at the Ministry moving into his carrel that afternoon when loud, very creative profanity came from within Kingsley’s office. Dean, on loan from the Hit Wizard Office, was already at the minimum security prison as Roy Hunt but the Auror trained to relieve him backed out. A sudden long term illness came up. As Mad-Eye would say, they did not make Aurors like they used to. Harry was to replace him.

“Be extremely careful. A few of Waxball’s Squib recruits for the Toronto mission have already died of mysterious causes. If Roy was going to be rubbed off it would be during the transfer or within forty-eight hours of it,” Kingsley reminded him.

A techie implanted a tracking device into his left forearm as he took the Polyjuice pill and instantly transformed into Roy Hunt.

“The wards between a couple of unused shelves within the prison library have been temporarily disabled and we’ll Portkey you there the first time. You’re to switch with Dean and he’ll come back in the morning. There will be a few Aurors there and they will make themselves known. Any questions?”

“They know you sent me in his place to Toronto. They’ll be expecting this.”

“That’s why we don’t think they will try anything,” he replied, “But they might and we could get lucky.”

Or they could. He remembered what Hermione said about stepping off the curb. This wasn’t exactly heeding her warning about watching out for that bus.

“Any word on Floyd?”

He had discovered the text message on Roy’s Toronto issued phone and instantly realized who those cryptic notes he kept crumpling into Quaffles were from. Floyd and likely, Floyd's associates, knew he was Roy.

“Not a trace of him. Do you really think Floyd is here in London?” Kingsley asked him.

“Unless he’s sending all these notes and messages from Toronto, which I doubt,” Harry replied.

“The Toronto MLE didn’t find those phials that you said existed,” Kingsley told him the bad news.

“They should be able to find a collaborating witness easily. The room had at least twenty people in it when Floyd took it.”

Kingsley gave him an apologetic look, “Not one. And Toronto isn’t investigating into the matter further. Their experts said that such a potion only exists in legend. It would be pretty hard to keep a lid on something like that.”

His face grew hot as he heard this. How could it be that not one person recalled seeing the phials? Something was definitely not right. It was a cover-up likely involving a Ministry insider and it stunk to high heaven.

“They think I made this up?!”

“No, they don’t,” Kingsley tried to calm him down, quite aware of his volatile temper, “They think what you remember about the incident may have been altered by your near death experience.”

“Great! That makes me feel loads better. They’re not saying that I’m a liar, I’m just crazy!”

Harry vented on his boss. He was extremely irked about the mere suggestion that the incident could have altered his memory. In the first place, Floyd drank the potion way before he was injured. And secondly, he did not want anyone making light of his thoughts as he was painting the Ghoul floor with his blood.

“Look,” Kingsley took him aside and said to him firmly, “You know how it works. It’s nothing personal. You can work the lead and find the evidence but without proof we can’t do much.”

He calmed down. Kingsley was right. He was annoyed at Floyd for tracking him down and seeking some form of revenge but more importantly he had to find evidence that this potion existed because its existence had serious implications.

The switch went without a glitch. By nightfall, Harry as Roy was deeply entrenched and mingling with Hunt’s fellow low-lifes. He had his wand on him most times, disguised within a pack of cigarettes, and a single anti-Polyjuice pill, just in case, rattling by its lonesome in a prescription bottle. It was a good thing that the MLE made certain Hunt’s prison mates were not from his old hauntings because while Harry and Dean knew who his associates were, it would have made things more difficult had they had to prove over long periods of time that they were really Roy.

Not much was happening save for the shower proposal Harry had to not-so-graciously decline. He’d have a laugh about that with Dean at some point. The prisoners were ushered into the common room after dinner, where he found out Monday night was movie night. The feature presentation was ‘Escape from Alcatraz’.

“They’re playing mind games,” the burly man to his right said to him as the lights dimmed and movie started, “They don’t show anything else but prison break movies.”

Harry did not reply but could sense the friendly guy and the bespectacled man on his left were buddies and had just made eye contact.

The man to his left whispered, “Are you Roy Hunt?”

“Who wants to know?”

“The boss lady wants to meet you.”

Interesting, meet, not kill, yet. He focused on what Roy would say and do.

“I know a few of them boss ladies. Which one? A name would help.”

“She hired Waxball to hire you.”

“Oh, that one. Well, Waxball’s dead, some colleagues of mine have been showing up dead, and she’s obviously not dead. Why would I want to meet her?”

“She said to tell you not to worry about her. She’s not interested in killing you,” friendly guy whispered as the room fell silent.

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? What does she want?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

“Tell her, thanks, but no thanks.”

“Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice.”

A loud blast rocked the facility followed by instant lightless darkness. He could hear the scampering around him as the occupants tried to exit the room amidst panicky shouts from the guards to stay where they were and the wailing of sirens overhead. A few tried Lumos spells but that didn’t work well. Peruvian instant darkness powder.

Harry felt his two new friends each take an arm and knew he would be taken to her. He would let them knowing Kingsley would find him and resisted transfiguring the cigarette in his hand just yet. It was big risk but he wanted to meet their boss lady.

“I’m ready,” the man to his right said. “The wards should be down by now.”

“Hold on, Roy, this will not be pleasant. On three,” replied the other as Harry prepared to be Side-Alonged, “One, Two…”

Crack!

They were in a small, cold, dingy room, the sound of dripping water nearby. A single, dull, yellow light lit the centre of the furnitureless and windowless space, dust on the wooden floor white and thick.

“Leave him,” a woman’s wispy voice came out from the shadows at the corner.

Harry tried hard but could not see her face. Four more figures emerged, two in the front and two in the back, watching from under hooded cloaks, as the two who brought him Disapparated, likely back to prison.

They did not act like Death Eaters but there were similar bands of criminals always cropping up. And this boss lady was definitely not Lestrange; she would not be modest or exhibit reservations about killing a non-entity like Roy. As the tall man off to his right approached. Harry nonchalantly stuck his disguised wand behind his ear as he was searched; they now had the rest of his cigarettes and his pill container.

“Who are you?” Harry asked the woman in the shadows.

“The more important question is ‘who are you?’” she replied, still barely audible.

And as she did, the tall man who had approached took his hood off, unveiling disgustingly slick black hair and a set of steel grey eyes full of open hatred. He should have known.

Floyd.

Before Harry could reach for his wand, he was hit by a binding curse and a mushroom cloud of dust erupted around him as he crashed on the hardwood floor. Floyd knelt down and sucker-punched him on the face so hard he immediately tasted blood, lots.

Now quite concerned for his life, Harry’s mind went into overdrive, thinking of what to do if the Aurors didn’t arrive soon. He figured breaking the binding curse would be the key first step. Wand.

From the corner of his eye he spotted it a few inches from where he fell. He tried to summon it by will, thought the situation called for something desperate, like learning a magical skill for the first time. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hatch a plan with Floyd’s weight on him and the choking sensation he was beginning to have as blood pooled in the back of his throat. He could only watch as Floyd uncapped the pill bottle, forced the single anti-Polyjuice capsule into him, and covered his mouth and nose, snug and tight, with a rather large palm.

Harry struggled physically in his mind, wanting to move but couldn’t. He needed air, and he needed it sooner as Floyd waited patiently, mocking him. The git wasn’t going to let go until he swallowed the pill.

A/N. This chapter is quite long and it gets quite heated in the end (TPP is M rated). It felt good writing something like it after DH.

---

Chapter 28 – Exam Room 13

“You can swallow or choke, your choice,” Floyd taunted, “Either way, I’m a happy man.”

Harry’s life was hanging on the balance for the second time in less than a week and the first thing that popped up in his head as he heard that line was how much it sounded like it came straight from a poorly done porn flick. Somebody should really give Floyd a tutorial on good quips for bad guys. Perhaps he should move on to more important things, like saving his life. Where the hell was back-up?

Accio wand! Accio wand!

“Did you read my notes?”

For Merlin’s sake…Accio wand!

“Were you thinking of me as you read them?”

Was he supposed to? Really?

“I have something special in mind just for you.”

Fine!

He could have held on a bit longer but decided not to delay the inevitable to get Floyd to shut up sooner. Floyd got off him as he took a big gasp of air, and then watched him intently, no doubt waiting for something to happen. Feeling the pill make its way down his throat with difficulty, he prepared himself for the unpleasant, disorienting sensation that came with transforming back to oneself using the anti-Polyjuice and the likely more unpleasant welcome he would get from his captors once he did change appearance. Their hulking figures had come closer and were now gathered around him

Then it came, the discombobulating feeling, and it was quite odd because he remembered it to be worse and more temporal. The room and its contents were spinning counter clockwise steadily. That was different. He could only hope that the effects wouldn’t linger and definitely not get worse.

Accio wand!

Harry never imagined he would ever need a cigarette so badly in his life. The goons towering over his immobile body drew out their wands.

Accio cigarette!

Still no response. He summoned it once last time, injecting a few choice profane words into the spell. With that last thought, he felt the soft sticklike item creep its way under his fingers, unnoticed by the others in the room. He’ll have to check some time if it was the swearing that made the summoning work.

“Interesting. How sure are you that this is Potter?” one of Floyd’s mates asked.

Harry paused. He expected them to say something different and waited. A sharp, deep pain cut across his left forearm and he felt something being removed from within it.

“He has the tracking device. The guy who put it in confessed not a minute into the torture curse that Potter transformed into Hunt right before his very eyes,” came Floyd’s defensive remark.

“‘Take one as needed for chest pain’,” another man read the dosing instructions on his prescription bottle, and he heard it clatter on the floor, “Maybe the pill he had on him was not what we were told it was. He sure looks the same to me.”

So, he was still Roy; that was wonderful news right now but he was unlikely going to be so for long. And the fact that they knew about the tracking device and weren’t concerned about it could only mean one thing. Help wasn’t coming.

He could have silently broken the binding curse but decided to wait, pushing the envelope a bit for more information. They were obviously expecting to see Roy transform into him. Revenge aside, what did they want with him? A statement to the Ministry? Make him an example so they could make a mark in the highly competitive post Voldemort illegal activity scene? Floyd’s notes, Quid pro quo, did not really make any sense, but maybe that was just Floyd saying the wrong things again!

And who was this woman who bankrolled the Toronto operation?

At the moment, it was five against one. With this continued and seemingly worsening room spinning, it felt like he was on a broken carousel. He couldn’t focus, and he didn’t feel so lucky that if a duel ensued he could subdue the entire lot. The current plan was to hear as much as he could about who they were, hopefully put a face or a name to the rich woman’s voice, break the bind, Disapparate back to the Ministry, get in touch with Kingsley and find this place again if they could. With the bus careening down the road he was going to have to step back onto the curb for that incentive to stay alive. Well, maybe when the bus got a bit closer.

“That or he is the real Roy Hunt in which case we might still be able to use him,” a toothless, stocky older man suggested, making Harry think of the endless possibilities of them believing that to be the case.

“He’s unarmed. Unbind him and let him speak,” the woman commanded, Harry silently grateful to her for giving him one less thing to do.

The man who just spoke motioned to him with his wand.

“Relashio!”

“Get up!” Floyd commanded, prodding him.

Harry obeyed, fighting off the urge to avenge that sucker punch he received earlier. His lip was swollen and throbbing nastily. Unexpectedly, he found himself so unsteady from the visual problems he was having he staggered back and thankfully found a solid wall to lean against. This wasn’t a new experience. His remote history of constant drunkenness helped him stay upright and mask his difficulty. Just a few more minutes, he thought as he put his wand away in his pocket. It was time to be Roy and see what these clowns were up to.

“Who the hell are you and what the hell was that for?!” he bellowed at Floyd who, he had to remember, the real Roy never met, “I need a mirror. If you messed up my face, hope and pray that it can be fixed because if it’s not put back to the way it was I’m going to sue you for every miserable Knut that you have! And look at what you did to my arm. I need a Healer!”

“Are you Mr. Hunt?” the woman asked as she stepped slightly out of the shadows, giving him the impression that she was as tall as Floyd and gaunt, but he couldn’t be sure because everything in the room now appeared like that.

“Of course I am! Do you think that after what happened to their Auror in Toronto they’d mess around and put some impersonator in my place again? They figured you’d have spies so that black bloke who runs the show did a double switch! What a bunch of fucking amateurs!”

With the exception of Floyd who looked sceptical, the rest of the crew bought it. Harry muttered to himself as Roy would have, examining his cut lip off a reflective surface to his side as he kept an eye on and both ears open to the hushed discussion that was taking place.

“I don’t trust him,” Floyd said with conviction. “How sure are we that he is Roy Hunt?”

“You shouldn’t trust him because he is a con man. But if he was Potter or a plant he would have fought us or done something to escape by now. That and I think his face would be the least of his worries,” answered the same toothless goon to Floyd’s right.

“Good point, Mr. Quincy,” the woman replied, “But Tom is right. We need proof. Mr. Hughes, if you please.”

Out from somewhere behind him, he was dragged off the wall he was leaning against and a pair of humongous arms curled under and wrapped around his, locking them in a death grip to the back of his neck, pulling them and his entire body up, his feet catching air. He protested verbally and physically but couldn’t turn his head as he struggled. Hughes, who was probably half giant, was strong, to say the least. Harry could only think of one thing he wouldn’t be able to handle. Maybe two.

“Just relax, Mr. Hunt. This won’t hurt,” she said to him as cool blue eyes shot from under her hood and captured his gaze.

Clearing his mind that very instant, Harry felt her probing his thoughts and served up a few choice Roy Hunt memories from his and Dean’s surveillance of the git a few days ago. They weren’t entirely useless after all. He had enough reel to last them the entire night.

Satisfied and repulsed, she stopped, Hughes letting go of him almost at the same time. He dropped ungainly and disturbed yet again a dusty portion of the floor, taking his time to pick himself up, leaning against a weight bearing post. Thank goodness nobody had a phial of Veritaserum handy.

She confirmed his identity, “The question now is do we use him or lose him.”

“Whoa!” he had to interrupt, “I don’t have anything to do with this! I didn’t get paid for this! And I certainly didn’t want to get involved with this! Lady, I don’t know any of you. Just send me back to prison.”

“Tex did believe that he could pull it off,” Floyd ignored his comments and seemed to have lost his doubts about Harry’s identity, “Let’s send him in again and see what happens.”

Hunt’s original assignment; not good.

She cautioned, “I’m on to you, Tom. I know how you feel about your brother, but Tex is dead. Even he would agree that in business, there is no place for revenge.”

So, Floyd and Waxball were brothers. He was certain the Toronto MLE would find that as interesting as he did. And Floyd wanted to retaliate, hoping he could do it through Hermione.

“If it works out you’ll get what you want, too,” Floyd pointed out unbothered by the woman’s lack of support.

“I might or I might not. You asked me one favour and I did it for your brother. I should have realized that for you this wasn’t entirely about giving Potter to Bella to get back on her good side. I cannot afford to irritate and challenge her further. Not yet. She’s quite sore about our showing the potion to the public without her approval.”

“But it’s worth it,” Floyd continued to pitch his idea as Harry was feeling nauseous from being on the merry-go-round for so long. He had already heard so much but if they were talking about what he believed they were talking about, he wanted to hear every detail of what their plan was, if there was going to be one. Floyd added, “What have we got to lose? She can be annoyed all she wants, kill off everyone else in the Ghoul that day to keep the potion underground but she can’t touch us.”

So, Lestrange was upset about the potion being exposed at the Ghoul, ordered Death Eaters to kill off Waxball’s recruits and he was going to be some sort of human sacrifice for Lestrange, fodder to appease lava spewing volcano. Being the control freak that Lestrange was, she was definitely one who would not want the magic enabling potion in general circulation and the cover-up was likely her doing.

“The answer is ‘no’, Tom. I am inclined to let this go and I urge you to do the same,” she said with finality. “This is over and I want you out of London. You can’t be here. Do you understand?”

“Yes, perfectly,” came a begrudging remark.

The woman continued, “Forget Potter and move on.”

She was gone; Quincy and the half-giant Hughes Disapparated with her. Her last words left Harry with the impression that she was not in the typical mould of a Dark Witch and wondered if there was something about how she addressed Floyd by his first name that should be looked into.

He wasn’t sure. His mind was not as sharp as he wanted it to be and he was getting quite tired he seriously doubted he could Disapparate safely. It must have something to do with the potions that were in him, vaguely remembering both Hermione and Delilah saying something about unwanted effects from polypotion use. He forgot all about it and didn’t think twice when he volunteered. It was also probably why the reverse pill did not work when it was supposed to.

His visual and balance problems were worsening and he had no choice. He eyed the empty pill container on the floor, decided where he would go and discretely aimed his wand at it.

Portus.

“She didn’t even…even introduce herself. Who…who was that?”

Maybe just a bit more.

“You don’t need to know,” Floyd replied harshly, “The question now is what do we do with you?”

Go…now…concentrate…

Harry hugged the post, bent over and threw up. Voices all around him were echoing, reverberating, like a broken record…

“Are you…you…okay…okay…okay…?”

“He doesn’t loo…look so go...go…good…”

“He nee…nee…needs a Healer…Take…hi…him to St. Mu…Mung…Mungo’s…”

Hermione was working tonight. All he could think was that Hermione seeing Roy Hunt again would not be a good thing.

“Bu…but she said…”

He felt a spell hit him and noticed he was no longer wearing prison clothes.

“Do it. She doesn’t have to…to know…”

Accio Portkey!

xxxxxxxxxx

It was close to nine in the evening and Hermione was in her St. Mungo’s Office having just finished rounding the non critical ward patients. Just when she needed herself most pre-occupied with vital matters like saving lives, things would be relatively slower compared to attending in Emerg. Maybe she could finish writing up her alternative potion paper and submit it to magical ethics for trial approval.

After staring blankly at a late draft of her study proposal for half an hour, she put it away knowing that the maybe was not going to happen. She was too distracted and conflicted that the relative unimportance of the task she had before her was constantly being overcome by thoughts of the events of that afternoon. That afternoon, she and Ron talked about her affair in Toronto.

It was never her intention to tell him. She firmly believed that it would only bring him unnecessary grief. He guessed and she could not deny it when he mentioned it.

Ron had been uncomfortably honest with Harry about the fact that she had not let him near her since she came back from Toronto and the most intimate with him that she could get herself to be was a nanosecond peck on his mouth. She must have been dreaming about something pleasant when he joined her in bed because he said he got the impression that she was inviting him.

In her defence, she did wake up feeling rather tired and worn out from the hellish night she had at Emerg and her desire for sex was so way down it was at par with getting a root canal. And while waking up suddenly to his smooching and caresses was not something that had not happened before, it still was a bit of a surprise her first (and only) reaction may have been somewhat on the negative side. The thing was she couldn’t, not even when she told herself that this would be the last time they would, for old times’ sake.

Ron was red in the face, from a few various emotions, she guessed. This time, he did not walk out but instead stayed to confront her about her obvious lack of yearning for what had never been a problem between them before.

“I’m sorry,” she said to him; she was so very sorry for everything that had happened and was about to.

“I’m sorry, too,” he answered, making her curious what about. He had this frown on his face that could only mean he had a very serious matter to discuss with her. “I wanted to talk to you after the Playoffs, thinking I’d rather not know for sure than know and have to deal with it now. But I don’t think I can wait anymore.”

They were both seated in bed beside each other, staring blankly at some fixed point on the sheet, rather sombre. She was miffed at herself for her inability to ensure not to distract Ron until after the games. Her heart was racing and her head was pounding, the anxiety and nervousness having a lot to do with the impending closure of a long relationship with such a good man and a good friend, and all that was going to be uncertain between them after. She was prepared for this conversation but having it a few days earlier and on his initiation made her uncomfortable.

Hermione waited for his lead.

“I want you to know that I love you, I always have and always will,” he paused, she guessed he was looking for the right words, “I wasn’t at first, but I’ve thought about it and I’m okay with it.”

It? No.

“I know you had an affair in Toronto.”

‘It’ was unfortunately about what she thought it was about. It did not happen often but she was at a loss for words. How did he find out?

“I presume it was a meaningless night with a stranger and…” Ron took a big breath in and exhaled, finally saying, “I’m okay with it.”

How could he be fine with something like that; total betrayal of trust, infidelity, and disloyalty? She had to straighten him out on this one.

“Ron…”

“No, hear me out first,” Ron interrupted her, “I know you know it was not right and I know that if I ever did something like that to you, you’d break up with me instantly. I’m not saying that you’d be wrong if you did, but don’t try to convince me that I’m wrong by choosing to be okay with it.”

“I cheated on you,” despite being true that was an odd thing to say and the conversation was not the one she was prepared for.

“Yes, you did. It wasn’t right but you had your reasons. I know them and I know this was something you had to do for yourself. And I can understand why you wouldn’t ask for my permission to do it.”

What he just said tore her heart she could not hold back the tears. It hurt her that he loved her so as to delude himself that the end justified the means. The enormity of her transgression just magnified a hundred fold, her guilt a thousand. Why can’t he just be angry, call her names, and at least make her feel better that she was being punished, make her think twice about not being unfaithful again? It shouldn’t be fine; it shouldn’t be that easy to forgive. And he didn’t even ask if she was sorry she did it.

She couldn’t look at him and instead stared at the hand that took hers.

“And I know you think that you shouldn’t go ahead and marry me, that because you went ahead and did the deed with someone else that was proof that you don’t care about me as much as you think you should. You’ve probably decided?”

She nodded, still sobbing.

“Were you waiting until after the Finals to tell me?”

She nodded again and explained to him, “It would be unfair and it’ll just make both of us miserable. I don’t love you the same way you love me.”

“Maybe so, but you loved me more at some point in the past. I haven’t been the best boyfriend for years. Mum always said I’ve been so lucky with you but warned it wouldn’t all be smooth sailing. This is our first real test and I just want to give us a chance to come out of it okay.”

“What’s kind of unfair is that you’ve decided without talking to me. I admit, I wish it didn’t happen at all or it were happening five years ago and not in the middle of playoffs a week before our wedding but you always had awful timing.”

He was teasing but she couldn’t smile to acknowledge. That was how he was trying to cope.

“What say you? Give us another chance.”

Ron was making this so hard. It was not what she expected to hear. This was definitely not what she wanted him to say.

“I don’t know, Ron,” she was unsure if she deserved this even if she could think it might work, “Our wedding is next week.”

“We can postpone it, indefinitely or until you decide.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You’re it for me and I want me to be it for you. All I ask is a chance to woo you back.”

What Ron said made sense except Ron did not take into consideration the possibility that she loved someone else. Was she willing to do the same thing she did years ago, be pragmatic, settle for the safe and secure relationship that she knew she would have with Ron, then have her emotions of wanting to be with someone else build up once again to this boiling point? Hermione could see this happening again, and the next time, the affair she would not seek from a stranger. Ron could only get hurt more. As tempting and as generous an offer it was, instinctively she would still have to decline.

“Don’t decide now,” it was as if he could read her mind, “Think about it and let me know after the game. We can fix this. Promise me you’ll at least seriously consider to reconsider.”

She looked at him and realized how hard he had been trying since she came back from Toronto. After almost ten years with him, how could she say ‘no’ to that?

“The answer is likely going to be the same, Ron,” she had to be honest.

“I know, but at least there is that possibility that it won’t be,” he replied, “And that thought I can live with until the Finals. Promise me you’ll think about it.”

She leaned over and they embraced as she said to him, “I promise.”

He hugged her tight and she sensed his relief as he quipped, “A last fling? After ten years you hit me with a last fling? That certainly woke me up.”

They pulled apart grinning somewhat. Ron had that knack of making even serious situations lighter.

“How did you find out?”

“It’s not important,” he dismissed her inquiry, “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“I really want to know.”

It took a while for Ron to say it, somewhat embarrassed about how he found out.

“You’ve been acting more strange since coming back from Toronto. I thought about what we talked about before you left and how what your Mum did really upset you. I thought about not being able to reach you at all that Valentine’s night and Ginny threatening to jinx me if I went over to talk with you. You were crying the following morning when we spoke on the phone but said you were fine. I just knew.”

“Since you’ve come back you’ve been trying to avoid me and you haven’t been fussing over wedding details as I imagined you would. There was your reaction to my joining the London team. When I woke up this morning it just came to me that you were checking out and assumed you were waiting for the playoffs to be over before you would tell me.”

Hermione could not believe Ron put himself through that to try and figure her out. Already she was thinking about what would have to change that would make her relationship with Ron work the second time around.

“You should be angrier,” she said to him.

“I was at first. Once I believed it was meaningless and understood why you did what you did, it didn’t hurt as much.”

“How can you still want to be with me after all this?”

“Easy. The alternative is unimaginable,” Ron answered plainly.

Tears welled up in her eyes again. Sadly enough, Hermione understood exactly how he felt. She thought guiltily about how she felt for someone else.

“I had to convince myself it would not have been with Harry,” he continued, Hermione’s heart froze, skipping a couple of beats and recovering with a faster one, “I was going insane thinking that possibility knowing that both of you were over there but you guys wouldn’t do that to me. It was with a stranger, right? It wasn’t with Harry, was it?”

“Ron, it was meaningless, with a stranger,” she said to him firmly, “It wasn’t with Harry.”

Hermione convinced herself that it was the truth. That night, she didn’t know it was Harry and it was meaningless sex with a stranger. Ron was very sensitive about matters concerning her relationship with Harry and the last thing she wanted was to fan his insecurities about that, particularly when it was over. It was over and it didn’t even really start.

As she thought about Ron’s proposal for reconsideration, her answer was the same and she chastised herself for being so heartless, lacking compassion.

Healer Granger, to Emergency Room STAT. Healer Granger, to Emergency Room STAT.

An announcement came overhead and Hermione instinctively grabbed the intra-hospital Portkey to get to Emerg, thankful of the opportunity to do something productive. She immediately found herself just outside Exam Room 13.

Patient alarms were ringing all over as she swung the doors into the room. At least seven Healers and assistants were in there resuscitating a sandy haired man on the table. She summoned the patient chart and started going over it.

“What do you have, Delilah?” Hermione asked the Emerg attending that night, who was doing internal cardiac compressions by the looks of the flicking movements of her wand.

“Male, 25-30, transfer from St. Gregory’s, unconscious and unresponsive, suspected drunk and involved in a brawl. He was moved in here stable, labs drawn, he’s got a bruise on the face, a cut on his left arm and what I’m guessing is a bevy of faint magical potion ingredients in him that the tox screen came up with. Then he suddenly went into convulsions and his heart stopped beating. Pressures are down, giving him fluids for now to prevent more organ failure.”

“Head injury?”

“Nothing significant. I’m thinking possible recreational potion abuse.”

“Or some adverse reaction,” Hermione added as she went over the tox screen results and it indeed looked like a grocery list for a potion factory.

“Sorry to put you on the spot but we have to ID what he took that’s causing this.”

Another patient alarm went off. She knew this and felt no pressure. It was a game of name that potion; child’s play. Her eyes flitted down the list and as she got near the end she had a mental image of which ingredients went with what and which potions they were for. She held her breath for a second as she leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the patient’s face. Her heart jumped up her throat and stayed there, beating very fast. She couldn’t believe who she saw.

Not again…

“Stop fluids,” she suggested to, actually told, the team as she set the chart down and found a spot to do a quick assessment of the once again Polyjuiced Harry, “You’re just going to flood him.”

“What is it?” Delilah asked, as the team did as Hermione asked.

“Muscle strengthening potion and a couple of other uncommon ones,” she replied.

It was not necessary to tell the room full of people what the other ones were as they were, at least in theory, not clinically important. Did she not tell him not to work and that polypotion use with the muscle strengthening solution he was taking was not a good idea? And he sure waited for the last minute before he sought medical attention! And at St. Gregory’s?! She flung open the emergency potion cupboards with so much force portions of it became unhinged and she instantly found what she was looking for.

Jimmy Jingle, a first year intern, asked as he recognized what Hermione was about to give the patient.

“Isn’t another potion the last thing you’d want to give for a case of severe multi-potion reaction?”

Delilah answered her student, “Yes, but it’s also the last resort past a certain point.”

Placing the bag of the corresponding antidote, a suppressing draught, on top of his chest wall adjacent to his heart, Hermione watched it empty as she cast a spell to administer it as fast as Harry could take it.

“But you can kill the patient,” whispered the intern, distressed.

“If you don’t do something he’ll be dead anyway,” Hermione heard Delilah say back, thinking just how many more times she could take watching him die. “Some Healers won’t ever do it because more often than not the patient just dies faster.”

They waited; each passing second feeling more like an hour. The resuscitating team had this look that they were going to give up any time now and according to St. Mungo’s guidelines they would have to stop soon. She summoned a second dose and gave it to him. The room was silent save for the bells on the monitors.

Come on, Harry!

Then, finally, a break. Each patient alarm quieted down one by one, as Harry regained full function of his heart and his other organs. He stirred.

“But sometimes, you get really lucky, and your patient survives,” Delilah added, relief washing over everyone in that room, then said to Hermione, “Thanks for the help.”

“Don’t mention it,” Hermione replied, shaking, grateful that Harry responded favourably to the risky intervention, then said to her loud enough so only Delilah and Jimmy could hear, “Tell your intern that next time, he should ask questions after.”

She stormed out of Exam Room 13 leaving Delilah and her intern blushing slightly, embarrassed, and found a nearby empty office. She locked herself in and as the adrenaline rush wore off, there was no stopping the gush of emotions she had to hold back to do what she did. He almost died again and she could have pushed him quicker to his death had they not been fortunate.

Hermione cried.

XXXXXXXXX

Not long after, Harry regained consciousness and found himself face up on a hospital stretcher, uncertain of how he got there. As he swept his eyes around the room a reflection of Roy stared back at him from one of the patient monitors. He quickly extinguished a disturbing thought that this face would be his permanently. That was just unimaginable.

The crossed wand with bone emblem was on many objects inside the exam room and unless another hospital decided to outfit theirs with the trademark merchandise, it was highly unlikely that he wasn’t in St. Mungo’s. There was nobody in the windowless room save for a young, pimple faced man who was reading a book beside him, mouthing the words as he seemed to be in need of guidance on how to fix the deep gash that was on Harry’s forearm. He glanced upon the nameplate on the man’s chest.

A green intern. He’d rather take his chances with the Ministry mediwizard. He ripped off all the contraptions and devices attached to him and quickly got up from bed at a speed that should not have been possible for a man who just moments ago was on the brink of dying.

“Mr. Hunt, wh-where do you think you’re go-going?” the intern left to attend to him stammered, as he too got up, wand in hand, pointed at Harry in defence.

Harry did not answer, quickly snatched the intern’s weapon and silently summoned his own. The disguised piece of holly zoomed to him in an instant from the rubbish bin right beside the closed door. He called him Mr. Hunt.

“There is no smo-smoking allowed within…”

“How did I get here?” Harry asked as he put the cigarette in his pocket but held on to the intern’s wand.

“Pa…pa…patient t…transfer,” Jimmy replied, face ashen from fear.

“From St. Gregory’s?”

The intern nodded. So he did get out by Portkey, which meant his cover was blown. St. Gregory’s Hospital was a less reputable and smaller version of St. Mungo’s just on the outskirts of London with a high tolerance for dodgy characters. He had hoped to be conscious when he got there to contact the Ministry. It did not occur to him that he would be too ill. They likely lifted Roy’s name from the pill container he had used as a Portkey. He had to know.

“Who saw me?”

He got a puzzled look for an answer.

“Who’s my attending Healer?”

“Do…do-gooder.”

Hearing that gave some relief but he had to get out of there quickly. He found Muggle street clothes hanging on the back support of the visitor’s chair and changed into them as the intern protested.

“You can’t le-leave,” Jimmy said forcefully. “I was told to fix you up.”

“Not gonna happen, sorry,” he instantly replied.

He had to leave, get to Kingsley to tell him what happened and hopefully find a way to regain his image. There was heightened uneasiness about remaining a Roy Hunt copy for a few different reasons.

“But you can’t…”

A force blasted him back onto the gurney as he stepped out into the hallway.

What was going on?

“I told you, you can’t. Not until a staff Healer signs you out.”

For a while he thought he was being held because he was Roy. He got up and charged the intern, borrowed wand pointed at its owner.

“You can’t keep me here against my will!”

“Well, it’s not me, really,” Jimmy replied, trying to explain, “You were quite ill and a Healer has to see you before you go. St. Mungo legal department rules.”

Damn bureaucrats.

“Get me Dogooder then, right now!”

“But… the Minister’s wife…”

Harry pointed his wand at Jimmy who hastily got out. Harry paced for a bit, now aware of the painful throbbing on his arm and face, thinking about how to repay Greasy for the cowardly shiner the git gave him. Merlin only knew how much longer they would keep him here. He had to get word to Kingsley that he was fine, well, at least alive. If only his Patronus was less conspicuous.

He scanned the room again and spotted a Muggle phone tucked away at the corner. Immediately recalling the MLE number which undercover Hit Wizards frequently used whilst on Muggle assignments, he was able to patch through Kingsley and told him most of what happened. Kingsley was understandably quite upset that they had lost him. They put the real Hunt back in maximum security and Kingsley would work on the information he just got. Harry would meet up with him once he was discharged.

He just put the phone down when Jimmy returned. Jimmy now was positively more nervous than before he left.

“Well, where is she?”

Before Jimmy could answer, the door swung wide open and the last person he wanted to see in his current state came rushing in. Their eyes met and she instantly recognized him, the worry on her face quickly replaced by one of annoyance.

“Mr. Jingle,” Hermione said to the intern sternly, eyes narrowed, words barely escaping through gritted teeth. “You paged me STAT and your patient looks more well than you do. This better be good.”

Jeez. He’d seen her this angry many times in past, mostly at Ron, but he never thought Hermione had it in her to say something like that to a student. That was so Snape-like.

“Healer Do…Dogooder is still bu…busy with the Minister’s w..wife and Mr. Hu…Hunt wants to go home.”

Poor kid was ready to wet himself.

“He does? But his arm isn’t fixed yet!”

“I refused treatment,” Harry thought he should come to the intern’s rescue.

“So that’s why you went to St. Gregory’s. You didn’t really want medical attention. We should have sent you back because the Healers there would have had no problems letting you die,” she said, pleasantly, with a contrived smile.

The intern sniggered in the background. Big mistake.

“Mr. Jingle, name the five reasons a lowly know-nothing intern, that’s you, is justified to page a St. Mungo staff to come to their aid emergently.”

“Ah…um…uh…”

“I thought so,” she cut him off brusquely. “This is definitely not one of them. I don’t want to see your face in here again until you find out what they are.”

Harry could see more pimples on Jimmy’s face beginning to break out.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

Jimmy walked meekly towards Harry.

“My wand,” he said meekly, showing it to Hermione after he snatched it back from Harry’s grasp.

Their eyes followed the intern until his back disappeared behind the closed doors. Left alone, they had no choice but to face each other.

“That was rather harsh,” Harry said the obvious, thinking he’d start.

His heart was pounding hard against his chest he was certain it was visible over his shirt. Hermione’s expression as she looked at his was unreadable. Did she know it was him?

“Yes, it was. Don’t worry about him, he’ll live,” she replied, summoning his chart, “Seeing you here is quite unexpected.”

He couldn’t agree more. To her he was Roy. A part of him wished she would figure it out. He hated the continuing lies and deception but it had gone on for too long now he couldn’t confess anymore. He wouldn’t know how to begin and it would definitely end horribly.

“Mr. Hunt…”

“Roy.”

“Mr. Hunt,” she repeated, “We’d prefer to keep you until sunrise for observation.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I have to go.”

“Let me fix your arm and your face, at least,” she insisted, “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

He relented. She sat him down beside the gurney, resting his arm on it and summoned a chair for herself. It was uncomfortable being this close to her and not touching her. She meticulously put together each layer of broken muscle with a warm healing spell as he watched her. She was tired, eyes red tinged and lids puffy, jaws tense he was not sure if it was because she needed that much concentration to do what she was doing. A brown lock escaped from the rest of her neatly tied back hair, obstructing his view and he fought the impulse to brush it off to one side.

“You’re distracting me,” she said to him without looking up.

“No,” he replied to her softly, “You’re distracting me.”

For a moment he thought he saw the corner of her mouth curve up in a smile. He could not help it. Memories of their night exploded in his private thoughts and lingered, fanning the hunger of not only his physical need to be with her but, once again, a despair that that was likely as close to her as he could get. For the longer he thought about her breaking up with Ron the more farfetched it seemed that she would even consider going into a serious relationship with him after. He thought about how Ron would take that and he was sure she would, too.

Seated across from him, Hermione was definitely not having a good day. She was unusually unkind to Jimmy Jingle, livid at the intern for frightening her with another emergent page. And while it bothered her that Harry was not prepared to divulge his identity, a part of her didn’t want him to, especially not after what Ron said today. The more she thought about it, the more she realized nothing good could ever come out of having that truth out in the open.

Hermione could not risk using another potion so the healing had to be done this painstaking way. She finished with the arm, satisfied that it was without scar. Standing in front of him, she turned his head slightly to his right and pointed her wand on his face, aiming for the nasty ping pong ball size lump on his cheek.

His right leg was brushing against her left one and just the contact was causing it to go wobbly. And Hermione didn’t know what to make of the piercing scrutiny she was being subjected to. It was uncomfortable, this being the first time she had been acutely aware that Harry actually looked at her like that. And that he was admitting that he found her closeness distracting.

From Roy she would think nothing more of it. But this was Harry and making the Roy-Harry connection made her remember how Harry looked at her the same way in Toronto. It was a physical attraction at least, that much she was certain of, and she wondered how long Harry felt that way, if having another person’s identity finally liberated him from the encumbrance of their supposed purely platonic relationship.

A gnawing needy sensation awoke from deep inside her. There was something about being desired by the man that she loved that was difficult to ignore. Opportunity was knocking at the door and for Ron, for decency, she knew she shouldn’t answer. She should tell it to go away. Taking a deep breath, she could feel the air heavy with an intense anticipation.

“Please stop staring.”

“I can’t.”

She was nervous, knowing the dangers of their exchange, for to her they were not just words anymore. Her hand shook somewhat as she reduced the swelling.

Harry stood and moved closer, “In fact, I’m having a hard time preventing myself from doing more than that.”

“Like what?”

His nearness was stifling, and she kept staring at the spot on his face which was injured and now wasn’t, wanting to find out just how different it would feel kissing him or doing everything else she and Roy did in Toronto.

“Like this.”

He brushed a stray lock off her face, tucked it behind her ear and left his hand there, gently cupping her face. It broke her resolve not to look up and meet his gaze. His eyes were his, bright green and she knew once she looked deeply into them she would succumb and not resist losing herself in its vastness.

It was inevitable, she thought, as they both inched closer, his physical features blurring away, quite unnecessary for she had imagined herself this close to Harry a lot more times than she would ever admit. Twice this past week she watched him almost die, and both times she was overcome with dread and regret. A lifetime of wondering what it would be really like with him seemed too great a price to pay and while she thought that opportunity was lost forever in Toronto, how could she turn away this rare second chance?

They kissed, deep, long and sweet, the butterflies in her stomach fluttering uncontrollably as he pulled her as close to him as possible, his touch searing into the small of her back. She wrapped her arms around his neck in a tight embrace, and swam in the heady sensation of Harry’s passionate kiss, committing to memory everything about the moment, the touch, the sound, the taste, the smell, but most all, the feeling she felt as she was kissing the man she loved and he was kissing her back.

Breathing fast and shallow, she stopped for a moment, looked into his eyes and said, almost whispering against his irresistible lips, “I thought you said this was a one time thing.”

And just before he answered, she saw past the obvious, his longing for that same connection she sought, of mutual admiration, of respect, of love, beyond anything physical they could ever share. The bond was always there between them, unspoken but understood, and this deed, as impure as it was, was the expression of an overflowing yearning to make the feeling tangible and real.

“I thought it was, but I was wrong.”

His reply was her undoing. She magically secured the door and the blinds, pulling the room overhead covers over them before her vine wood wand clanked on the floor. She was swept away by his strong arms, their mouths locked in a needy, desperate act, both knowing what they were stealing, both aware of the dire consequences, unable to see hope beyond what they were about to do.

For now, at least for her, it was like she was living in a dream, conscious of it being so and knowing that at one point, she would wake up and it would all end.

Harry set her down on the gurney, kissing the length of her neck roughly as she fumbled down his front, unbuttoned and unzipped what was before her, his pants falling down his ankles. Her fingers found the in seam of his boxers and slipped them off from behind, her hand caressing the tight muscles that it once covered, drawing him even closer.

Taking her cue, his hands crept up her legs beneath the lime green robes she was wearing, his touch grazing her skin, sending unimaginable pleasurable sensations towards their destination. When they got there, he wildly tugged her knickers off, his impatience matching hers.

Like thieves they rushed to take with urgency. He lifted her robes up as she parted her legs to welcome him unconditionally, and he found her without difficulty, the force of his initial hard thrust expected yet not, causing an involuntary sharp whimper to escape from within her. Their breathing was ragged and uneven in contrast to the rhythm he immediately found for them and dictated. With his every excursion all she thought about was her need to feel him come inside her, burning as ferocious as anything she had wished before.

She aimed to please and when she did, she too was pleased, as much as he was.

“Hermione…” Harry whispered in her hair as she felt his warm pulsations empty within, sensing that was not the first he had said her name that way before.

A single tear escaped down her cheek as she whispered back, the words spilling out as uncontrollable and as instinctive as what just transpired between them…

“I love you.”

---

A/N. It was an inside-the-park homerun :)

I'd be interested to hear views about Ron's offer.

Chapter 29. The Journal

Breathing fractured, chests heaving, they clung on to each other tightly, not wanting to let go, feeling the pounding of their hearts. Did he hear her right?

His mind raced through different scenarios in a somewhat least to most desired order.

She said it to Roy Hunt.

She imagined Roy was someone else, maybe Ron.

He imagined it. She never said it.

She knew he was Roy and the words were meant for him.

Okay. So that last part bordered on delusional. If Hermione knew he was Roy, he would have been jinxed by now, many times over.

He couldn’t believe that she was in love with Roy. How could she feel that strongly about someone she just met and barely knew? Personally, he did not believe in love at first sight and as far as he knew, neither did Hermione; especially not Hermione. But there were already so many things he knew of her that she proved wrong in the past few days, including doing what they just did, when they did and where they did.

Harry pulled back and looked into her eyes, puzzled. If she said and meant the words, was this why she was so mixed up about making the decision to marry or not marry Ron, the thing she couldn’t tell Ginny or him about?

“Did you just say…um…that you loved me?”

That took a lot to get out. Her eyes met his and she had a perplexed yet amused expression.

“Why would I say something like that?”

A bucket full of ice cold water just splashed all over him.

“I was asking myself the same thing,” he admitted, red in the face but was almost sure he heard right. “I must have imagined it.”

Definite awkward moment.

“You must have,” she concurred then suggested, “We should get dressed.”

“You’re right,” he moved away, pulled his boxers and pants back up as she found her wand and undergarment, “Jimmy might walk in and think this is part of patient management.”

Right beside him, still flushed and weak-kneed from what she just did with Harry, Hermione didn’t think that it necessary to share with him that she sent the intern on a wild goose chase. She had hoped she could be alone with him long enough to give them a chance to talk and him the opportunity to confess, if he wanted to. Neither the talk nor the confession happened, although, she was quite surprised at the swiftness they got to home plate.

So, that was what it was like with him. Indescribable, unimaginable, beyond belief. She would have never thought it possible that such a feeling could ever exist even for a brief moment, and just thinking about it made her insides flutter pleasantly. And like after any other amazing experience, the question that begged to be answered was when would it happen again.

Hermione had to keep her wand hand from trembling as she removed tell-tale signs of what just took place, unsecuring the room to the way it was before, feeling enormously guilty about Ron and about breaking so many institutional and moral rules in that one act. It was foolish to do it, to risk it, but the moment screamed at her and there was no holding back. That reason was definitely not one that would hold up in an inquiry.

She didn’t mean to say the words out loud but she lost it when she heard him say her name. It was a good thing Harry thought he imagined it for the last thing she really wanted to have right now was a conversation with Roy Hunt about what she just couldn’t keep to herself.

This farce that they were engaged in was getting to be quite troublesome. For a second she contemplated outing him, and just dealing with it once and for all but she restrained herself, thinking it better if they talked about it when Harry was good and ready to do so. If she felt guilty about this she could be sure he did, too, and if she were concerned about Ron he would be, too.

Out of the blue, she heard him ask.

“Why are you still engaged?”

“Why do you care that I am?”

“What makes you think I care? I’m just a stranger you met at a bar.”

“Not anymore, you aren’t,” she couldn’t resist pointing the truth. “If this isn’t the one time thing that you thought it would be, what do you think is it?”

“Is it not obvious?” he replied.

“No, not really, and I’d rather not jump to conclusions. What do you want out of this?”

Now wasn’t the time to come up with theories.

“I…”

Harry was disrupted by the sound of the swing doors into Exam Room 13 clashing against the hard wall. It made them both jump, and Harry, she noticed, had taken out a cigarette. She couldn’t help but think the time for having one was definitely past.

She looked at their intruder and wasn’t sure if she would laugh or be angry for his interruption. It was Jimmy the intern, at least it looked like him behind a stack of books hovering precariously in front of him obstructing his view. So, he was resourceful, figured the answer out and armed himself to prove he was right. It was only a matter of time before…

Crash!

“Sorry,” he muttered as he tidied up the fallen books on the counter. “I was looking into your question…”

She interrupted, “Later, Mr. Jingle. I’m at the end of Mr. Hunt’s um… physical assessment.”

That drew a grin from Harry. It was, in a way, true. Summoning his chart and flipping randomly through the notes, she was unable to concentrate on the task at hand.

Unflinching, Harry reminded her why she was there, “So, am I fit enough to be discharged?”

Hermione replied poker-faced, as she signed him out, “Fit as a race horse.”

She figured she should make her exit. His piercing gaze was so uncomfortable and she was fighting the urge to kiss him once more. It was a good thing the intern was there.

“Would you like to see me again?” he asked.

“Do you think it’s necessary?” she answered him with a question, probing, thinking if they were going to see each other again, that decision was not going to be hers.

Seriously, he replied, “I rushed you through that examination I kind of feel bad. I know you like to be thorough.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Hunt,” she assured him. Why did he have to be so considerate? “I think we both got what we needed.”

“But what if I still need to see you?” Harry insisted.

She searched his face, pondering the many probable reasons why Harry as Roy would want to see her again. This meeting tonight, she figured, was unexpected. The fact that he sought help at St. Gregory’s made her even wonder if he was trying to avoid her. But surely, he couldn’t think this sham should go on forever. Or was he offering her the same service he had provided her twice now, the extent he was able to give?

Once before, Hermione had questioned his intention. She could not do that anymore, not after seeing in his eyes the inner conflict and desperation that she also felt. To openly want her as Harry was filled with complications. He may have still been considering if it was worth it. Ron would be devastated and he was probably waiting for the Quidditch finals to end, too, before doing anything about it. Impatience had always been Harry’s weakness.

“I suggest giving it a few days, it could pass,” she said to him.

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then, you know where to find me.”

Maybe she shouldn’t have encouraged him like that, but her hormones were doing the talking. Already, her need to be with Harry was as strong as it was earlier, unquestionably fuelled by his obvious desire to do what they just did again. How foolish of her to think that once with him was going to be enough.

She scolded herself for acting like a self-control challenged, hormone-crazed, teenager. This fleshly yearning that she had suppressed for a long time and thought dead was at near obsessive levels. It would be tragic if, after all this time, the definition of their relationship would come down to just that.

This wasn’t right. What they were doing to Ron and to each other was not right. She never would have thought in a million years she would allow this but this was stranger than fiction. She should really start looking at the forest and not the trees. For while she somewhat understood the conundrum Harry was in, how many more times would it take for her to say that enough was enough and to start questioning just how much he really cared about them if he continued to willingly deceive her. She felt compelled to do something to prevent them from going down that path, thinking that if they were going to do this, they had to do this right.

Her answer to Ron’s proposal, which had been obvious from the moment he mentioned it, was a definite ‘no’. After the Finals, she would tell Ron and then summon all the Gryffindor courage she could, to take the chance that she wasn’t sure Harry would ever take. She would confront Harry about whether or not he wanted them to have something beyond the platonic relationship they had.

That was all it would take - a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer. She wanted to know exactly what he meant when he said he was wrong thinking it was a one-time thing. Just thinking about it made Hermione remorseful for she knew that they would definitely hurt Ron. She hoped Harry would have the foresight never to tell Ron he was Roy from Toronto.

With that thought, she handed his chart over to the intern and told Jimmy to carry out her order. There was only one, and it was to remind Mr. Hunt not to use other potions with the muscle strengthening concoction.

As Hermione left Exam Room 13, she looked at the non-stranger who had been staring at her all night, fantasizing about a normal, open and loving relationship with him. She could only hope that if Harry indeed wanted to make amends for their recent hurried ‘examination’, he would not do so as Roy Hunt.

XXXXXXXXXX

21 February 2006

Forty-eight hours later, the need to see her would not pass.

Harry had been avoiding her, immersing himself at work, where Kingsley had ordered him not to be at, with the little concentration he could afford it. He was bursting to tell her not to marry Ron, move in with him and snog her senseless, not necessarily in that order.

Having her see Roy again was not a good thing, adding to the lies he would need to hide from her. He had a feeling this would end badly. She asked Roy what he wanted out of this and he could only have made matters worse had the intern not interrupted, for the moment she walked into the room, he wasn’t totally in character.

It bothered him that Hermione did what she did with Roy. Yes, he realized how hypocritical that was not thinking it before and during, but it hit him hard after he left the hospital. Her interaction with Roy had a raw feel to it, almost instinctive and unprocessed, as if she was allowing her basic impulses free reign around him. Knowing Hermione for so long, he had not seen this coming, and wondered; after what they did at the hospital, what was it that she wanted out of him?

He hoped it was about the same thing that made her go out with Roy in Toronto for the thought of her wanting more from him was downright scary. He shouldn’t have stared and wanted her so overtly. He shouldn’t have said to her that he was mistaken to think Toronto was a one time thing or pestered her about the possibility of seeing her again. She didn’t want to but in the end left it open; and she left it for him to make that decision.

It was very tempting. Her lack of inhibition and candidness with Roy was addictive; her touch, the feel of her against him, her scent, her lips on his and everything else, intoxicating as he had never experienced before. He was dying to find out if she would be the same way with him.

His alter ego was bent on acting without conscience buoyed by the fact that Hermione found him attractive and responded to his amorous advances. While Harry desperately wanted and needed to be with her, he felt that each time he did that as Roy, the lies brought them farther apart.

I love you.

A whisper now deeply etched in memory…was it real or merely a figment of his imagination?

For a moment, he allowed himself the fantasy that she did say it and that the words were indeed meant for him. Maybe it was premature to think she wouldn’t be interested in him after Ron. Maybe talking to her as Harry, asking her point blank if she had any romantic feelings for him, without mentioning Roy, would be the way to go.

The Quidditch game was in a few days. Harry would only have to deal with chance hallway meetings and Ron’s invite to have dinner with them tomorrow night. The limited interaction would make things easy enough and he should be able to manage this compulsion to touch her. He would try to be good, be an exemplary model of patience and stay off the juice.

He willed his attention back to work. A small picture of Floyd was on page 4 of a Toronto daily. He had been arrested after a scuffle in a pub and was in a Toronto jail awaiting trial for the post-Valentine’s Day incident at the Ghoul. No mention of at-large accomplices, no mention of any potions. As far as the London Auror office was concerned, the Toronto case was closed.

As for the Waxball’s employer and her goons, Mr. Quincy and Mr. Hughes, a scan of known criminal elements in Britain did not turn up anything. Their search for that room he was taken to and escaped from was unproductive.

The link to Lestrange, while informative and useful for when they ever captured her, was hollow without evidence of this purple potion ever existing. From the time Harry Dissaparated from Floyd and his minions to the time he was able to get in touch with Kingsley, the number of living Squib and Muggle witnesses to Floyd taking the potion at the Ghoul dropped to zero.

The cover-up was complete. If only Legilimency and Veritaserum were approved methods for Squib interrogation, but Floyd knew his rights only too well.

It was late. He was tired but ached to get a glimpse of the woman he wanted to be with the rest of his life. He stopped by at St.Mungo’s and watched her for a bit from the gallery, what ifs eating him up as he saw her leave the Emergency Room with Ron.

XXXXXXXXXX

She felt like a traitor, sitting across from Ron, who was telling her how his day had gone. He had dropped by to remind her to take a break and while physically she was with him, the rest of her wasn’t. It was two days after the Exam Room 13 incident and it was quite difficult to not think about Harry.

Hermione had intended to steer clear of Harry like he had the plague. Much to her chagrin, Harry had not really sought her out, making her avoidance of him insignificant. No, she did not want to see Harry, really, but it would have been nice if he wanted to see her. Argh! She hated this feeling thinking she was a bit too old to be having it. How she wished she could talk to Ginny about this.

There was always work. She completed her alternative potion research proposal and submitted it to ethics. Unfortunately, it was against St. Mungo rules to work everyday of the week so she couldn’t work after tonight. With Quidditch and her supposed wedding day close she was not on schedule anymore. Once again she had so much more to think about. Ron had given her another surprise.

Hermione had to hand it to Ron for knowing exactly what to do to work her up to what he wanted to happen. He revealed another of his pre-nuptial presents earlier that day and she should have insisted that she did not want it.

“You have a diary?” Hermione asked, still groggy, an old book with a faded orange cover in her hand.

“Not a diary,” Ron corrected, “A journal.”

She did not bother to tell him there was no difference. It was just so unlike him to be jotting down anything on a regular basis and never saw him do that.

“Since when?”

“Since we got together,” Ron was amused by her reaction, knowing it was truly a surprise, “Go ahead, open it and read it.”

“But, Ron, this is private.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know. She was going to break up with him.

“I want you to know everything there is to know about me,” he reiterated, “I don’t want anything private.”

“I appreciate the offer, but ‘no’, really.”

“Please,” he insisted, and turned the cover over for her. "So, you can understand me better."

First the Cannons, now this. Maybe she should just tell him right now.

“The first one is about how I felt when we first kissed, do you remember that?”

He smiled and it too brought a smile to her face. How could she forget? It was just before he and Harry were to go to Cannon Camp. She just moved in and he was helping her set things up when he made his move in the kitchen. The kitchen. They joked, saying it was appropriate that he would do it in his favourite room. The subsequent passages brought her back in time. They were young, in love and it was so long ago.

“I didn’t write in it everyday,” he explained, “Just during extremes of emotion, particularly when I felt or thought something that I couldn’t tell you. There are a lot of my feelings about you and Harry in there.”

She wasn’t really up for another one of their Harry fights.

“Ron, I know all about that. We’ve certainly discussed Harry and I like a broken record over and over again.”

“You don’t know everything.”

Ron said those words with such surety that it jarred her. How could he know for a fact that she didn’t know everything that had to be known about that? She let him turn to the page dated about a year into his Cannon career. She was in Healer school and Harry was in the hospital. They had a big fight when she told him she would be at St. Mungo’s to help Harry recover from his injuries, his alcoholism and his depression. He didn’t want her there; she did it anyway. He sent her a Howler in essence telling her he was going to break up with her if she insisted. He was pretty miffed about the fact that she called his bluff and ignored his tantrum.

Hermione couldn’t understand why he was so jealous of Harry. Harry was their best friend and he needed them during that difficult part of his life. She was not doing anything wrong. How could Ron even suggest to her not to do everything that she could to help Harry out. It was so unreasonable she thought that if Ron was going to break up with her because of that then she wouldn’t want to be with him anyway. Ron never followed through on his ultimatum.

But as she read his words in the journal she found out where the jealousy was coming from.

“He asked me if he could go out with you, like on a date, before we became a couple,” Ron said as she got to the very same passage in the journal.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something but didn’t find the words. Did he just say what she just heard and read?

“I said ‘no’, and all this time with you I’ve been expecting him to tell me how he shouldn’t have asked me or listened to me then. I know you two have grown closer over the years and I keep on telling myself that, as you said, there’s nothing to be jealous about. I can’t help but think that every time he sees you as that one person in his life who is there all the time, he’ll clue in and want you to be that someone he once thought you could be. I can’t compete with him, Hermione, and I don’t want to lose you.”

“Ron,” Hermione finally found her voice, feeling horrible for him, “That was so long ago.”

She didn’t know what to tell him, really. All she knew was that he shouldn’t have felt that way all this time up until a few days ago because there really was nothing going on between her and Harry. But now? What could she tell him that would be truthful and not hurt his feelings? She seemed to have acquired a sudden case of thought paucity.

“And then there was what happened to your Mum and Dad. I couldn’t ask when we argued about them before your left for Toronto, afraid of what your answer would be. But I’ve often wondered if Harry asked you, would you leave me to be with him.”

Silence followed, begging for a filler, something like the Jeopardy jingle but longer and less annoying. While he wasn’t asking a question she felt pressure to respond, to reassure.

Hermione figured she had a few options. She could say something like ‘Harry would never ask’ or just blurt out something insensitive like ‘within a heartbeat.’

“Ron, if I were to leave you it won’t be because Harry asks me, okay?”

Ron thought about her answer before replying, “Okay.”

She knew that wasn’t much of a reassurance.

Ron left her to go through the rest of his journal but her mind was stuck for a while on his revelation. Did Harry really want to date her? Was this what this was about for him? Wanting to find out if he was missing something before she and Ron got married? And the one time wasn’t enough?

He said he couldn’t compete with Harry, and that he didn’t want to lose her. How could she tell him that he was right about the former and the latter had already happened some time ago? She would have to be such a horrible person to be able to say something that, even if it was the truth.

Ron was right. There was a lot about Harry and him that she did not know about, events during their year as Cannons, a lot of them quite disturbing, particularly the ones leading up to Harry’s early Quidditch retirement. Ron wrote about the night Harry was injured with details neither of them told her about, and looking back, she understood now why Harry was the way he was after and why he and Ron never talked about it.

It was ugly, Ron’s jealousy. There was no other way to describe it. Each time Ron expressed his envious side it was always followed by remorse, a realization that what he had just felt, thought and perceived was wrong.

Hermione cried reading it and could still vividly remember one dreadful line Ron wrote during Harry’s time at St. Mungo’s.

‘I wonder if she’ll give me the same kind of attention had I been the drunk and depressed, moron that Harry is. Maybe I should do a Potter during a game and find out.’

She confronted him that morning about it, wanting to know if that was true. Laughing, Ron brushed it off, saying that was so long ago. He was so young and was an idiot then, pointing out what Hermione already noticed, that most times each ill emotion passed quickly and some admonition about how stupid it was to feel that way followed.

It wasn’t funny, not to her. Somehow, Hermione was not comforted; thinking the worst of what could happen if she ended up with Harry.

“I invited Harry over for dinner tomorrow.”

“Huh?”

“Harry is coming for dinner tomorrow,” he repeated. “And Delilah, too.”

“Delilah?” The flirtatious bimbo?

“Yes. She said she wanted to get to know Harry better.”

I bet she does.

“I know you’ll probably be tired. We can just go out…”

“Oh no. I’ll cook.” I wonder if she’s allergic to anything…

“Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.” I’ll make certain it’s in everything I serve…

“So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About Harry and Delilah.”

You don’t really want to know. “Oh, that. I don’t think it would work.”

“Why not?”

For one, he’ll never hear the end of you teasing him about dating a Dogooder. “She’s tall and she’s blonde. It won’t last,” Hermione knew she was right about this. “Does Harry know you’re setting him up?”

He shook his head, grinning, “You know he told me to stop doing that years ago. I’ll tell him it’s your idea. He wouldn’t mind if it comes from you.”

It does make perfect sense to have the man I love date someone else. It wasn’t worth an argument.

“He’s not seeing anyone nowadays, is he?”

Seeing? No, not really. “Not that I know of.”

“Great!”

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Hermione went back to work.

Ron’s pre-wedding gifts were driving her insane. He gave up the Cannons, looked past her Toronto transgression, and bared his soul by having her read his journal. Breaking up with him was going to be more difficult than she ever imagined it could be. How could she even think of going out with the real Harry now knowing that was the one thing Ron was so afraid would happen?

Knowing this made her uneasy for all the talk about love being able to conquer all, she now cared more for how Ron would feel than being personally happy. After reading his journal, she could not, in good conscience, brush aside Ron’s deep seated envy and hope he’ll be okay, at least not in the immediate future.

Hermione thought about Harry, how she wanted to talk to him about taking their friendship to a different level, quite upset that it would have to wait until she was sure Ron would be fine with it. And if Ron never would be…he would eventually, for sure. If only she had not read the journal.

Throughout that night at St. Mungo’s, during lull moments, she questioned how true her love for Harry was if she was willing to give him up for Ron.

---

A/N. I know - give up Harry for Ron? Is she nuts? In her defense, she did spend 10 years of her life with Ron.

Any thoughts on why Ron made her read his journal?

Chapter 30 – Quidtch Talk

Somewhere in England that very same night, a tall man with grey eyes was in a private meeting with Bellatrix Lestrange, the most powerful Dark witch of her time. He had just finished pitching a scheme enduring intense, uncomfortable scrutiny throughout it. While he really did not need her help in the execution of his plan, this was her turf and it was common courtesy to offer her a part of the action if she so desired.

“That is indeed quite an interesting proposal,” she said to him after his pitch.

“I thought you’d like it,” he waited, knowing not to speak more until she did.

“I admit, gambling in sports is an easy way to make money,” that sounded positive, “What’s in this for you?”

“I need the dough.”

“Revenge?” her eyes pierced his.

“No,” he said calmly, “This is all business.”

“But what if he doesn’t think she’s reason enough to do it?”

“He already knows about Toronto and yet he stays by her. Saving her from the humiliation of her disgraceful act should be more than enough reason for him to do whatever we want. And if it isn’t, then we follow through,” he replied.

She shook her head.

“What would it gain us if we did that? I want this to be a sure thing. You must learn not to give your victims options and not limit yours by acting imprudently.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have Black blood running through your veins. Think your plan through and always be prepared to kill.”

XXXXXXXXX

It was mid afternoon. Chilly February air crept through a slightly ajar bedroom window and nudged her awake. She turned over to get up and heard a dull thud on the floor.

Ron’s journal.

She picked it up, protective of it, feeling emotionally exhausted from thoroughly reading it in its entirety. Without the jealous bits about Harry, the journal was really their story, eight years of companionship and caring, their best and worst of times, chronicled through a different and quite enlightening perspective. In some places he had inserted a photograph of her, of them, of an important event, sometimes insignificant in her view but precious to him because of how it was related to her.

Hermione again broke down a few times, laughing and crying at the same time, as she read some of the passages Ron wrote about his really bad first year as a Cannon.

‘The team has been losing and nobody is having fun playing anymore. There is quite a bit of unrest amongst the boys. They’re looking for something, anything, to fill the absence of that addictive rush of winning and success. She fills that void for me. She loves me whether we win or lose and thank Merlin she constantly reminds me!’

He also spoke of resisting the appeal of groupies…

‘It gets very lonely on the road sometimes I lock myself up in my room and turn to this journal. I can almost feel her when I write. The guys tease me because I never join them and I can’t. Knowing what’s out there for us, I refuse to be tempted. I just think of her and of how lucky I am to be loved. I’d be a moron to waste what we have.’

…and explained why he never complained when she missed a game.

‘I know she would be here with me if she could, but I understand that she can’t come and watch me play all the time. School is important to her and learning to save lives is her priority. I’m so proud of her. She’s going to be a magnificent Healer. She’d definitely laugh if she read what I’m about to write. She’s right; Quidditch is just a game.’

Ron was such a bad sweet talker in real life she would have never known thoughts like the ones he wrote about her ever existed had he not let her read his journal.

‘I can’t help but notice how far we’ve gone as a couple. We rarely argue nowadays. I have been working on thinking before saying, learning to say what I want to say in a way that doesn’t annoy her. So many times I’ve seen her bite her lower lip and I know she’s doing the same. She definitely knows what sets me off, too. It’s great that we both are working hard to make our relationship better. But once in a while, I deliberately throw in an obviously disgusting and weird idea just to tease her. I know it’s not right but I miss the arguments sometimes and I miss how smashing she looks when she gets all riled up.’

It spoke volumes of how he truly loved her.

‘Today, I am the luckiest man in the world. She said ‘yes’! Finally, after so many years, she said ‘yes’! We’re getting married! She talked about moving closer to the Cannon facility after, setting up her own research lab. How can she even think about giving up St. Mungo’s for me? It can only mean that she truly loves me.’

‘But I don’t want her to stop doing something she loves because of me. I know she did say we would have to spend more time with each other after we married so I thought it best not to put down her offer. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. If only I worked closer to London. Maybe London. But I’m just one of many Keepers, one needs to be the best Keeper in the league for the other teams to take notice.’

‘That’s it! I’ll work harder to be the best so other teams like London will take notice, trade for me or offer me a transfer. She wouldn’t have to move. She can stay at St. Mungo’s. Brilliant, but best keep it to ourselves in case I fall flat on my face…'

Her St. Mungo future had been a misunderstanding from the start but it was a huge surprise to her that Ron had planned to get a job with the Flamers months ago. She put herself in Ron’s place and remembered her reaction when he first told her, shock and disappointment. Hermione was so immersed in the turmoil of her own emotions at that time it was only now that she realized she hurt Ron that night for sure. And from his writing, she had been doing that a lot lately.

A recent, quite forcibly written and tear stained set of words jumped out of the page.

‘She did it, I know she did. Fuck, it hurts…how could she? Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this? All I’ve done is love her and this is what I get in return.’

This was followed by a more composed note…

‘It was my fault. I should have apologized to her before she left for Toronto. Considering how upset she is with her Mum I shouldn’t have told her she was just like Fiona. I should have known that would make her want to prove that I was wrong. I’m such a git. And why didn’t I just ask her if she was in love with Harry? She certainly was expecting me to.’

She closed the book shut and placed it inside her bedside drawer. By reading the journal thoroughly, her hope was to find some silver lining, some indication that Ron had overcome this deep-rooted envy he felt for Harry. She thought he had outgrown all that and was taken aback that it was this bad. After all, if one had to look at Ron’s life since Hogwarts, he pretty much had the life that he wanted.

Looking back, Hermione understood how difficult it must have been growing up in the shadows of his brothers and of Harry, that even in adulthood he was constantly trying to prove to himself through others that he was as good if not better than they were. Losing her to Harry, would, to his simplistic mind, mean he wasn’t.

She wanted to tell him that whoever he was right now was fine, that he shouldn’t have to prove his worth all the time. But how could he believe that if she did end up with Harry it wasn’t because Harry was better than he was?

For a brief moment while reading the jealousy-riddled parts of the journal again she felt like some trophy, some object he wanted to have that no one else would have. That was an unsettling feeling but in the end decided that Ron did not mean it that way, particularly not after all this. In their years together he had always allowed her to be her own person and he definitely knew that she was against any notion of ownership of another being.

An overwhelming guilt about her current affair with Harry hung over her but Hermione refused to believe the tiny voice in her head saying that Ron gave her the diary to make her feel that on purpose. To her, Ron was not capable of something scheming and manipulative like that. And besides, how could he know she would feel this guilty.

It was his desperation to hang on to what they had that was making him act this way. And about that silver lining, she really didn’t find such thing. Instead, she found plenty of reasons to give them another chance.

Hermione thought about Ron, and now dreaded the coming of the day after the Quidditch finals. Her resolve was wavering, unclear if this was just the guilt eating away at it or really her own uncertainly of whether or not she was doing the right thing. The decision was simpler to make when Ron’s love was more abstract, when she had not known he cared about her that much. A second chance seemed reasonable. She judged herself quickly, thinking it heartless and selfish to still consider breaking up with him. Was she prepared to live with that the rest of her life?

Resolved to do what most guilt filled people did (be extra nice to the person they wounded), she got off their bed and into the shower, the patter of warm water on her bare skin fully awaking her senses. She wanted to take a break from all the thinking but there was still the nagging question that had been plaguing her about just how strongly she felt about Harry.

It seemed so easy for her yesterday to conclude that she couldn’t possibly go ahead and confront Harry at the risk of hurting the man she had been with for years. If that was a measure of love then she was certainly coming up short.

Keeping things in perspective, with Ron, she had a long history. Harry was an uncertainty. Not only was this continuing deception eroding into her confidence, he had stayed away for three days and she was beginning to doubt his interest. After all, he did admit that he was mistaken to think what they were going to engage in was a one time thing. Maybe, twice was enough.

As much as that possibility hurt, and it was a possibility, a part of her preferred it to be true. She was not looking forward to having to choose between Harry and Ron if Harry wanted the same thing she did. Living with whatever choice she would make would be extremely hard and that philosophical question about how truly she loved Harry would be put to a real test then, should that time come. At least for now, not being with Harry was familiar; intentionally choosing to hurt Ron wasn’t.

For probably the first time in her life she really didn’t have a plan of action for the quagmire she found herself in. Put simply, she did not have the heart to break up with the fiancé she knew for a fact loved her and the man she wanted to be with was continually deceiving her, his intentions quite unclear. If she had to make a decision now it seemed like the answer was obvious.

She shut her eyes and emptied her mind of thoughts. An even more interesting idea came the moment her mental break ended. Let go of them, both.

Having no energy to dissect that novel inspiration, she turned to thinking about how she was going to spend the rest of her day. There was something about today that she should be doing. No, she didn’t have work. It definitely had nothing to do with the wedding.

When it finally dawned on her what it was, she quickly got out of the shower and dressed. Ron had invited people over for dinner, well, Harry and what’s her name, the flirt of a colleague that she had. Why on earth did she say she would cook? She’d be lucky to be able to poach an egg properly in her state.

Relax…it’s fine…it’s dinner for four…you’ve done this many times before… with your eyes closed…Ron has such an appetite you cook for this many people even when guests aren’t coming…you’re one of the best potion makers in the world…cooking is basically the same thing…

Ron arrived with some wine and something non-alcoholic for Harry shortly after she got to the kitchen. The guilt fuelled better treatment would have to wait. She toiled furiously for most of the afternoon and ignored the worried glances Ron cast her way every now and then, Ron getting the drift that she did not want his help, staying away from the hot kitchen which mirrored its occupant’s pervading mood. She was somewhat miffed at Ron for not resisting her offer and letting her do this, jealous of Delilah for being Harry-worthy, annoyed at Harry for not seeing her in three days and fuming mad at herself for feeling all of the above.

Her displeasure at Harry seem to fester even more as she kept on remembering what happened at the hospital, what he said to her after, an intention, a want to see her again, how she even left him that opening to see her again as Roy, if it came to that, though she hoped not. And she hadn’t seen one strand of his disorderly hair in almost three days, probably wouldn’t have for another few had he not been invited to dinner.

She magically cut more cucumbers, fresh tomatoes, and lettuce absentmindedly thinking one could never have enough of those, the banging sound of knives against the cutting board reflective of how she felt. Potatoes were rinsing under the kitchen faucet, chowder was simmering and thickening away and, in checking the oven, it seemed the roast was almost done, perfectly brown on the outside, juices trapped in the inside, just as her mixed emotions were.

I rushed you through that examination I kind of feel bad. I know you like to be thorough.

Stupid her. It was obviously just some line to make her feel better. And forget the scorching expression he had for her just before. Had she had more experience with men she wouldn’t have felt so special.

Their front door opened, their black haired guest peeked into the kitchen door from afar, waved at her as he said hello and smiled. She waved back, getting satisfaction from imagining herself rubbing pie on his haughty face.

Jeez, I may not have enough time to make desert. She ordered Ron to get some from the local wizard pastry shop, and heard him tell Harry if he was smart he should come too.

Hermione was so worked up about the ‘dinner’ that she didn’t notice she had opened a half-litre bottle of oak matured mead and started drinking. An hour later, when she heard more voices in the living room, she surprised even herself that she had already set the table and laid out the food, got rid of the apron, had ‘de-bushified’ her hair and was dressed. Boy, was she in a rush to get this dinner started and over with.

She downed the last drop of wine from her glass and set her goblet in the sink next to an empty bottle.

Warm and loose…better than steaming and uptight…

“Honey, Delilah…is here,” Ron faltered mid way through his introduction as he and their guests stared at the dinner she prepared.

“What?” she snapped at them, wondering what, if anything, was wrong.

“This looks lovely, Hermione. Thanks for having us over,” Delilah spoke first, her eyes moving over towards Harry as she said ‘us’.

Hermione smiled politely, “You’re welcome.”

Obvious slut.

“I am kind of hungry,” Harry said, staring right into her eyes.

“And we all know you can have such a huge appetite,” she retorted, coldly.

Lying bastard.

“I guess I should have invited more guests tonight,” Ron said.

Fine, she may have overdone it. Looking at the amount of food she had cooked that afternoon, it was indeed enough to feed the entire extended Weasley family a few meals.

“Or dragged me out of the kitchen sooner,” she replied with a fake grin, remembering he didn’t really ask her if she wanted to have dinner with Harry and Delilah before asking them.

Insensitive swi...person.

Seeing that the table was already set, they sat and started to eat. Apparently, Harry, who sat across from her, and Delilah, who was to his left, were going out after; something about dancing. Harry didn’t particularly enjoy dancing. She forgot something.

Conjuring four of them, she added them onto the table.

Twang!

“Knife. For the roast,” she plainly told a surprised Harry as one had landed and stuck into the table right in front of him, vibrating to and fro from the force.

“Thanks,” he said back, eyeing her curiously, as he wiggled it off and set it aside.

Ron passed the salad over to their other guest and said, “So, Delilah, Harry tells me you grew up in Canada.”

Bowls materialized out of thin air and a ladle began filling them up with chowder.

Delilah answered as she put some greens on her plate, “Yes, Vancouver. I really don’t like talking about it, it was years ago, but it came up when we were chatting about his recent trip to Toronto.”

Then she looks over to him, again. He was looking at her, too, attentive, smiling. With a flick of a wand, Hermione sent a bowlful of thick, hot, steaming soup zooming towards Harry so fast he moved his chair back on reflex, breaking his eye contact with Delilah. Too bad he caught a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye. She set it down in time, more gently than she intended.

Hermione acted as if nothing was amiss, as she served Delilah’s and Ron’s, “Yes, Harry, tell us a bit more about Toronto.”

Harry inched his seat forward, slowly, “There’s really not much to tell. I was working.”

“Really,” Hermione was trying not to grit her teeth, “It’s too bad you can’t talk about your work, or do you find that convenient sometimes?”

Not loose enough. She needed more wine. Pop!

Ron laughed as he replied, “Yeah, I would love to have that excuse.”

She filled her glass, swallowed a few mouthfuls, and filled it again.

Ooh…that feels nice. You should really eat something. Soup maybe…

Ron continued, food in his mouth, “People always talk to me about Quidditch.”

“But honey,” she said to him sweetly, “You love talking about Quidtch…Quid-ditch. My, is that such a hard word to pronounce or what?”

Delilah was still smiling politely as she noticed Harry and Ron giving each other worried glances. It was wonderful not to really care.

“So, Delilah, do you follow Quidtch…Quid-ditch at all?”

“I’m a huge fan. I played while I was in school back in Vancouver.”

Just my luck; another one of those athletic types Harry is so fond of. I should have known and picked a more cerebral question.

“Really? What position?” Harry asked, Delilah’s eyes fluttered, Hermione stabbed a baked potato with her fork, cutting it in half without meaning to.

“Chaser.”

“How fitting,” she murmured a bit too loudly, she guessed, for Ron grabbed the wine bottle and moved it away from her, far away.

“What she means is, you look like you’d be one,” Ron interjected.

Look, sound, act…she’s definitely a Chaser.

“Did you ever play?” Delilah asked her.

She shook her head, opting for the safe answer, “Spectator.”

Ron added, “She’s Muggle-born and she’s not too comfortable with heights. She doesn’t like Quidditch much.”

“I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like Quidditch.”

Was she getting cheeky with the hostess?

“I’ve never met anyone who never met anyone who didn’t like Quidtch…Quid-ditch,” she replied pleasantly and drank more.

“Um, Ron’s a Keeper,” Harry broke the awkwardness.

“And such a fine Keeper he is,” Hermione declared to Harry, who she just noticed was looking particularly dashing across from her.

A sudden image of herself climbing up the table and snogging him was causing her to smile abnormally.

“I know,” Delilah replied, her irritating voice effectively killing the wonderful picture, “Have you always been a Keeper?”

No, of course not, you dimwit. Hmmm, this seafood chowder is actually good, not as runny as I usually end up with. I wonder what I did differently.

“I guess,” Ron said modestly.

“It’s a lot of responsibility…” Delilah was working on Ron, who was turning a bit red in the face, distracted enough Hermione took the opening and started another bottle of mead.

“Big responsibility,” Hermione concurred.

“To keep the opposing team from scoring.”

“And he does that so well,” Hermione thought she’d join in the praise. “Ron’s the best Keeper in the league. He’s got a huge arsenal of great defensive moves.”

Ron was brimming from ear to ear as he heard her compliment, looking at her with cheerfulness in his blue eyes. Good tactic. Build him up then cut him down. Maybe she should actually start making him feel bad, so he wouldn’t have to drop from such a lofty mental place.

“Which one is your favourite?” Delilah asked him.

“I don’t know. There are so many manoeuvres to choose from.”

I’ve certainly seen a lot of them lately.

“I always liked the double eight loop,” Ron continued.

“That’s when he flies at a very high speed in a figure of eight pattern in front of the three goals,” Hermione explained, feeling a bit chatty. “It’s kind of his last stand, when he’s desperate. It’s quite disorienting to watch.”

Kind of what I’m feeling right now with all the stuff he’s throwing at me to make me stay.

“It’s just too bad he can’t win the game all by himself,” Harry joined in the conversation.

“What do you mean?” Delilah asked.

Ron answered kind of annoyed, “I can’t stop the opposing Seeker from scoring.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Hermione mumbled as she chugged more wine, hoping he would have better luck in the real Quidditch match because the Seeker they were talking to was scoring pretty heavily, in her opinion.

“It is a team sport. I do have to rely on our Chasers, Beaters and Seeker to help the team win,” Ron said glancing over at Delilah.

“It’s so unfortunate the rules of the game are so rigged that it almost always favours the Seeker,” Hermione added, her comment met with a bit of a glare from Ron, “But it’s true. I mean, if you really look at it, Chasers only score ten points per goal but when the Seeker catches the Snitch, not only is the game over, it’s worth a hundred and fifty points. Imagine how many goals your Chasers have to be up quickly to make the opponent’s Seeker a non-factor. Great if your team has a talented Seeker or really good Chasers.”

Not like the one you have here.

“And why are the rules unfortunate?” Harry was puzzled.

“The players should be more evenly matched. It’s not fair,” she was feeling sorry for Ron.

“How can it be unfair? Those are the rules. It’s a game,” she couldn’t believe Harry would even argue with her about something as plain as this.

“Yes it is a game and let’s not forget that,” she may have bitten back with sarcasm a bit too much. It was definitely the wine doing the talking, “But frankly I think because of the fact that they usually score big and can single-handedly win the game for their team, professional Seekers are quite pompous, big-headed arses who think too much of themselves.”

That drew laughter from both Ron and Delilah. Harry had this amused expression. Immediately she was working on what to say or do to wipe that off his face.

“Ouch!” Ron loved it, “I didn’t realize you had such a poor opinion of Harry’s former profession.”

“I just call it as I see it.”

She was taunting him. His non-response was annoying her even more.

“Harry’s retired,” Delilah came to his defence, “And he’s not like that.”

Except these days he’s proven that he is. And letting a woman talk for him…pathetic.

There was that sappy, syrupy Delilah look again. Ugh! Two bottles of mead down and the night was still young. Pop!

“Sorry, Ron, but the team with the better Seeker does win,” Delilah was making her move, blatantly so openly.

“Usually,” Ron answered.

“Usually, but not always,” Hermione weighed in. “Some Seekers don’t play-to-win. Some of them don’t take the Snitch even if it was right in front of their noses begging to be caught. They just want the game to go on and on. Right, Harry?”

She looked at him pointedly and her words effectively rearranged his expression to one less merry. He answered with some seriousness.

“I do admit. In the past, I have foolishly let go of opportunities to catch the Snitch early in the game, but it’s not for wanting the game to go on and on.”

“Why would you pass up a sure win?” Delilah asked a very good question.

Ron offered an explanation, “It’s an unwritten rule in professional Quidditch but most Seekers live by it. They’re not supposed to end the game before both teams have at least ten points. So Keepers have to let the opposing team score a minimum one time. It’s better for the fans, and what’s good for the fans is good for business. But mostly, it’s professional courtesy not to drub your opponent with such a humiliating loss.”

“That’s such a noble thing to do,” Delilah’s voice was now like sharp metal grating against metal.

“Maybe so, but it could cost him the game,” Hermione wondered if she and Harry were talking about the same thing. “It would be a pity if that happened.”

Harry agreed, “Especially in a game so important.”

Ron butted in, “Guys, it is only a game.”

It’s only a game.

She decided that alcohol and deciphering double talk was not a merry mix. Ron was acting a bit strange, she was hammered and Harry was looking at her in a way that made her self-conscious. Why did she get the feeling that only Delilah was on a different conversation? She was likely just imagining things.

Delilah leaned over closer to Harry, no doubt sharing with him a top view of her suddenly ample bosom and said something out of earshot that made them laugh. To his credit, Harry was trying to focus on cutting roast and the potatoes on his plate. He had to try very hard. Ron was sniggering, looking very pleased.

As she watched Harry and Delilah over her perpetually emptying wine glass, she felt compelled to say something loud and interesting enough to break their side conversation, “Professional courtesy aside, I still find that one of the most impressive Quidtch plays one could ever witness is when the Seeker dramatically captures the Snitch mere moments into the match.”

Ron’s was a bit shocked, “Really?”

“Yes. Is the idea that strange?”

She must have scared him off because he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head almost at the same time.

“What about it do you find impressive?” Harry asked plainly, his attention now all on Hermione.

Hermione answered, slowly and deliberately, talking directly to Harry, thinking it appropriate because he did ask the question.

“I’m not quite sure what about it impresses me but I watched this match once in which the Seeker did just that. It was unexpected, breathtaking; the swiftness of the events surrounding the catch and the rush of the immediate victory quite electrifying it sent me trembling in places I never knew existed in me. There was spontaneity in the moment, an enticing unpredictability, leaving me no time to think but just react on pure instinct. Immediately after, there was a pleasant disorientation. I didn’t exactly know what happened but all I recall about it was that it felt great. So I’m a fan. This Seeker has the spectator in me hooked. I would definitely want to come back and watch him play again.”

Bollocks! Did I really just say what I just said?

There was way too much silence at the table. She definitely overdid it. Ginny did tell her once she was a perfect example of how disinhibiting alcohol was. It was true, that was what she was thinking, but it was definitely not the message she wanted to get across. From the glint in his eyes and the reddening of his ears she could tell he definitely got that message loud and clear.

Even Ron picked up on the underlying tone, “I think your depiction of it is more impressive than the move itself. You got me wishing I were that Seeker.”

“Anybody can be that Seeker, Ron,” she teased, more to make Harry jealous than anything else.

“I wouldn’t mind being one tonight,” Ron replied, his hand was under the table stroking her thigh as the word ‘backfire’ reverberated in her head.

Delilah merely chuckled as Ron gave Hermione his take on how sexy should look like. They were adults of at least average intelligence. It would take a moron not to know what that was about. She smiled, pleased that Harry wasn’t smiling anymore, more pleased that Ron needed both hands to continue eating.

Off in the distance she heard a phone ring and their apartment buzzer sound. Ron got up to see who was at the door and Delilah excused herself to take a phone call, leaving her and Harry at the table.

“I should tell you that the Plumpton Pass that you are impressed with is a move that loses its appeal with spectators rather quickly,” he continued their Quidditch conversation.

This could be interesting.

“Speaking from experience, Harry?” Hermione couldn’t help the dig.

He winced at her jibe, got up and walked around the table to her with his drink in hand, settling himself down where Ron was just moments before. He was close, too close for comfort.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Even as a Seeker I find the temporal satisfaction of a quick score leaves me wanting for more. And I am almost certain that, whenever I do that, I rob the crowd of some of the pleasures they were expecting to get by coming to the game.”

“True,” she was drunk and not only from what she had been drinking since before dinner, as she imagined what pleasures she had been robbed of that night and wondered if he had any plans to give them back to her.

“I do think there are other more impressive plays than that.”

“Like what?”

There was no mistaking what they were doing. Harry lifted the bottle of NABB up to his mouth, and as she followed it with her gaze, she never wished she was a butter beer bottle more in her life. She now had utmost admiration for her self-control.

“It takes more than one specific play to really get a crowd going. But if I were pressed to choose I would have to say a well executed Wronski Defensive Feint is up there on my list of crowd pleasing moves.”

Hermione raised her brows, “Really? How so?”

He pushed Ron’s plate aside and leaned forward. She couldn’t move even if her life depended on it as she listened to him explain the finer points of the Seeker manoeuvre.

“It’s all about stick handling, how a player rides his broom, and how he stays on it while his hands are busy somewhere else. I usually get spectators involved by hovering, doing a few different moves and well masked fouls, riding my broomstick just low enough, to let them know I’m there and interested, looking for the Snitch, but really in no rush to find it.”

“For how long?”

“Long, as long as it takes to convince them I am seeking. Then I make my move only when I know they’re ready for it, when I’m ready, making sure my broomstick is as high up in the sky as it possibly can be and then ride it straight down towards the pitch, flying in slow at first, then picking up speed as I get closer, to the point when I feel nothing but the crowd’s warm welcoming embrace, see nothing but blur and hear nothing but wind and excited gasps from whom I am trying to please.”

Merlin, help me…

“The faster I go the hotter everything gets and then just as I am about to crash and explode, I stop, I stay motionless within the pitch and wait, I wait for the split-second stillness to be broken by the tight pulsating emotion from the crowd, feeling and hearing their tension release, perhaps with a cry or a moan, or the yawp of my name.”

There it was again, the yearning to smother him with inappropriate affection, curious as to how that would play out. Hermione’s wine glass was empty so she grabbed Ron’s and drank fast. She did not even notice that Harry took a few swigs directly from an open mead container.

Control…control…Ron is in the other room…control…

“And then what?”

“That depends. At that point I go with what the crowd wants. I could do it all over again or I could catch the Snitch and score,” he paused then asked, “Now, if you were the crowd, which would you prefer?”

“Um…I don’t know. I might have a better idea if you show me exactly what it’s like to be your audience.”

“Be careful what you ask for,” he replied, then added as they heard Ron’s and Delilah’s animated voices in the next room “If you can escape the clutches of your fiancé, I should have no problem ditching the woman you so eagerly want me to date.”

She couldn’t tell if he was serious or being sarcastic, although he didn’t sound or look angry. Delilah was Ron’s idea but she thought that detail quite unimportant at the moment. What he said sobered her up pretty quickly but seemingly not enough to prevent her from asking a burning question.

“Are you playing me like you do the other women in your life?”

He shook his head.

“I’m done playing. Are you?”

“What do you mean?” What did he mean?

“You’re engaged, you had an affair with a stranger and you’ve been flirting with your fiancé’s best friend right in his face,” he pointed out quite matter of factly. “If you’re not playing then tell me what it is that you are doing because I’ve been watching you all night trying to figure it out and frankly, I haven’t got a clue.”

Before she could even think of how to answer, Ron and Delilah joined them, thankfully still amused and laughing about their conversation they did not notice the heavy weight that was now in the room. Harry moved first, away from her, as they found their original seats.

“What’s so funny?” he asked them.

They explained, Hermione outwardly attentive but not really listening, something about the Queen’s Cup finals being between the Chudley Cannons and the Toronto Beavers, and how badly they felt for the person who was going to call the game. The Cannons and the Beavers. Then more laughter. She smiled, laughed along, glancing over to Harry once in a while only to notice he seemed to not want to look at her.

So, he was done playing. He could have been less cryptic but at least now, she knew with some certainty that she had to make that difficult choice soon. It was liberating and at the same time scary that they could now talk about their friendship and possible non-platonic relationship openly, at least to each other. And at least they could talk about Ron. Thank Merlin for oak matured mead.

She fielded the requisite wedding questions from Delilah, listened to the boys discuss game tactics, and, before she was sober enough to say Quidditch normally again, she saw Harry help Delilah into her coat and disappear with her out their apartment door.

Hermione asked herself, if she did not love Harry then why on earth did that sight of him leaving with another woman hurt so much?

---

A/N. Drunk Hermione was inspired by Jose Cuervo :) She seemed pretty funny after a few shots.

A/N. The plot thickens and the last scene of this chapter I never originally intended to write - the reason why I had Ron unconscious in TCC and dead here in TPP. I hope you enjoy it.

---

Chapter 31 - The Debt Collector

Harry got into his apartment, undressed and went straight into the shower. It was around one in the morning. He had just dropped off Delilah, his feet were killing him from the uncommon activity they had just been subjected to and his mind was exhausted thinking about the rest of the events of the previous night at Ron's. Unexpected seemed to be the theme which began with a trip to the local pastry shop to pick up dessert.

"I think I've pushed her over the edge," Ron said to him as they exited their building and began briskly walking towards the pastry shop a couple of blocks around the corner.

"What happened?"

He wanted to know and didn't want to know at the same time. Ron had definitely wanted him to come with him so they could have a more private chat.

"She's stressed."

That was obvious. The perfunctory greeting he got earlier was dismissive and quite unlike the usual welcome he received. Knowing what she had done with Roy, being stressed was a reasonable reaction.

"Wedding?"

"Among other things."

He wished Ron would just say it because he could sense that the pent up emotion in him was aching to get out.

"She had an affair in Toronto."

Look shocked, look shocked…wait… you actually are shocked. But how…? Why…?

"I know. I was as surprised as you are now. But it's true," Ron saved him from having to come up with something appropriate and truthful to say. "How could she, right?"

At that point the temporary numbing of his senses was gone and the first realization hit him. Ron did not know it was Harry as Roy she had the affair with. There were other disorganized swarming thoughts and questions in his mind. He picked one randomly.

"How did you find out?"

"Not important," his query was quickly parried off, "We talked about it."

"And…"

"She didn't deny it."

"And…"

"I told her I was fine with it."

"Are you?"

"If you spent eight years with someone, you'd understand. It was meaningless to her. She had her reasons."

He immediately acquired a newfound admiration for his soon-to-be-ex best friend but hoped Ron would elaborate on what those reasons were.

"What did she say?"

"She said she was sorry."

"Was she?"

"Can't picture her not being so."

"And the wedding?"

"I love her, Harry. I can't imagine not being with her."

"I see."

They got to the pastry shop and Ron went over to line up at the counter. What to think now…Ron knew about Toronto…she was willing to go on with this seemingly purely lusty relationship with Roy…she told Ron she was sorry…he believed her… the wedding was still on…what the hell was she doing?

Glancing over at Ron, he felt an enormous amount of sympathy for what he was going through. Harry never took him for a martyr. Ron loved her, he really did, for only one so much so would turn a blind eye to the very obvious implications of what Hermione did. And the reality of it was making him more nauseous about going through with his intent to stir up the pot after the Quidditch Finals. The guilt and anxiety were taking their toll on him. He wondered about the reasons Ron deluded himself with to justify her act of disloyalty, hoping they were really good ones. He wondered whether or not he would continue to be so blind if he knew Hermione wasn't as remorseful about the affair as he assumed she was considering she had done it again and was willing to carry on with Roy Hunt.

"So, anyway, I started thinking," Ron had rejoined him with a bagged pastry in his hand, as they started walking back to their apartment, "I haven't exactly been the best boyfriend all these years and with this wedding coming up she's having cold feet. You know how I'm such a klutz with talking around her, I'm not good at that sweet-talk shit but I just want her to know how much I love her."

"And you think she didn't get that with your reaction to Toronto?"

"I don't want to leave any doubt in her mind that marrying me is the right thing to do," Ron explained, "So, I let her read my journal."

"Your diary, from years ago?"

Ron's infamous diary was what kept him sane during their first year as Cannons. Harry wouldn't have mocked him while he was writing in it had he foreseen his plummet into depression and alcoholism then.

"Journal," Ron corrected. "I'll kill you if you tell anyone else, but I've actually kept it going all these years. You know, elderly habits die difficult."

"Not telling anyone," Harry assured him, kind of knowing what he meant.

"She's been reading it like she would some textbook, like she was going to be tested on it or something. She read it again this morning after getting back from her night shift. I'm almost regretting showing it to her at all. And I think that's what's driven her over the edge. You saw her in the kitchen."

He remembered.

"What was in it?"

"Stuff, you know, deep feelings…thoughts…emotions…"

Ron struggled. Fine, details would have to be skipped as both of them were really uncomfortable about discussing anything 'deep' of his.

"Got the picture. So what do you want to do?"

"I don't know, I just want us to get over this difficult patch and get married," Ron shrugged, "I don't know what to do because all this is freaking her out. What would you do?"

Great. He made like a fish out of water that would have included gill flapping if he had some. He wished the Finals were behind them so they could have their talk, too.

"See what I mean?" Ron saved him once again. "Where does one get help for something like this?"

"Just talk to her and be honest," that was rich coming from him. "She'd know what to do."

Harry was not so sure about that last bit and Ron seemed to think the same.

"Don't you think she's got enough on her mind right now?" Ron sighed.

The obvious conflict of interest was preventing Harry from making further suggestions but if Ron was concerned about this as he described it, it sounded as if Hermione needed a break from him.

Ron finally said just before they entered the building, "Sometimes I think I should just let her go completely, let her think this through with less pressure, and that if she really loves me she'll come back and it would all be better. But I can't because I don't think I'll survive if she decides not to come back."

He understood. His trip to the pastry shop with Ron had underscored what he already knew. Taking Hermione away from him was going to be brutal.

Harry got out of the shower, donned on pyjama bottoms and an old shirt, slipped into his bed, staring up the ceiling still wide-eyed.

That was the first surprise; Ron knowing about Toronto and being okay with it and Hermione carrying on with Roy despite the fact that Ron knew. What happened over dinner was quite unexpected, too. For one, he had never seen Hermione so inebriated. Having not seen her that way he did not know what to expect.

The biting sarcasm was odd and her treatment of her friend was even odder. He felt it similar to what she would reserve for one of his dates who she definitely disapproved of, guessing the alcohol unmasked that dislike a hundred fold. But then, she was the one who arranged for Delilah to come and from what Ron implied, she already told Delilah that they were going to go out dancing.

What puzzled him more was how she treated him, as if she wanted to kill him at one minute and snog him the next. There was the knife, the soup, catching her staring at him with a dreamy expression, lambasting professional Seekers, her implying that some Seekers did not play to win, and then her blow-by-blow account of how she enjoyed her and Roy Hunt's tryst a few nights ago. Why was she overtly flirting with him in front of Ron, Ron who had just forgiven her for her Roy Hunt transgression?

Once they were alone, his misgivings about their rushed interaction surfaced and he felt a compelling need to let her know how he would have preferred to do things differently. He would have given her an actual demonstration of the Wronski Feint had Ron and Delilah not been in the other room, for her proximity and competence at Quidditch talk were wreaking havoc on his resolve to keep his broom in the shed.

And when she suggested a desire to experience it he was jolted back to their reality. Drunk or not the implications of her words renewed nagging thoughts about what she had been doing and why she was doing them. He needed the 'reasons' Ron was latching on to for while Harry loved her, he was having difficulty justifying her actions with Roy and with him, especially since it was plain that she was staying engaged to Ron.

Did she know he was Roy or was she indeed merely playing with both of them, letting loose her wild side before settling down with Ron. Or was that just all booze talking?

He was done speculating. He needed the real answer. He wasn't sure where it would lead them but he could not go on pretending he was not in love with her, so he finally opened the door for them to start being honest; with her first, then if need be, with Ron.

As Delilah and Ron came back to the table Harry noticed a fleeting annoyed expression on Ron's face. He must have noticed how they jumped apart from a somewhat intimate conversation. The rest of that evening, Ron was casting them both probing glances. Guilty, he tried his best to not give Ron much more to think about, engaging him in a conversation about how the game plan was going to change as the Toronto team had just lost their superstar Seeker to a mishap at practice, making the Cannons sudden heavy favorites to win the Cup.

Harry was looking forward to talking with her again in private. And if in the end she decided to stick with Ron, it would hurt but at least he would be free of this burden he had brought upon himself.

Harry spent an eternity tossing and turning, sleep eluding him. His eyes were shut and his brain empty save for his intent to get some rest. It was frustrating because he could hear every sound in the dead stillness of the night. The ticking of a clock, the clicking of the airconditioning as it turned on and off, the whirring of his Sneakoscope?

Someone had just entered his apartment, and his Sneakoscope would only alert him of unfriendlies. The intruder was walking to his bedroom and not really making an effort to hide it.

By then he had his wand in hand and was out of his bed, poised to defend or attack if need be. He heard the doorknob turning…the door slowly swinging in...a hand with a lit wand emerging…

"Expelliarmus!"

The spell hit its intended target and the wand flew off into darkness.

"Ow!" it was a familiar voice. "Fuck, Harry, what did you do that for?"

"Ron?" he asked to confirm as he turned the lights on, seeing his red-haired friend trying to find his wand, "Well, what are you doing sneaking up on me like that? Are you crazy?"

"I didn't think you were home yet. I was going to leave you a note to see me as soon as you got in," Ron was holding up a piece of parchment.

"What's wrong?"

"We need to talk."

Twice in less than twelve hours. What now?

He put away his wand as they walked to his kitchen where they usually had conversations. They sat along the outside of the counter across from each other and Harry asked again.

"What's the matter?"

Ron struggled. Harry had never seen him so restless and serious. He would start to say something and then stop. Harry waited patiently until finally, he had to intervene.

"Just say it, Ron."

"Harry, you're my best friend. We've been through a lot together, a whole lot."

"Yes…"

Harry could only think that any talk than began with that would not be good.

"I wouldn't be doing this unless it was really important, and it's quite important to me. I need a favour, a huge one. I can’t take no for answer." Harry did not interrupt, feeling his pulse quickening by the second as Ron continued, "You owe me."

What he said was so unexpected Harry didn't quite know what he was talking about at first. Then he remembered.

"You know what I mean," Ron said further, "From your, um, accident. I know it was so long ago but you owe me and you said it. I'm calling it in."

If he had to call that in then Ron must have been certain he was not going to be enthusiastic about being asked to do what he was about to be asked.

"It's about Hermione," Ron began, and a certainty dawned on Harry that the conversation would go bad very quickly, "I'm asking you. Stop messing with her."

"I'm not messing with her," came his immediate truthful response.

"You were flirting with her over dinner," Ron pointed out.

"She was flirting with me."

"She was drunk."

"Is that her excuse or yours? This is a conversation you should be having with her."

"This is not about her! I'm not blind," Ron had stood and was now red in the face, the veins on his neck angry as he continued to stand by the woman he loved. "I see how you look at her."

Harry had gotten off his barstool too, and met Ron's glare with an expression that betrayed him, wondering, had he been that obvious that even Ron noticed?

"How do I look at her?"

"I should have said something sooner. You've been looking at her like you do each and every woman you're about to sleep with. Tell me I'm wrong and I'll call you a liar."

Ron's blue eyes pierced through him like a cold sharp knife, waiting for a reply. He looked back at him, his heart pounding against his chest, and could not think of not being straight with him.

"I want to be with her."

There, finally, he said it. It was at that moment of his admission that he knew things would never be the same between him and his best friend. Harry had been prepared for a physical confrontation and while in the past Ron may have readily done so, he would have been foolish to get into a fight with an Auror.

"Curious what shagging her is like?" Ron asked, shaking from the effort of not letting loose the raging animal within him, icy sarcasm lacing every syllable, "She's just another girl to you. Is she the current flavour? For how long do you want her? A week or two, a month tops before you toss her out like an old rag like you usually do with your women and return her to me?"

"Forever. I want to be with her forever. I love her."

Ron laughed; a mocking, mean one.

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. After all these years of just looking out for yourself, what makes you think you're capable of loving someone else?"

"Just because I haven't in a while doesn't mean I can't."

"Well, you can't with her. She's already spoken for."

"I think she should make that decision herself."

"She has. She's marrying me."

"She shouldn't because she doesn't love you."

"And you think she loves you? You should get Delilah to write you a potion script to get rid of your delusions."

"I don't know that she does but I don't know that she doesn't either."

"If you're feeling special because of her alcohol induced attention I should let you know that she does that all the time when she's had too much to drink. Think. Why would she want you? You have nothing to offer except maybe a good romp in the sack and we both know that grows old quickly with you. You're a womanizing, self-indulgent has-been whose life is not only aimless but a complete mess."

"Stop it, Ron…"

But Ron carried on, "She deserves better than you. She told me she pities you because she feels bad about what you've become. You're her charity, that's all."

"Stop it!" Harry repeated, tears streaming down his face.

"What's the matter? The truth stings, huh? Or is this part of the Potter act? What would others think of you now? You lying, two-faced, sneaky, son of a bitch!"

"Keep my mother out of this!"

"I'm surprised you're not making her an excuse for your behaviour...

That was all the verbal abuse he could take. He barely noticed and before he knew it he had decked Ron with a right hook, his knuckles stinging from the contact. Ron quickly got to his feet and with a cry charged into Harry head first, his broad shoulders catching his foe in the midriff and eliciting a grunt as their momentum caused them to crash into a glass cupboard, shattering its windows, shards raining all around them.

Ron caught him on the face with a left jab, splitting his recently injured lip again, but Harry was ready for his right, avoiding it and using Ron's off balanced position to push him away. He had regained control of his temper but Ron wasn't done. He had his wand out.

"Stupefy!"

Harry dove to his left as the spell hit his fridge, the blast creating a hole in it. He thought it hypocritical to ask Ron to stop now when he started everything.

"Levicorpus!"

He swore loudly as he barely avoided that one, thankful Ron's dueling skills were rusty. Ron had every intention to hurt him. He made an effort to get to his wand on the kitchen counter and just got it in time to unbind himself from the leg locking curse he just got hit with and dismissed the next spell with a shield charm.

"Let's talk about this!"

They were now both armed standing a few feet apart and one of them had righteous murder in his eyes. The spot Harry had punched was starting to grow a bruise and Harry's shirt was spotted with fresh blood from the cut lip Ron had given him. They were glaring at each other, both breathing heavily from their confrontation.

"This? Talk about this? You're crossing the line with her and you want to talk?! What's there to talk about?" Ron was livid and rightfully so as he sent another curse flying towards Harry.

"Protego!"

The spell bounced off on something in the background. Ron had tears of frustration and anger as he lowered his wand.

"I can't believe you would do this. You're my best friend. I trusted you!"

"I've tried but I can't let go of her either," he tried to explain, knowing it would fall on deaf ears. "I can't move on unless I do this. I love her and I have to know if she feels the same way about me. If you were me what would you do?"

Ron slowly raised his wand and pointed it at him again, trembling. Harry just looked at him, waiting, accepting, for he deserved whatever it was Ron was about to do to him.

A loud banging interrupted them. Someone, the super, was at the door.

"Are you okay, Mr. Potter!?"

He stood down and said to Harry, coldly, "You owe me. I'm calling it in and you can choose to do the honorable thing or not. Stay away from her."

"Mr. Potter?!"

Ron, who was closer to the door, walked towards it and opened it.

"He's fine, Jennings," he said to the shocked man standing in the corridor, giving Harry one last scathing look, "He's more than fine."

Ron left and Harry told Jennings that everything was indeed fine. After the man was gone, he shut the door behind him and appraised the damage he and Ron had done. At that moment, his apartment was a close reflection of his personal life. Chaos and destruction, and more to come.

It was only then that the challenge Ron had left him with finally sunk in; this debt that he was calling in, to honor or not to honor. Honor? There was a shortage in him of that lately. What Ron did not know was that he had already crossed the line and slept with her, twice.

It was a tall order. Stay away from her? It was unimaginable, quite likely impossible. And for what? He had asked Ron a favour a long time ago and owed him for that. He should have known that what he now recognized as an idiotic act was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

And looking back, the secret he begged Ron to keep wasn't really worth this payback. That night, on his very last professional Quidditch game, he was sober and his falling off his broom was not an accident but a moment of weakness, of stupidity. It seemed important then not to let anyone else know, to not be scrutinized, to not be dissected, to not feel more pity from those around him than he was already subjected to and he asked the one person who did know not to tell a soul.

Ron did not agree. Harry begged, pleaded and bribed, not taking no for an answer. Finally he relented. Ron had kept his word all these years and, as lame as the reason for his asking the favour was, had a right to collect the debt.

---

A/N. Would you honor the debt if you were Harry?

A/N. This Chapter is long enough. Suffice it to say that: (1) I never intended to write a Quidditch match this long and I did; (2) I never intended to write so much about Ron's death and I have ; (3) I apologize to Scott Lambert/Lambert Scott for using your name - I suspect you do exist but hopefully you're not an avid HP fanfic reader; (4)the gambling/odds/betting thing - I'm not quite sure I understand the real thing properly but I wrote what I thought it was anyway - this is fiction after all!

The mature theme of this fic continues.

---

Chapter 32 – The Death of a Keeper

23 February 2006 - A Muggle Diner somewhere in South London, daybreak

The bell on the door jingled as a red-haired man entered the twenty-four hour diner and shook a dusting of snow off his seldom used Muggle winter coat. He put away the piece of paper which bore an address, including instructions on how to get to and what to do after he got to where he was, touching his wand in his pocket as he did, getting some reassurance that he had it just in case it was needed.

He could hear his heart banging in his chest, its pace quickened and his senses were heightened to a level it was unfamiliar with this early in the day. Scouting the area before taking his first step towards the counter where he was told to sit, he found the place almost empty save from a burly, half asleep, truck driver at a far corner booth. He sat and kept the thick coat on as he waited, noticing that the sun rays streaming abundantly from the east facing windows betrayed how cold it was inside. He was already regretting his decision to follow the instructions he was given word for word particularly the part about coming alone.

Waving off the waitress even before she got to him, he stared at the torn and crumpled envelop in his hand. It came last night by Muggle carrier as they were having dinner with Delilah and the traitor. Thinking it unlikely to be of importance, he did not open it until in his anger and frustration less than five hours ago, after a not so cordial collection of something owed him, he took his ire out on the lifeless piece of junk that was the first thing he saw as he entered their apartment.

It was an image of her face falling off its open edge that made him stop his manual shredding of what he thought was trash mail. Repairing the damage to the envelope's contents with his wand, what he saw before him hit him harder than the punch he received just moments before that.

Nothing could have prepared him for it, not even the fact that he knew it happened. It was startling to him how one moving picture of her in an intimate passionate kiss with someone else could cause so much pain and how he could not get the image out of his mind. The details were not important but he could tell it was taken from within a hotel, the long corridor with several doors in the background suggestive that this was just outside her room.

With the instructions and the photograph was an unsigned cryptic message.

I know about Toronto.

It certainly made him wonder who it was who sent the picture to him, why they had it and what they thought they would gain by letting him know. He wondered what would have happened had he chucked the thing by accident or totally ignored it.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes must have passed, and the Muggle waitress was already eyeing him with suspicion. He really should have, at least, let someone know but at the moment, that person couldn't be his girlfriend about whom Toronto was about or his former best friend who he now completely mistrusted.

The bell at the door interrupted his thoughts and a tall man in a black trench coat and toque entered the diner. He had detached grey eyes as he walked towards the counter. In a deep hypnotic voice the stranger ordered coffee from the waitress and after she poured him one and left, he took out from his pocket an envelope similar to the one that came the night before.

"Mr. Weasley," the man greeted him.

"Who are you?"

"Who I am does not matter. What I know does."

"I don't care about what happened in Toronto."

"Well, you should."

The contents of the second envelope were emptied right before his eyes. There were more photographs of her and the same man from Toronto this time taken from within a St. Mungo exam room. Amongst the pictures was a Ministry document of the same man's arrest record.

"The real Roy Hunt was apprehended by your MLE not two days before that picture I sent you was taken. He has remained in Ministry custody all this time. I won't insult your intelligence by telling you who it was she was with that night in Toronto and who she continues to see here in London."

His eyes were fixed upon what was before him, staring but not looking, feeling incongruently numb. He blinked and a couple of teardrops fell on the Ministry document that bore the name of the traitorous bastard as he did. It never occurred to him that there could have been any explanation other than the one he immediately concluded.

A question briefly flitted into his mind and he dismissed it. She said Toronto was meaningless, that it was with a stranger. He knew in his heart then as he was sure now that she was telling the truth. The git just could not leave her alone.

As if the pictures were taken for posterity, he gathered them with care and put them away, turning his attention to the stranger who was saying something.

"If the truth about her improper behaviour with a patient on hospital property comes out, she could be suspended from Healing, or worse, stripped of her license. She would be humiliated, lose credibility and respect."

"I don't care what happens to her."

He stood up, took all the documents, and headed for the exit. However, the stranger had more things to say.

"I should say, I have admired you for standing by her, but I guess there are limits to what one can take," the tall man said mockingly, and continued, somewhat amused, "Finally ridding yourself of the scarlet woman you were set to marry? Really? Are you a good poker player, Mr. Weasley?"

He did not answer.

"The pot is rather large and I really have nothing to lose. Walk out that door and I will call your bluff."

The fact the threat was said in such a nonchalant manner chilled him. There was no time to think, nor a need to. He loved her and in spite of what she did, he could not bear to think of what she would go through if this man did what he said he would do. To not be able to heal would kill her.

It was up to him to fix this. He had a pretty good idea what this was all about, what this stranger wanted from him but he had to be certain.

"Tell me what you want."

The stranger grinned, sensing victory.

"I love Quidditch and I prefer Toronto to win."

He was right.

XXXXXXXXX

24 February 2006 - A Quidditch Pitch somewhere just north of London.

The stadium was at capacity. A sea of spectators in orange and blue swarmed like ants as they settled in and made their way to their seats, thousands still lined up outside hoping to get in. The game was mere moments away from starting; fanfare music was blasting, food and drinks were flowing freely, excited fans were chatting boisterously.

She looked around Ron's private guest box and saw lots of red hair in orange clothing. The entire family had come to watch the big event and support Ron. All his brothers and their families were there, and even Molly had been coaxed out of the Burrow, happily making sure there would be adequate refreshments.

Hermione had just seen Ron in the locker room. He was definitely nervous; his face was pale and she could feel his hands shaking as he squeezed hers. He had not seen him since yesterday morning for management had sequestered the team at their training facility last night. He was unusually somber that even his teammates noticed. The Toronto replacement Seeker was a rookie and was not likely going to be a factor, so the pressure was on Ron to prevent Toronto from scoring big. Before she went back to the stands she wished him luck, reminded him that he was the best Keeper in the league, and just to play the game as he usually did.

Fleur was talking to her about wedding rehearsals and weddings, playing big sister, droning on about what to do and what not to do. Molly mentioned that Reverend Gershom had dropped by earlier thinking the wedding was today. Hermione could barely listen. She had butterflies in the pit of her stomach, about the game and about after. The Cannons had to win.

For now she was thankful of the distraction who was seated a few rows down from them. Luna Lovegood had dyed her blonde hair Weasley red for the occasion and was causing quite a stir amongst the Quidditch fans, much to the discomfort of Neville who came to the game with her. It was not the hair that drew attention but Luna's choice of a headdress, a Cannon spearing a Beaver in a thought provocative manner, its design probably not quite suitable for a non-mature audience. Only Luna could wear such a thing and keep a straight face.

She waited with the rest. The conversation about the wedding and the rehearsal died a natural death and her mind drifted to the last time they were together, that night after Harry and Delilah had dinner with them.

They were in the living room. Their guests had just left and Ron had helped her clear the table, eerily silent, which only happened when there was something quite important on his mind.

She had behaved shamefully during dinner. She suspected that the silence was about that, about how, in her moment of tipsiness and loss of inhibition she had flirted with Harry. Ron wasn't on her case about it, about what must have been obvious and what should have evoked displeasure from him. It worried her that it didn't and they had to talk about it.

"You've been so quiet," she said to him. "Do you want to talk?

He put away the unopened Muggle mail that had come by courier during dinner, a frown carved on his face.

"I was just thinking about what's gotten into you lately."

"Clearly, too much wine than should have," she answered with the first thought that came to mind, half joking and half serious.

He smiled and replied, "You've always been naughtier after a few drinks. I should get you drunk more often, in private."

The light banter quickly ended as a clouded expression washed over them both. They were thinking about the same thing.

"I'm sorry."

"About?"

He was at least making her work for it.

"Harry...tonight..."

And the other night and Toronto…

"It was inappropriate, not to mention inconsiderate."

And cruel.

"Yes, it was."

"You should be angry."

"I know you didn't mean it. You were drunk. He shouldn't have encouraged you..."

"Stop making excuses for me," she cut him off, startling him with her impatience and biting her lip before she said something in defense of Harry.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, confused, "Do you want me pissed off? Is that it?"

"Yes!” Her tone was pleading, coaxing, attempting to convince, “I want you to be livid at me. I want you to be angry at me for being unfaithful. I want you to scream in my face for flirting with Harry!"

"Why?"

"Because you should. Because what I did was not okay."

Because it would make me feel less guilty if you did.

Ron sighed, "And if I don't feel that way would you prefer I make it up and pretend that I do?"

"It’s just that I don't deserve any of this," she said as she closed her eyes, just as frustrated as Ron was about the whole thing.

He took her in his arms and hugged her, seeking to comfort.

"Don’t be too hard on yourself. You forget too easily. You've done other things, good things too numerous to list down."

There he was again, being too nice. She had been looking for ways to lessen the blow and the fact that he was wasn't helping. He did not know the enormity of her transgression.

"It won't hurt you as bad if you're angry. It won't hurt you as bad if you let me go," she said, unable to look at him, "Just let me go."

"I can't," Ron answered, his embrace tightening even more. "You're going to have to do it. I can't imagine life without you."

Even then she had already decided but there was a considerable bridge to cross between deciding it and doing it.

She joined him in bed that night as she had countless times before. He always slept like he did not have a care in the world. Eight years with him and it was definitely over. She still loved him, but not enough to want to spend the rest of her life with him. She thought as she closed her eyes and heard his rhythmic snoring, how odd that she would probably miss that too. She snuggled up close to him, laid her head on his chest, felt his arm drape around her shoulder and listened to his heartbeat as it lulled her to sleep.

Little did she know that that was going to be their last night together. The following day, Ron had called her that the Cannons were going to spend the eve of their match at their training facility. She asked how he was and he said other than the being nervous, he was fine, though Hermione felt a lot more tension and anxiety in him that usual. It was a day before the Finals, the match he had worked so hard to get to for a long time. She thought his nervousness was expected.

"Hey," Ginny had just arrived and sat down beside her, immediately noticing her not-so-rested appearance, "God, you look awful. Those last minute wedding details must be keeping you awake at night."

Ginny was trying to be funny but knew the discussion would have to wait for a later time. Hermione was dying to talk to her about Ron and Ginny had been away on assignment in Berlin the last few days.

"Maybe if my maid of honor was around more, she'd help me out. When did you get back?"

"Last night."

"How was Germany?"

"A dead end. I keep telling the old fart the legend of the Last Hufflepuff Squib is a legend for a reason."

"I thought that story was dead two years ago."

"Well, it's got nine lives. Squibs buy the Prophet too and what better way to keep them interested than giving them hope that Helga's alleged prediction of a Squibless world is coming true. That and my boss's wife is a Squib," Ginny vented her dissatisfaction on being assigned pointless stories, then, suddenly asked, "Where's Harry? I thought he was coming for sure."

"I thought so, too."

"Hey Sis. Care for a little brotherly wager on the game?" George tapped Ginny from behind and asked.

Hermione was looking at them but not quite listening. The dull ache in her chest that was residual from last night had just come to life with Ginny's mention of his name.

"No thanks. The bookie's already got my money. You can't believe the odds they're giving Toronto to win."

She felt odd as the reality of change hung in the air. The three of them had been close friends for fifteen years. It was hard to imagine that after all of this, things would remain the way they were before, even if she was going to aim for that with Ron. She consoled herself with the fact that it usually got better over time.

"Last I heard the tease was one in twenty; the spread for a Cannon win an even hundred with the chance of that happening at nine in ten," Fred joined in.

"Wat duz dat min?" Fleur asked.

He answered, "If I bet nine Galleons on the Cannons, they have to win by more than a hundred points for me to get ten galleons back, while if I bet on the Beavers and they win, I'll earn a hundred and eighty. Of course, betting on the Seekerless Beavers to win is ridiculous."

Hermione was starting to feel as if she was his object of ridicule. What happened last night was embarrassing, not to mention painful, so much so she didn't want to see him. With Ron hived off at the training facility, Harry paid her a visit at their apartment.

He knocked. Neither spoke as she let him in, the fact that he had come as Roy was disappointing and already said a lot. They remained standing at the foyer, his eyes looking deep into hers, conflicted and begging for relief. She realized how confusing her actions must have been to him and imagined him thinking the worse, what he mentioned over dinner, asking her if she was done playing.

She could not leave him thinking that way and it was only right, she thought, that since he already took the first step last night, the second one tonight, it was her turn to show him she wanted more honesty. Hermione boldly took steps closer towards him responding to the magnetic pull of his proximity until she couldn't anymore. She had to touch and she watched her hands come up, make contact with his firm chest and slide upwards to meet behind his neck, her body pressed against his, aching for his embrace. She pulled herself up slowly, breathing shallower as her mouth inched closer to his, his warm breath falling on her lips, as she said to him.

"I'm not playing. This isn't a game to me."

With her arms wrapped tightly around his neck she kissed him, slow, arduous, as she had wanted to do for days. He pulled back and asked.

"Tell me. Who am I to you?"

It was the time for absolute truth. She joined him, way out there on a limb. She answered, they were so close and the night was so still he would have been deaf not to hear her.

"You're my best friend, the man I've loved for a long time but gave up on thinking you couldn't possibly feel the same way about me. You were my intended last fling. The stranger I went out with and ended up in bed with reminded me of you. Twice I saw you almost die and both times I almost died with you. I love you, Harry, and how I wish you never came to me as Roy and just came as you."

She stopped and was relieved of the yoke she had been carrying for days. She had tears on her face. The confusion had left his and in its place was pain; pain, not relief. Her answer was not the one he had hoped for.

On hindsight, perhaps the delusion she had led herself to believe since the night of their St. Mungo tryst and encouraged by their Quidditch talk had not prepared her for this possibility. She shouldn't have hastily concluded that when he said he was done playing he meant he was done. He was indeed done, with her. She should have thought it when he came as Roy to, fittingly, let the stranger end it as he started it, and when he did not kiss her back.

She needed a finality to all this, a closure. And as hurtful as it would be, to hear it from him was the only way she would believe it. She braced herself as she asked.

"What about me? Who am I to you?"

He paused for a moment before answering, as if trying to organize his thoughts, hopefully to find a kinder way to say it as she had been trying to for Ron.

"You are my best friend and I wish I never came to you as Roy Hunt. You shouldn't trust a liar and a traitor, and you should be with someone who clearly loves you. This is over."

Over…she closed her eyes as his words carved into her chest as a dull knife would. It was a slow, painful death. What he said was unambiguous. He was not pleased to hear that the affair wasn't meaningless to her and that she loved him, making him remorseful about the Roy Hunt affair. He said she shouldn't trust a liar and a traitor, which he obviously was. And he said she should be with someone who clearly loved her; he clearly did not.

Not infrequently she had thought about how it would be like to be one of those countless women she had witnessed him date over the years. So this was what it was like. It was great while it lasted but it was over and it hurt like hell being let go.

Before he turned away she asked him one thing. Fighting back the tears that needed shedding in payment for his glaring rejection of her love, she wanted to make sure that Ron's emotions would not be a senseless casualty in this.

“Please. Don’t tell Ron. He can’t know.”

He nodded.

He left last night with the weight of his parting words sitting heavily on her chest like a dead elephant, for a moment not allowing her to breathe, until she did as she sobbed uncontrollably. Perhaps she should have felt angrier then but at that moment there was no room for any other emotion except excruciating anguish. And besides, she had only herself to blame. She chose to get involved with Roy and with Harry. Her mistake was thinking it possible that he would treat her differently.

Hermione had grieved so much lately about not spending the rest of her life with him that after the tears were spent she did not feel too much pain; her heart was likely tired from the emotional yoyo she had gone through the past couple of weeks. Maybe it had finally sunk in that it was not meant to be.

Understandably so she did not want to see him. She was hurt and embarrassed and she wasn't sure if or when she would get over that. It was just as well that he sent Roy to do the deed for at least she could conceivably look in his face and think that he was not the bastard she slept with. Conceivably, for appropriate or not, now, she was starting to feel resentment that he chose to be Roy Hunt in the first place, never intending it to be more than a meaningless affair.

Survival instinct? Maybe. She remembered what she told Ron. It won't hurt you as bad if you're angry.

"Wizards and witches, magical and non-magical beings, welcome to the 55th Queens Cup Finals!"

A thunderous roar erupted from the crowd drowning the team introductions as seven streaks of blue and seven of orange zoomed onto the pitch. The magical mascots were on the sidelines pulling pranks on each other already. On the large screen showing the highlights of the event orange tinged cannons were blasting blue-face painted beavers into smithereens as the latter were stuffing tons of maple leaf confetti into their muzzles.

Two identical looking bespectacled, butterbeer bellied, middle aged wizards with long silvery hair, goatees and sideburns came up on the screen, familiar to Quidditch going fans as the experienced game commentator and analyst duo that usually covered games of such import.

“I'm Lambert Scott and with me to call this game is my partner in crime, Scott Lambert. Scott.”

“Lambert. What an afternoon this is going to be. Such an excitement coming into this winner take all match.”

In actuality, Lambert Scott and Scott Lambert were one and the same wizard. He was a regular at St Mungo's and without the personality unifying potion, had more interesting, but less socially acceptable, alter egos.

Scott continued, “Even in points coming in, Toronto was heavily favoured to walk away with the Cup until they lost their Seeker two days ago. What a shock!”

“Yes, what a shock indeed! Now the Cannons are the favourites. What will it take for the Beavers to steal this championship?”

“A lot of everything, for sure. Their big dilemma is not only how to prevent Mike Ryan from catching the Golden Snitch early in the game but also how to get the Quaffle past Ron Weasley. The Cannon Keeper is having such an extraordinary year.”

A round of applause and cheers broke out from the stadium as Ron was mentioned. Hermione looked up and found him immediately. Every game she attended Ron would swoop low and do a slow flyby where she was seated. Today, seeing that it was the most important game of his life, he landed in the box and was instantly in the midst of a Weasley group hug. Mouths were moving but no words could be heard as the deafening noise from the crowd and the music continued to drown everything else.

Ron was still nervous, she could tell as he extracted himself from his family and gave her a more lingering personal embrace. Then he mounted his broom and just before he took off, pulled an orange rose from within his robes, kissed it and gave it to her, unmindful of the teasing his brothers were subjecting him to.

She didn't know why but that gesture made her heart ache even more. It was so unfair to both him and her that she loved someone else. What a waste. She had thought long and hard all night asking herself that since she definitely would not be with that person, why not let Ron have what he wanted?

It was difficult to decide. Ron would not agree but he deserved someone better.

As the teams continued their warm-ups, prominent figures and personalities in attendance were being flashed on the screen; Ministry officials, sports executives, entertainment heavy-weights, each causing as much applause as their popularity indicated. Wild cheering broke the monotony of the proceedings as the image of a former Cannon Seeker was shown on the screen, Ginny indicating to her that he was in the owner's box about a dozen rows up to their right. The Weasleys were waving at him frantically to come and join them but he waved them off. Good, because, in her opinion, where he was right now was just fine.

She looked up on the screen just in time to see Harry duck away from view as a surprised crowd gasped.

Crash!

A practice Bludger zoomed over his head and bore a hole in the opposite wall, the offending sporting equipment boomeranged back to the Beaver beater who was now being restrained by officials as he appeared to want to go after Ron.

“Whoa! What was that about?”

“Those two go back a long way. A welcome back prank, I'm sure. After all Potter has not been sighted this close to a Quidditch pitch since his accident a few years back. Glad to see he still has great reflexes!”

There was cheering as Harry appeared to be okay, the smile she used to like so much now struck her as irritatingly haughty.

The whistle sounded and the game began.

Not one minute into the game the Cannons drew first blood.

“Elton, Bono and Posh worked so seamlessly on that goal,” Lambert commented.

“That’s a great start. High scoring matches are so much fun to watch. The Chasers on both teams are evenly matched although the Beavers, with veterans Justin, Bellamy and Hullbrenner, have more championship experience,” countered Scott.

“The Cannon Seeker seems content to shadow his rookie counterpart.”

“That’s a great Cannon strategy to not leave the game to chance. Ryan would likely out-fly and outsmart the greenhorn Lavigne should the Snitch appear in their vicinity.”

Then things went south quickly for the Cannons as their Chasers scored on Ron eight straight times.

"That wasn't even close. My grandmother could have caught that!" Scott said unkindly as Ron appeared to be distracted he could not make what seemingly were simple saves.

Ron's teammates were egging him on, hoping he would snap out of his stupor and make some stops. He nodded feebly but she knew something was definitely wrong as he kept on looking at a spot a few rows down on their left.

She looked through her omnioculars and scanned the area. There was a tall man with slick black hair looking through omnioculars past her to the right.

"Another score by the Beaver Chaser!”

In the split second it took for her to see what just happened she could not find the same man in the vicinity anymore. She thought no more of it as Ron's horrible game took over.

“Looks like Weasley is suffering from a terrible case of Cannon loser's lurgy reminiscent of his first year."

There was loud laughter from his partner and the crowd in blue that made Hermione feel so bad for Ron. He was definitely not himself. If only Socrates, his manager, could call time out to regroup. But there was no such thing in Quidditch.

Each time the Beavers were in scoring position, not only were their fans cheering, the Cannon fans were jeering their Keeper. It was horrible hearing the heckling and she was not even playing. She could only imagine how he was feeling.

"It seems like Socrates Mann has seen enough. Well, it's about time! They are a hundred and ninety points down. The more this gap widens their Seeker will never become a factor in the game. If they get decent performance from Killdeer they might just still win."

The back up keeper was warming up. Considerable concern and disagreement exploded from the Weasleys around her. Ron was gesticulating to his manager leave him in but the decision seemed to have been made.

The next Beaver salvo had three Chasers bearing down on him hard and fast. Moaning from the orange faithful was abruptly replaced by pleased cheering.

"A spectacular Starfish and Stick save by the veteran!"

"But one wonders if Mann will keep him in. His fate is not entirely in his hands. It appears that Killdeer is continuing to warm up."

As his teammates went on the offensive, Ron summoned Pfaff, their rookie Beater, and said something to him. Several things happened at once. The crowd erupted in a frenzy following a spectacular goal by Ron's team just as the scorer at the sidelines was hit by an errant Bludger. The referee's whistle sounded, tossing the offending Cannon beater out of the game for bumphing and, as he signaled an official's time out to get medical attention to the scorekeeper, the players took the opportunity to huddle for a team meeting.

Scott and Lambert were having difficulty keeping up, then directed the spectators to the big screen.

“Weasley seems to be having a vigorous discussion with Mann. Now, where is he going?”

Hermione was appalled and confused as Ron landed right beside her, dismounted his broom and motioned to his family that he needed a private moment. She was self conscious that they were on display on the big screen.

“It looks like Weasley has gone to get some much needed inspiration from his fiancée, the lovely Healer, Hermione Granger,” Scott commented.

There was whistling and teasing from the crowd that warmed Hermione's face. Ron seemed to be enjoying the attention, smiling and waving for everyone to see.

Lambert sighed, “Lovely indeed. She makes the best personality unifying potion, ever. Um, that’s a tip for those who need some.”

“Have you gone mad?” she asked Ron, quite uncomfortable.

He answered her with a happy, excited grin, took both her hand and pulled her to a sheltered corner where the magical cameras would not reach them. Even then they would be barely able to hear each other unless they shouted because of the continuing commotion from the crowd.

"About that second chance, I need your final answer!"

"What? Now?!"

He nodded.

Confused and disbelieving, she searched his expression and could only conclude that he was serious. Ron couldn't have picked a worst moment to force the answer out of her. Why it couldn't wait she didn't know and would try to find out at some point.

As if by some magical force the noise around them died down, the figures around them blurred away and what she had before her was only him and the decision he was waiting for her to make. It was appropriate she thought that it would be like this because this was really just about them. This was not about what her mother did, not dependent on this game’s outcome and not about Harry. And in that instant it became clear that it was the right thing to do.

"The answer is the same, Ron. It hasn't changed."

The smile on his face quickly went away. He waited, perhaps hoping there was a 'but' to her answer or that she would change her mind. What he said to her next came as a big surprise.

"I talked to Harry. I know about Roy, about Toronto and about St. Mungo's. You're just another girl to him. He doesn't love you like I do."

Ron knew everything and he talked with Harry, which somehow explained the Bludger he sent Harry’s way. That was too much information too quickly and she could not think of what else to say to him except the obvious and the truth.

"I know. But this does not have anything to do with him."

How could he still want to be with her after knowing all that? How could he even talk to her or still consider that second chance?

"You love him."

"Yes but…”

Ron cut her off just as she was about to say Harry did not feel the same way about her.

"He's a lying, cheating bastard and you're choosing him over me,” he said to her, a conclusion she knew he would reach if he found out about Harry. “I guess my life has just not been tragic enough for you to care as much about me as you do him.”

“It’s not about that, Ron. Harry and I will never be,” she tried to explain, “I would have ended us even if Harry and I didn't…didn’t do what we did.”

He sighed and gave her a weak, sad, smile, “Let’s just agree to disagree on that one.”

Hermione was going to protest but this was not the time or place to continue to explain. The moment passed and they were back in the midst of Quidditch Final chaos. Ron pulled her into an embrace and spoke into her ear.

"I figured it would happen even if we lost the game. I can’t fix it. I was stupid to think I could do it on my own. I’m sorry I can’t do much more.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she replied, thankful he had finally realized what he just did, and asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. It's fine. I’ll be fine,” Hermione wasn’t sure if he was reassuring her or himself, “Watch the rest of the game closely. This is all for you. I'll make you so proud of me. I'll be more Harry-like to the point you'll regret you let me go."

That last bit he sounded like he was joking; he usually came up with something like that when things got too serious or awkward. He smiled wildly at her, and, seemingly acting weirder than she was accustomed to, he took off. She got back to her seat beside Ginny, ignored her puzzled look and watched as a more energetic Ron rejoined the team huddle.

"Weasley has convinced Mann to let him stay."

"Not sure that's a good idea folks but I'm glad it's not my decision to make."

"It looks like after several attempts the scorekeeper has finally passed the Mediwizard's simple mathematical skill question."

“I actually didn't think he was smart enough about numbers to begin with!"

The official's whistle blasted and fourteen players took off from the ground for the second time.

“The Beavers have the Quaffle…the old-timer Justin is way too experienced for the young Posh…”

“And the ref’s called a foul on the young Cannon!”

There was considerable spectator booing.

Lambert was showing his colors, “Cobbing? Oh, common ref! What’s Quidditch without a little elbow action? Let them play!”

“Hullbrenner takes the penalty shot…no worries! What an effortless save! It’s nice to have the real Ron Weasley back!”

The crowd was now chanting the Gryffindor cheer ‘Weasley is our King’.

"The Cannons have the Quaffle, they're on the attack."

"Oooh! Bono just barely avoided that Bludger…he backpasses to Elton and the Cannon shoots it though the Beaver hoop and scores!"

"Now here come the Beavers. Bellamy has the Quaffle with Elton right beside her. Look at them go!"

"Bellamy drops it below for Justin. No! Posh steals and is off! This Cannon is speedy they won't catch her even if they blagged her broom. It's just her and the Beaver Keeper."

Thunderous applause broke out from the orange colored crowd.

"Wow! We may have a game in our hands. Beavers two hundred and ten, Cannons fifty."

Gasps from the crowd brought everyone's attention to the two Seekers who were now zooming side by side in the same direction.

"The Seekers have the Golden Snitch in sight. The Beaver rookie Lavigne is trying her best to get to it but the savvier Ryan is blocking her off. The Cannon can’t take it, not yet. If he's not careful the ref could call him for blatching."

Another wild applause broke out from behind her as Ron just made another almost impossible save.

"I can't believe Weasley got to that! He was hanging on to his broom with one ankle! Amazing!"

"Wait! Is that legal?"

Hermione looked and saw Ron had the Quaffle in hand, swerved to avoid a Bludger and had joined the Cannon Chasers in an attack formation.

"I don't recall any rule that says it's a foul for a Keeper to handle the Quaffle outside the scoring box."

"The Toronto bench is already protesting but the play continues. Weasley passes off to Elton to his right who draws Bellamy's defense…drops the Quaffle to Bono below…he zigzags to try and get away from the Beaver Chaser Hullbrenner…hands it up to Posh who was in a sloth grip! She’s close to the scoring box…it'll be Posh to shoot and the Chaser Justin is right in her face, ready to block. She throws..."

A large collective intake of air from the crowd and the commentators occurred as the speedy Cannon threw the Quaffle forward into the air just before she was inside the scoring area deliberately short of the goal and flew slightly into Justin to take him out of play. Her shot drew out the Beaver keeper who attempted to get to it to bat it away but an unguarded Ron was closer and he calmly picked up the suspended Quaffle.

"Weasley has it! Weasley has the Quaffle! The Toronto Keeper is in deep poo in the middle of no wizard's land! And Weasley scores! Bloody hell! What a play!"

The stadium was rocking and the crowd wild, as Scott yelled at the top of his lungs to be heard.

"The sideline ref has taken out the Quidditch rule book. Never in the history of this Quidditch tournament has a Keeper done that. And the Seekers seem to have lost the Snitch. We have another official's time out."

Already the Cannons were celebrating and encouraging their fans to do the same. Ron went over to where they were seated and slowed down enough to smile at her and wink. He had gone a bit mad, she thought to herself as she felt how much fun Ron was having out there at the moment.

Screaming Cannon fans screamed more as the ref ruled it a legal goal and the game score flashed on screen. Beavers 210, Cannons 60.

"Third restart and the Beavers are back with a vengeance. A Bludger just took Elton out of play. And there goes Posh diverted by another. Three Beaver Chasers against one Cannon, and Weasley at the Keep."

"And the Seekers have quickly found the Golden Snitch again! They're really closing in on it!"

True enough, Hermione quickly glanced on the screen and the Snitch was just feet away from the grasp of both Seekers. Back to Ron, the situation seemed dire. The Toronto Keeper boldly joined his Chasers as Ron had the play before.

"Another Bludger has taken the last Cannon Chaser out of play! It's all up to Weasley now. Four against one!"

Ron did the figure of eight loop and gained speed as the Beavers attacked his goal. Hermione held her breath.

"Justin shoots at the left most post! I think he's timed Weasley’s defensive effort well! It's going in..."

Smack!!

A resounding sound of a Quaffle being kicked reverberated throughout the stadium as Ron's foot made solid contact, sending it soaring fast towards the opposite unattended goals.

More gasping from the crowd, the commentators were speechless, even the Seekers were momentarily distracted as everyone waited with baited breath.

"GOAL!! GOAL!!"

Mayhem broke out not a second later as the game whistle sounded. On the large screen was the Cannon Seeker holding on to the fluttering Golden Snitch.

"Cannons win! Cannons win! Cannons are the Queen's Cup Champions!"

Everybody was shouting, hugging, embracing. She was crying with joy as Ron's image was up on the screen, surrounded by his teammates and being congratulated, beaming, ecstatic that his moment to shine had come. He had been announced as the game and season most valuable player and other accolades would surely follow. She was so happy for him.

She turned towards the Weasleys as the Cannons dispersed into the darkening sky in a sort of victory ritual, swallowed by the explosions of orange and green fireworks, as their fans continued to celebrate on the pitch and up in the air. The twins were animatedly re-enacting the game as if they were the only witnesses to it, Molly was in tears too, smiles and laughter all around. This would likely go on throughout the night, for days on end.

Then, something sounded horribly wrong. A piercing chilling shriek from somewhere in the crowd that was joined in by more of the same, echoing each other, infecting the remaining occupants of the stadium in waves.

Brooms swooshed as they landed near the center of the playing field where an orange motionless dot was attracting emergent attention.

She stared at the large screen and for a moment she could not comprehend what she was seeing. There was someone wailing near her, calling out Ron's name. He was on the pitch surrounded by Mediwizards and Healers, his body in an unnatural position. They said he had fallen broomless from the sky. There was talk of it being an accident, an eerily familiar accident. A dark haired figure on a broom had touched down beside him and briefly obstructed her view before joining those trying to help.

Inappropriate as it may have been Ron’s face was shown; his eyes were open, fixed and empty. She tried to speak, to ask what was happening, why was he not on his broom celebrating, why was he not moving, why were the Mediwizards and Healers not doing anything? But no sound escaped from her. Not one single muscle on her seemed capable to take her down to where he was even though she wanted to. It was as if while her mind refused to accept what she was witnessing, she had seen death too many times the rest of her knew that it was too late. Her knees gave way and she would have fallen had Ginny not been beside her to hold on to.

He was quickly taken away, presumably to St Mungo's because somehow that was where she ended up next. The staff at St. Mungo's did not even try to revive him anymore. The family was brought into the exam room, thirteen it was, and she walked towards his lifeless broken body that was painfully on the same gurney she and Harry had been on a few days ago, tears just flowing out of her as if through a busted dam.

Somebody was holding her in his arms as she cried clasping Ron’s still warm hand in hers, one of the twins it seemed. She saw Molly on the other side of the stretcher, howling, slumped over Ron's body as Bill tried to offer her comfort. And beside Molly someone, who she was certain was Harry, was sobbing openly. She couldn't force herself to look at him to confirm, afraid of what she would say and do to him if she did. She asked him not to let Ron know and he could not even do that.

There was nothing anyone could do. One moment he was smiling and laughing and in the blink of an eye he was gone. As she wept she looked at the orange rose that she still had in her free hand, guilt draining her, responsibility for his death eating her up. Ron’s voice echoed within…

…my life has just not been tragic enough…

…I wonder if she’ll give me the same kind of attention…

…I should do a Potter during a game and find out…

…I'll be more Harry-like…

As hard as it was for her to believe, Ron did it. She should have known that there was something more to his unnatural response to her infidelity that met the eye. Finding out it was with Harry was devastating but her breaking up with him was the last straw. Just as he angrily mused in his journal years ago, Ron did what Harry did during his last Quidditch game, only he succeeded where Harry did not.

...I can't imagine life without you...

…you'll regret you let me go…

When Hermione said she could live with the consequences of her Roy Hunt affair, she never imagined it would be this. She never imagined Ron would take his own life.

---

A/N. Hah! Finally the past is done! I'm not quite sure if I've properly conveyed the reason/s why Hermione is the way she is in the present with Harry. Let me know if I haven't.

More seriously, concerning the mature theme of suicide - I'm not trying to give anyone ideas. It's wrong to take life regardless of who it belongs to.

A/N. We're back in the present and this is a continuation of Chapter 23 with Hermione throwing the phial of potion, Harry's evidence, towards a hard surface. Harry's reaction here is what the collective reaction was from the reviews of that chapter. As you're reading Hermione's POV, remember that this is about a year after Ron's death. Hopefully she does not confuse you too much about her thoughts - if I were a shrink I would recommend medication.

---

Chapter 33 - Incasabil

8 February 2007 – Harry’s townhouse in Toronto

Plink!

The phial with the purple potion hit and ricocheted off the solid wall just as she expected it would. It was interesting that it even damaged the paintjob. Before the small glass container reached the floor, it went flying straight into Harry's awaiting outstretched hand.

"Have you gone mad?!"

Harry yelled and she met his furious reaction with calm indifference, certain that it would incense him further. She crossed her arms across her chest as he approached knowing she deserved to hear what was to come. He continued.

"Let me make this clear! There is a murderer out there! This is evidence against him! This is the best lead we have! I trusted you with it because you are good at potions and I do need your help! This is not some pawn that you can throw around to satisfy your need to hurt me back for what I did!"

Well, that was clear. Maybe this wasn't the time to interrupt to tell him what a splendid job he had done on that. This was a first; she had never deliberately made him angry before. He took a breath and steadied himself.

"I thought you'd be mature about this, to take this seriously at least. I did not expect you to act like a vindictive, spoiled brat!"

He was red in the face and breathing hard, and he did make her feel a bit guilty for doing what she did; a bit. Yes, it was impulsive, petty and childish. Vindictive brat was certainly close to accurate. It just seemed a fitting release to rid herself of the sudden jealous rage that overcame her. The way he talked with this Andy was just unsettling, especially since the memory of his mouth on hers still scorched. She had not felt this way in a long time, not since Hogwarts. And throwing the phial hard, watching it bounce off the wall was quite therapeutic.

She knew it was important evidence and would not have done what she did unless she was absolutely sure that it would not be damaged. Duh! Really, he should be thankful she did not throw it at him.

"Oh, relax," she dismissed his outburst, "It's unbreakable."

"Thank goodness it is! If it wasn't…wait. You knew it was unbreakable?!"

"I'm not daft to destroy evidence."

"Why didn't you just say it was unbreakable?!"

"I thought the visual demonstration would make the point clear," the lies she came up with sometimes were so lame.

An incomprehensible prehistoric sound came from within Harry.

Yup. Frustrating isn't it?

Hearing it gave her a small measure of satisfaction and made her smirk.

"How did you know?"

"Where did you get it?"

"I asked first."

"What do you think is in it?"

"You've seen it before."

"The man who drank the potion and Disapparated, was he a Squib?"

"Are you going to tell me what you know or do I have to arrest you for obstructing justice?"

Hermione chastised herself for the pleasant thought that came to mind about being arrested by him. Pathetic. Her considerably weakened defenses were getting weaker every second she was alone with him.

"Not here," she said to him, "Can we have lunch somewhere?"

She wasn't really hungry but she wanted to know more about the phial and more importantly, its contents; the more public the place, the better.

"Unfortunately most don't serve lunch this early," he snapped, short tempered. She forgot. She was still on London time. "There's a 24-hour diner a few blocks from here."

"That's fine," she answered, anywhere but here.

"It's a good ten minute walk," he told her, "Unless you want us to Apparate."

He'd have to take her Side-Along. She remembered the last time they did that. It was tempting.

Argh! Stop it!

"Let's walk."

They left his messed up living room, stepped out of his house and sauntered beside each other, snow crunching beneath their feet. It wasn't too cold that morning and there was no need to rush. It would give her time to think and hoped the fresh outdoor air would cool down Harry's understandably irate mood.

She glanced at him briefly when she knew he wasn't looking and noticed the scowl on his face. It was apparent to her that he was livid or trying to sort something out or likely both. He had not slept. He seemed to have lost some weight since she last saw him and he allowed his hair to grow longer that he usually did. She felt the familiar feeling of concern swell within her.

Hermione hated this, feeling this, wishing it would end. There was something seriously wrong with her. She had been burned and scalded badly by him before. It was prudent not to have anything to do with him. Yet here she was, unable reign in her emotions and, not one hour alone with him had caved in to his physical advances already. Not only that, she was reacting to him with more groin and loin than brains. She must have the letters S-T-U-P-I-D stamped across her face. That or the other S-word.

And this was precisely why she knew that coming to see him would be a mistake. She was not ready to let go unless he let go first. She didn't think her love for him would survive the Roy Hunt break-up and definitely not Ron's death, but it did. She should be angrier, more resentful, vengeful, for she went out on a limb, gave him her heart and he not only dropped it from the highest tree branch imaginable, he jumped on it a few times and left it for dead.

Fine, she was being melodramatic and her description perhaps bordered on exaggeration. It didn't seem bad now but the night it happened that was how she would have described it. Time had somewhat healed that wound and nursed the battered ego that resulted from it. Yes, she was still embarrassed she would rather not talk about the incident ever again but she had to admit, all things considered, how he broke up with her could have been much worse. The truth hurt but it had to be told and he was pretty good at letting go. She guessed the practice that he had with other women really helped. Of course, he cowardly chose to do it as Roy Hunt.

Then Ron died. The pain of his rejection was nothing compared to how she felt after that Quidditch match. Pain was indeed relative after all.

In the days following Ron's death, Harry wanted to talk about him and about them. She didn't. There was nothing to talk about. And even if there was, she couldn't, because she couldn't be in the same room with him. The torment of guilt about Ron dying was unbearable whenever she saw him and even more so when she heard him speak. She had no choice but to shut him out.

He persisted; she resisted. By then he had changed his tune and said he loved her, maybe out of pity, maybe out of sport. Whatever his reason for his change of heart she wasn't in the mood to play games with him anymore. To her it felt like he was stringing her along knowing fully well that she loved him following her foolish confession, choosing that fact to be the center of her ire. It was easy to focus on how their games had caused Ron to do what he did, choosing to be angry at him for the liar that he was. The alternative, her believing him again, was unthinkable.

It would have been reasonable for her to hate him, for telling Ron about them after she asked him specifically not to, for not keeping his word. The truth was she didn't hate him and, until they talked and argued this morning, she wasn't even angry at him anymore. While she did think that had he not told Ron about them things would be different, she could not in good conscience blame him for Ron's decision. It wasn't his honesty that killed Ron; her lies did. She was the only one who knew everything and was the only one who could have prevented what happened. Had she not broken up with him that night Ron would still be alive today.

Earlier, when he asked her if she wanted him back in her life she could not tell him the truth. There was such a big difference between wanting and being. It would be bad to encourage him. And while she was no longer angry at him for being Roy Hunt, she remembered the bitterness she suffered last year all too well and used the memory to push him back.

If only he would stop explaining himself and let her be, she’d be able to let him go.

The blast of a horn from a passing red street car caught her attention as they turned around a corner onto a busier street and arrived at their destination. Harry stomped his snow covered boots just outside the diner as he opened the door for her and followed her in. Muggle music was playing softly in the background, complimenting the retro decorated interior. It was the Beatles and she raised her brows somewhat involuntarily as she recognized the song.

She loves you, yeah yeah yeah
She loves you, yeah yeah yeah
She loves you, yeah yeah yeah

She noticed that there were quite a few Muggle customers present as they slid into an empty booth across from each other. There was awkward silence.

She said you hurt her so
She almost lost her mind.
But now she said she knows
You're not the hurting kind.

John, Paul, George and Ringo were killing her. More awkward silence and hopefully no blushing.

She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah
She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah
And with a love like that
You know you should be glad.

Harry smiled weakly at her. For Pete’s sake! She was about to draw out her wand to discretely disable the music. Thankfully, a heavily made-up middle-aged woman in an apron showed up beside them.

"Good morning, Harry," she greeted him, "Will it be the usual today?"

She wondered what that was for him, as another Beatles song played in the background.

Try to see it my way,
Do I have to keep on talking till I can't go on

"Hi Lucy. No, just coffee is fine."

"And your friend?"

She wondered who else he brought here.

We can work it out
We can work it out

"I'll have the same, thank you."

He was staring at her, the annoyance no longer there, and it was good that he did not point out that she seemed to have forgotten the reason they left his house.

Think of what I'm saying we can work it out
And get it straight or say good night

The waitress smiled as she poured them cups of coffee and left a menu for them just in case they changed their minds. She fought off the impulse to pick it up and start memorizing it so she wouldn't have to talk with him. She looked up and met his gaze.

We can work it out
We can work it out

His bright green eyes were on her, soft and kind, and she could feel that longing he had for her that was beyond the physical he had shown her so far. She cautioned herself against reading too much into it, having been wrong about it before.

Life is very short and there's no time
For fussing and fighting my friend

"How are you?" he asked, so earnestly it made her chest hurt.

She wanted him to care, she needed him to care and he sounded like he did. She shouldn't but, quite baffling to her, she still trusted him somewhat. Love was so blind and made her so stupid.

Hermione realized that they had not even exchanged civil greetings since she arrived at his doorstep. This was how bad things were between them and it always made her think that if only she never went looking for a last fling, none of this would have happened.

Life was indeed very short and it was a crime to fight and hold on to something that could not be. She bit her lower lip to keep herself from crying, tuning out the music.

"Just fine," she managed to say, "And you?"

"I could be better," he replied. "About this morning…"

"I'm sorry about it, too," she said before he apologized once more and provoked the evil twin inside her to classify the apology into lie, truth, or didn't matter.

"It's really good to see you," he declared.

Fine, that was probably true.

She could not decide how she felt about seeing him. On the one hand she missed him terribly but on the other, being with him reminded her of Ron and how he died.

"It's unbreakable."

Hermione had to steer their conversation abruptly away and that hurt her as much as she sensed it hurt him. Coming to Toronto she thought she could but just now realized she still couldn't talk about them calmly apart from her asking him again to leave her alone. She did not want to hear his side of the story or give him the opening to make that pitch which she would likely find truthful.

Across the table Harry was at a loss as to how to get through the barrier she had created between them. He guessed she was not as happy to see him as he was her. Not that he could find fault in that, but he was frustrated that even after all this time she wasn't giving him a chance to air his side out. And it seemed that she would never give him that opportunity.

For a moment he thought about pressing her for it but decided it better to let it go, afraid he might push her too hard it would drive her back to London.

It's unbreakable.

Harry knew she meant the phial but at the moment, he could say that about her resolve to end his hopes that they could find a way to be together after what happened. He heard the song that was playing and thought it appropriate for what he seemed to be facing with her.

The long and winding road…

"How did you know?"

"It says so on it."

Really? He took it out and examined the green bottle. He could not find any markings on the outside.

"Hold it up sideways at eye level, look inside and turn the phial slowly back and forth," she instructed him.

He did as he was told and true enough, there were black bold letters and numbers printed on the inside of the glass container.

"Incasabil?"

"Unbreakable, in Romanian. That's where it's manufactured. Dragon hide washings give it that property," she explained, "China makes them cheaper but I've found them less um…durable, for lack of a better term."

He set the purple potion down on the table right beside the salt and pepper shakers. Harry never heard of unbreakable phials. As she had always been able to do in the past, Hermione read his mind.

"It's fairly new technology. About a year ago, we were developing a potion that was so volatile and unstable to store we couldn't find a container strong enough to hold the mixture over the period of time needed to do proper testing."

"There is a charm to make things not break," he knew this because Hermione had performed it on the jar a vile reporter spent some time in while in her Animagus bug form.

"That's what researchers have been doing for ages whenever they had this problem. We did that but charms are temporal and wear off unless re-casted," she sipped some of her now seemingly lukewarm black coffee. "There had always been a need for a more resilient phial and it was just a matter of someone wanting one badly enough to actually think about making one permanently so."

"You invented it."

"No, I'm only a lowly potion maker," she laughed at his conclusion and it felt good that made him smile, "I suggested it to Luna. She's always looking for projects. Her boss at the Department of Mysteries okayed it and she came up with the first prototype of the unbreakable phial after a month. I did help her with testing."

"And the numbers?"

"I'm not sure. I don't normally meticulously examine a phial and I only know they put the Romanian word in to identify it as such and prevent inferior knock offs."

She flipped her phone on and selected a contact. He could hear the ringing.

"Hi Luna, it's me…yes, I'm in Toronto…yes, he's here with me…she says hello and …um…she says to stay away from the lakes…because of the Ontarian mind-numbing geese mites…Harry says hi. Listen, I have a question…the Romanian manufactured unbreakable phials…there are numbers on them…uh-huh…uh-huh…okay…thanks…I'll see you when I get back…bye…yes, I'll stay away from the lakes, too."

"Just as I thought, serial numbers," she answered his questioning look. "Luna says it's unadvertised but the Ministry recently mandated manufacturers to have unique identifiers on each of them to keep track of who they sell them to."

"That's great. That means we can track down the phial buyer. But I'm just wondering. It's a phial; isn't tracking each and every one of them a bit too much?"

"Unsettling as it is that the Ministry is keeping this mandate hush-hush, it's actually a good idea. At this time, the potions that it will be needed for are likely experimental and somewhat dangerous. Or something unknown just like what you have," she motioned to the phial on the table between them. It did make sense, "So where did you get it?"

It was his turn to give her some answers.

"Andy and I were on a stake-out and I followed a known crook, a Squib, who had a box full of phials with most likely the same potion. He appeared to be selling them, but he saw me and made a run for it. The git Disapparated right before my very eyes from inside a moving subway train. He left this phial and an empty one by accident."

"I overheard that the lab tested the empty one and it appeared unused?"

"Yes."

"Interesting, that's the second time I heard that today," Hermione seemed to be talking to herself, thinking more than she was telling him.

"What do you mean?"

"An empty phial was found near Filch and there were no potion residues in it the hospital lab concluded it had to be unused," she replied. “You know about Gringott’s?”

He nodded and was sure Hermione was wondering the same thing as he was, a highly probable London-Toronto connection.

"It seems too much of a coincidence, don't you think? Two Squibs in acts of dubious legality and two unused phials."

"True. I'll have them check the St. Mungo one if it's indeed unbreakable," she looked at him and asked, "You think it's magic enabling potion?"

"I know it is," he said confidently.

"You've seen it used?"

She seemed skeptical.

"It's either that or the Squib who's been drinking it and performing magic since last year isn't a real Squib."

"You realize that if you're right, this is a big thing."

"I do know there are quite a number of vindictive Squibs out there who could cause trouble and whoever gets rights to manufacture it will be rich and famous."

Hermione had a worried look on her face. It was the same look he had been encountering at the Ministry whenever he mentioned magic enabling potion.

“You don't believe me.”

“It's not that I don't believe you, Harry. It's just the possibility of this being a magic enabling potion is daunting. This thing,” she glanced over to the phial as if it was cursed, “If it is what you think it is, will affect not only Squibs. Granted that an uprising of Ministry malcontents and the tide of opportunists would be immediate concerns for law and order, the implications are astounding beyond the obvious political and economic effects.”

“I don't understand,” he admitted, hoping she would speak simpler English.

Hermione lowered her voice, leaned slightly forward and, with a seriousness that bothered him, explained, “The social ramification of the existence of a magic enabling potion is too complex it's unthinkable. First Squibs, then Muggles. It is the biggest threat to the statute of secrecy and it is for this reason that engaging in research on any enabling magic has been outlawed by the International Confederation of Warlocks for centuries. Can you imagine? There will be no Squibs or Muggles. The world as we know it will change and no one knows for sure if it will be for the better.”

“One would think it would be a good thing,” Harry opined.

She responded, “There will be those who will agree but there will be those who won't and will try to contain it. Even Squibs will disagree amongst themselves. This will split the wizarding world apart and it won’t be as clear who is right or wrong. And like in any ideology, there will be extremists on both ends of the spectrum who will willingly go to war if need be.”

“But a thing like this cannot be bottled up forever.”

“I agree and that’s why you need to be sure. If this potion that you have here is indeed the Squib Holy Grail, the outcomes will depend on who will have control of its use, if it can even be controlled.”

No wonder he had been meeting considerable resistance about its existence since last year.

“How do you recommend we proceed?”

“We?”

He thought this would be obvious to her.

“You know potions and there is so much more at stake in this than some Squib who wants to make money. I could really use your help, unless you don't want to help me.”

“It's not a question of want, Harry. This is a Toronto MLE case, I'm a Briton and not even a Ministry official. There are enough Toronto potion experts they will not allow my involvement in this,” she said to him and she had a good point.

“Leave that to me,” he didn't know how yet but he was determined to find a way. “But I'm asking you now. What should we do first?”

She sighed, buckling down, deciding she would indeed help, “First, we have to prove what this potion does. If we were to do it properly we really should figure out what's in it first, make sure it’s safe for human use and know how to use it. Beyond that, even I don't know if we should try and reproduce it, if it's reproducible.”

“What will we need aside from a willing Squib guinea pig?” he asked her.

“A well equipped lab, one that can handle a level five potion. Considering an unbreakable phial is needed to contain it, Merlin only knows how unstable this potion is once we uncork and expose it to the elements.”

Hearing the potential intricacy of the whole thing he was more relieved that she was around and willing to help.

“The one at the Toronto Ministry is a Level 5 lab.”

“And Harry, it would be a good idea to keep the number of people who know about this to a minimum.”

He understood that there would be parties that would resist such an investigation from happening. The cover up of the post Valentines Day incident at the Ghoul last year was a reminder of the dangers they were up against.

“That may be a problem. The entire Toronto MLE knows,” he said and told her about the morning briefing.

“Then I hope you know who to trust.”

A heightened sense of urgency and gravity fell upon them both. For a moment it was just like before, when they were trying to figure out what and where the remaining Horcruxes were and how to destroy them. For a moment he forgot that the primary reason he wanted her to stay was to woo her back. For a moment.

He watched her take another sip of her coffee and wondered if she wanted to eat something before going to the Ministry. As she put her cup back on the saucer, he said to her.

“The food at the Ministry is not as good. If you're hungry...”

Kaboom!

An explosion! The tremendous force of the unforeseen blast shattered the glass windows facing the street and rocked the booth they were in, as a sudden blackness swallowed them! Instant Peruvian darkness powder. It was deja vu.

Screaming and shrieking filled the enclosed space as the cold from the outside and smoke from the discharge enveloped the Muggle customers inside, some of whom were scurrying in the dark, falling on each other, and running into furniture. There was the unmistakable popping sound of Apparitionists in the vicinity, how many he wasn't certain.

“Stay where you are!” he shouted over to Hermione as he drew his wand out and climbed over the table to get to her, intending to Disapparate her out of the diner as soon as he made contact and confirmed it was her.

But before he could reach the other side of their booth, a pair of very large hands grabbed him by the arms and flung him hard across the room, too fast for him to jinx the asshole, that all he could do as he flew in the air was brace himself for impact.

Crunch!

“Umpff! Ugh! ” he grunted in succession.

Just his luck. Firewall then hard concrete floor.

“I have the potion! I have the potion!” a man with a squeaky voice called out excitedly.

“Everybody out!” a bossy tone, a woman's, commanded.

One, two, three cracks...

If he wasn't so worried about Hermione he might have swore more. It was so stupid to leave the bloody phial on the table. It was still pitch black. He got up as quickly as he physically could, wand still in hand with a faint light that was unable to penetrate further than its tip. Not knowing which direction their booth was, he yelled out her name amidst continued panicked shrills.

“Hermione! Hermione!”

Crack! There was a fourth Dissaparition.

“Hermione!”

She wasn't answering. If something bad happened to her...

“Herm...”

A hand surprisingly grabbed his arm tightly and before he could do or say anything else, his entire body spun in place and he Dissaparated.

Chapter 34 - The Elixir of Magic

Harry reappeared and stumbled forward, falling on the individual who Side-Alonged him out of the diner, their collective weight disturbing the soft thick snow. He had his wand at the ready quite prepared to Stun the individual who was face up and pinned down under him, until he recognized the chocolate brown eyes that stared back at him just inches away.

"Hermione! You're all right!" he exclaimed, relieved that she was.

"I will be once you get off me and stop screaming in my ear," she replied.

She was squirming, trying to carve more space between their pressed bodies only to make it worse. Her breathing was stifled and was surprisingly annoyed at something. What was it this time? And he was already quite hopeful that after their cordial conversation, things were looking up and that they were, maybe, just a couple of snogs away from getting back on track. Scratch that. Must focus on immediate task at hand. They were just behind the hedge of his yard a few feet from his front door.

He got on his feet and pulled her up by the hand without asking, having done so countless times before, irked when she abruptly snatched her hand away from his as she got to her feet. Her response to his chivalrous action made him grit his teeth and once again could not help but vent his frustration.

"Was it too much to expect you to answer to your name?" he said unkindly.

"Well, pardon me for being inconsiderate," she replied in kind, "I really should have answered after I got away from the person who grabbed and pulled me but silly me thought it best not to just in case he was still close by."

“I could have seriously cursed you taking me out of there like that without a warning!”

“Fine! Next time we’re in danger, I’ll remember to leave you behind!”

It pissed him off even more that he had already put her at risk and she had not even been in Toronto half a day. He calmed down a bit.

"Did you see any faces?"

"It was kind of dark on my side of the booth and my Hand of Glory is in my other purse," she retorted sarcastically as she brushed off snow from her hair and clothes. "Who were they anyway?"

"I don't know. Bad guys?" he snapped at her.

"Don't you get snarky with me! I wasn't the one who left the potion on the table."

What?! She was the one who started it!

She then said to him, "We need to talk, securely."

He understood the need to do so; it was likely they were being watched and listened in to. Swearing many times to himself, he led Hermione back into his house down the corridor that led to his kitchen.

"I see you've easily assimilated the local culture and language," she commented on his foul mouth.

Hermione was annoyed and did not really require an answer. Yes, he did use bad language more but anyone would too if they worked with Andy.

"We have to get that potion back," he said to her before taking out his wand and pointed it to the four corners of the kitchen incanting "Impertubatus totalum" non-verbally.

She did not answer. She was pacing, thinking, maybe she did not hear him.

"Are we secure?" she asked after he stopped.

"We should be."

"I need your disguise kit."

"What for?"

"Just...just give it to me," she said to him impatiently complete with hand gestures and all.

It had been a long time since they worked together like this he almost forgot that this was how she was sometimes, preferring to not answer questions while she was in the middle of something.

"This changes everything," Hermione mumbled to herself, waiting, pacing again.

He kept his reply to that to himself as he summoned what she requested from a hidden closet and handed it to her.

Hermione set it on his kitchen counter and rummaged through his Ministry issue stealth and disguise kit, taking out the phial containing a thick, dark, muddy potion. With a nail file, she scraped something off the bottom of her nails from a couple of fingers on her left hand into the container. The potion frothed and acquired a different hue.

"We need it to stand a bit. I'm not quite sure I got enough," she said to him as he stood beside her and watched.

"You scratched him," she did, whoever it was who grabbed her, and what she had added to the potion was a bit of skin and dried blood.

"Or from the pinkish color, likely, her," she muttered a spell to cleanse her hands.

"Brilliant!"

He had always been amazed how quickly her mind responded under extreme pressure.

"It was reflex," she explained. Was she blushing? She then asked, "Aside from the entire Toronto MLE, and the Squibb who dropped it, who else knows you had it?"

"Realistically, anyone. Anyone in that briefing room could have blabbed to anyone," he answered.

"That narrows down our list of suspects."

He ignored her caustic remark.

"Whoever they were they knew it was important. They obviously don't want me to hand it into the MLE for analysis."

"Which means you're probably right about what it is. Or it's definitely something that they don't want the MLE to know."

She took a glance at the Polyjuice Potion, and, deciding it was the best it could be given the amount of subject they had in it, retrieved a mirror from within her purse and held up the phial in his face.

Her suggestion was met with unmistakable hesitance.

"What? You didn't really think I was mixing the potion for myself, did you?"

He did not have to answer.

"I got the specimen and I made the juice. It's only fair that you take it," she said to him as his face involuntarily acquired that look of disgust which always went with the thought of drinking Polyjuice.

He tried to reason with her, "But it's likely a woman's."

It was definitely wishful thinking on his part that that would matter.

"It'll do you good to experience being one. And if you do turn into a woman think of it as...um...poetic justice," she retorted, shaking the phial in front of him, enjoying all this too much, not giving him much of a choice, then with annoyance at the delay, added, "Just drink it. You've certainly taken it for less important reasons before. You want a suspect, don't you?"

He snatched the phial with bubbly pinkish potion from her and readied himself, as she held up the mirror for him to see, taking it straight up, fast, by experience the method he found the best. She was right, there was probably not enough specimen to make him transform to the exact likeness of the person she injured for he didn't feel the usual repulsiveness that came with drinking the juice. Hermione was scrutinizing every detail on him, her eyes appraising him inch by inch a little too much, he thought, he felt naked. Their eyes briefly met, locked, and she saw something that made her frown then suddenly look up.

Harry took the mirror from her, peeked in to see what it was and a pair of familiar green eyes stared back at him. Looking upwards he noticed the one change that did occur.

"Do you feel differently?" she asked.

"Like how?" he continued to peruse himself to see if there was anything else.

"Having a certain liking or craving for something that you don't normally have...wanting to do something that you don't normally do..."

The answer was no to the former and yes to the latter. Somehow he didn't think she would appreciate his honesty if he mentioned how he wanted to kiss her right then and right there.

"No."

"Feel a bit effeminate at all?"

"Ef...womanly, no."

"Any subtle physical changes down, you know, there?" she asked with some apprehension, motioning with her finger to a vague area below.

With a bit of dread over what he might see and already thinking about how he was ever going to recover from a memory like that, he unbuttoned his trousers and looked down his boxers, examining his thing thoroughly.

After careful assessment he reported, relieved, "No."

"Are you sure? Size...length..."

"No..."

"Hair color..."

"No..."

"Location, pattern, distribution..."

"No, no, no!" he reiterated, then, fed up, tugged his pants forward towards her mischievously offered, "You can see for yourself if you want!"

She stepped back, red in the face and declined defensively, "I was just being thorough!"

Right!

Hermione exhaled her frustration, obviously disappointed. And he was hoping she would be relieved, too.

"It's just too bad I didn't get enough for us to at least identify gender. Well, we do know one other thing," she replied.

"What?"

"You should never dye your hair pale blonde," she said matter-of-factly before moving away.

He wanted to ask her what she meant by that but she had turned her back and was already on the phone calling someone at St. Mungo's. Taking another furtive look at the mirror, he actually thought it looked good on him, save for the fact that it reminded him of something unpleasant he could not put a finger on.

Harry got Andy on the phone to tell her what just happened. Hermione had paced back towards where he was and they stood a few feet apart, both on the phone, staring in the direction of but past each other.

"So, you're quite certain there are no inscriptions inside the phial..."

"Hi, it's me."

"No letters?...No numbers?...What about foreign characters?"

"Yes, we were there. We lost it," he had to distance the phone away from his ear as a cacophony of swear words overflowed from it.

As he was with her phone conversation, Hermione was listening in to his. She faced away but not before he saw her scowl.

"No, huh? Try one thing for me...break it..."

"Andy..." he was trying to interrupt.

"You heard me, break it. Smash it, throw it, pulverize it...break it..."

"Andy...stop..."

"Yeah, I heard it break," she frowned.

"Instant Peruvian Darkness Powder...don't know who they were...best not to say anything to anyone yet until we have a plan. Any suggestions?"

"And the repairing charm just works fine on it...hmm..."

"Can you go over and find out what the Hit wizards are up to?"

"I need another favor…send it to Luna Lovegood at the Department of Mysteries…"

"And before you leave, check out the unused phial from the evidence locker."

"Nothing really, just grasping at straws…how's the miracle patient?"

Miracle patient?

"I just don't want it to go missing."

"And nothing yet from the works?"

"We'll talk later."

"Thanks, Delilah. Let me know if something else turns up."

Their phone conversations ended simultaneously and she stood in his kitchen, unmoving, deep in thought.

"I overheard about the phial," he said to her, breaking the silence between them.

She nodded.

"I'm sending it to Luna for more tests."

"Who's the miracle patient?"

Hermione recanted the strange events of the morning in Filch's hospital room with the student's wand and he told her about a similar incident the day before at the Muggle loony bin.

"Hmm…this is getting even more curious. Jane Doe, can I see her?"

"I don't see why not. The Healers at the Toronto Hospital are stumped about her they could use your help," Harry replied.

"I seriously doubt that after last year," she said absentmindedly, more to herself and added before he could say anything else, "What do you have to do?"

After beating himself up for losing the only evidence he had against Greasy?

"I have to go back to the Ministry and report the phial missing," Harry said to her, and, to give her an idea of how bad the situation was, said, "That will only add to the already popular belief that I'm loopy for thinking this magic enabling potion actually exists."

"Are you going to tell them how it went missing?"

"I don't see why not."

"For one it will make you appear even crazier if you're going to say there is some conspiracy theory trying to cover up its existence."

"But there is! I saw the potion used last year and the Squibs and Muggles who witnessed it are all dead, no trace or evidence of the potion was ever found and…"

His voice trailed off as Hermione gave him this look that reiterated the point she just made, making him even angrier at himself for losing the phial.

"Fine! But I said I had the phial, the Ministry is expecting me to turn it in and if I don't get it back, I'd have to tell them I lost it. Because, unless you tell me you can actually make the bloody purple potion, turning in something different will make me look worse than an imbecile!"

He was puffing from his rant and was even more irritated that Hermione seemed not to be getting the enormity of his problem.

"We need that potion back!"

"Why? You already know what it is and what it does. Maybe it is better that it remains unknown to the rest of the world," she said to him calmly.

"What?!" he couldn't believe she just said what she did.

"Maybe losing it was a good thing."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"An elixir of magic will change a lot of things, Harry, particularly if everyone has the recipe to make it."

"But the world changes all the time. Change is constant. New technology is always developed and ways of life are altered. People will adapt. You do research to make things better. You know this," Harry approached her, puzzled by her non support of the concept of such a potion.

"I do, and yes, people will adapt to change but at what cost?" she replied, "With everything we always have to weigh benefits and risks. That’s why Nicholas Flamel’s elixir of life was never made for public use. Is this potion worth the social upheaval that it will bring?"

"Being able to do magic is great," he said as he remembered the very first time he intentionally made something happen with this wand.

"It is, but unless this elixir of magic can make everyone freely magical like you and me are, I would rather it did not exist."

Seeing his frown she continued, "We don't know enough about this new potion. We suspect it enables certain Squibs temporarily but will that be true for all? Will it enable all Muggles? Will it be readily available for everyone who needs it? What's needed to make it and how easy is it to make? And will it be safe for everyone to use?"

She had good points. Hermione wasn’t done as she spoke passionately on the subject, trying to explain her point of view, hoping he would change his mind.

"While the intention to create one may have been noble, there will always be those who will use it to take advantage of the very beings it was made for and there will be those who will taint it by finding less humane uses."

"If you want proof, just look at history. The earliest weapons were not intended to be weapons but for use in hunting and survival. Then someone thought it would be great to use it to kill enemies, conquer lands, rule over other nations. Weapons and weapons technology is currently a billion dollar industry.”

Hermione carried on, “And what started out as a search for alternative sources of energy gave us nuclear power. That seemed okay until someone put it inside a bomb, killing and maiming hundreds and thousands of civilians because they were not creative enough to come up with a better plan to end a war. Just imagine how many nuclear warheads are out there, now being peddled like common produce, to whoever will pay for it most? How many have died and how many more will because of it?"

“I’m sure the inventors didn’t think that could happen,” Harry interjected, “Fear of misfits using your invention to do harm should not be reason to stop trying to change the world for the better.”

“That wasn’t my point. The point is whether we like it or not a magic enabling potion will be a commodity and we have to be cautious about what we do if the purple potion is indeed one. You already said so; they're selling it. It will be subject to the laws of supply and demand, the highest bidders will get it and they will use it to profit even more, to take advantage."

"And if it can do for Muggles what it can do for Squibs I really don't think we can keep its existence hushed up and uphold the statute of secrecy. Muggle-borns like myself will want this for my family and the economic incentive to break it will be too great. And considering that this world cannot even feed its hungry and provide the thirsty clean water for free, I am skeptical about the potion ever becoming available for use at no cost by everyone who so chooses. I can't support unleashing to the general public something that will favor the haves over the have-nots and create more inequality."

“Of course, I could be wrong and worried over nothing but that’s how I feel.”

Hermione stopped, breathing heavily as if she had just finished a marathon. Harry felt pride and admiration for the woman before him who always championed the disadvantaged and had the moral fiber to look at the bigger picture. Her full blown diatribe on why the purple potion should not go public at this time actually embarrassed him.

“I'll be honest with you,” he answered the look of anticipation on her face as she waited for his response. “I have not thought much about how this potion will affect the world. Until you said what you said, the phial to me was evidence that a Squib can do magic and I’m desperate to get it back."

“Is proving that more important than keeping this potion a secret?”

“He used magic to kill someone.”

“Justice for one person is not enough reason to expose this. Many more will die once more riffraff become aware of its existence.”

“Even if that person is Ron?“

She looked surprised and was speechless for a bit. Hermione did not expect it at all.

“This is the same Squib from last year?”

Harry was glad she at least remembered what he told her, why he was going to Toronto. At that time, he wasn’t sure she was listening although the one thing she said to him was that Ron’s death was an accident and that he should just let it go.

“Yes. He had something to do with Ron's death and that potion was the only evidence I had to prove he's capable of doing more than what the MLE thinks he is.”

When he saw grief in her eyes he did not have the heart to add that with it he could probably have Ron’s case re-opened. Understandably, thinking about what happened to Ron was still difficult for her. She bit her lower lip and turned away from him, the sight of her shutting him out was heart-wrenching for he wanted to comfort her, if only she would let him. He was afraid to hurt her more if he touched her.

“Ron’s case aside, I hear what you're saying,” he said to her softly, “But the fact still remains that the potion is out there, it's being sold and used illegally. I have to stop it and the more I know about it the better. Because if I'm not able to put an end to it, it won't matter whether the MLE knows what's in it or not. A lot more people, those who use it and those they’ll use it on, will know it exists."

He waited for her response and after some time, Hermione brushed off some tears that had fallen on her cheeks and faced him. She knew he was right about this.

“You’re positive about this potion and about this Squib?”

“Yes, I am.”

"Do you trust me completely?

Always have and always will.

“You know I do. What is it?”

“Call your boss. Tell him what happened at the diner,” she said to him and, from within her purse, took out quill and parchment, scribbling a list of names on it. “Tell him to arrange for these people to come to the MLE lab in two hours and to provide an eager Squibb to help in a closed-door demonstration of the Elixir of Magic. If he says no, tell him you’re concerned about the statute of secrecy and will go to someone above him if you’re forced to.”

Seriously, she really had to stop making him figure out where she was going with this. He quickly glanced at the list that she handed him. Ministers of Magic, Heads of Departments of Mystery and the MLE, the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, the Head of the Association for the Protection of Squibs, the Headmistress of the Global Registry of Potionmakers …should he point out to her that they didn’t have potion to demonstrate? Or was the point to embarrass him in front of the most influential people in the magical world?

“But...”

She did not allow him to interrupt.

“Before we meet with them I'm going to need an hour private use of a non-Ministry owned Level 5 potions lab.”

“What are you up to?” he had to ask.

“I need to take a closer look at what's in this.”

As she said that, Hermione pulled from within her robes pocket the phial with the purple potion, the very same one he thought they had lost in the diner.

---

A/N. What I really liked about JKR's Hermione was her quick thinking under stress and I can't write her any differently.

A/N. I hope not too many get confused about these new characters coming in at such a late time. Many might not remember the mention of the Sophie Bruin character eons ago in when Harry finally read Hogwarts: A History. I apologize in advance for the language in the last part of this chapter.

Hat’s off to those who knew Hermione had the phial all along.

---

Chapter 35 - Sophie Bruin and the Family Secret

Across the city just southeast of Pape and Danforth Avenues, a petite, slight woman with short auburn hair appeared out of thin air beside a cherry tree in the backyard of her modest Toronto home, a split second after vanishing from the College Street diner. Pia Russet adjusted the thick lensed glasses on her face and quickly went into the house through the side door, as loud bickering emanated from within her living room.

Two men and a woman were there, her cousins, and there was heated argument between two of them. It did not take long to realize what it was about. The item they had stolen from the diner was not what they thought it was and the squabble had resulted in a powdery black puff of spice in the atmosphere.

"Achoo!"

The booming sound of big Bruno Bole's sneeze broke the glass vase serenely perched on the coffee table and he quickly apologized. Pia gave him a reassuring look as she silently repaired it. They turned their attention to their quarrelling relatives, Sienna and Rusty Fallow, both brown haired and brown eyed as they were, the brother slightly taller than his five foot four fraternal twin sister.

"Gesundheit!" that was Rusty, always the well-mannered one.

"Thank you," Bruno replied, trying to suppress another sneeze.

"Idiot...atch."

Sienna brought a hand to her nose just in time to cut short her more lady-like version as the concentration of pepper lingered in the air. The unkind remark directed towards her brother would have been longer had it not been interrupted and it was usually a good idea to let her vent.

"Bless you," her sibling said, annoying her further.

"Stop saying that!"

"Why? It's good manners."

Rusty liked to purposely wind her up. They were not kids at twenty five but Pia was used to this. It was his turn to sneeze.

"Achoo! Excuse me."

"Bless you," Bruno chimed in.

"Thank you kindly."

Waving her wand, she got rid of the pesky irritant, "Finite Niesen. Evanesco!"

"Moron! That was your only job," Sienna continued her tirade against Rusty as she paced to and fro within the tight living quarters. "You said you had the phial! You should have just summoned it like you were supposed to!"

"I did! It didn't come so I grabbed whatever was on the table," Rusty explained, then added, finger pointing at his sister, "I know you're upset, we all are, but did you have to smash the pepper shaker? You should really see someone about your anger issues."

"My anger issues?! You mean the ones I seem to only have around you?"

"Enough, you two," she decided to step in, "We need to come up with a plan."

But Sienna was not done.

"It's bad enough trying to keep the potion covert with that nincompoop Floyd using it and selling it. Now, we have to deal with the Ministry to keep it off the streets. The Hufflepuff prophecy is coming true and this is all your fault!"

"My fault? This is one phial in a batch of what, thousands?" Rusty stated the unfortunate truth. "Let's face it. Unless Floyd stops doing what he's doing, we're just delaying the inevitable."

Rusty had a good point. Pia had expressed the same sentiment to the Council of Bruin Elders earlier that morning at the emergency meeting following Floyd's loss of the phial. She reiterated that even if they retrieved the potion, they had bigger worries to address. They had to stop Floyd from selling it and they had to find the source. Floyd was the only link they had to Lestrange's Potion Master.

"Ugh! This is so frustrating!" the fiery Sienna screamed.

Then Rusty said what all of them thought but could not say out loud, "We're on the side of a losing cause. We can only Obliviate and implant memories so much and there's only a few of us crazies left struggling to do this. Let's face it. The Hufflepuff prophecy cannot be denied anymore."

Pia looked at the faces of her younger cousins and felt their disappointment. At twenty-eight she was their leader by default because of her age and experience. She moved to Toronto two years ago after a distant German relative of theirs was murdered and instructions on how to make magic enabling potion fell into the wrong hands. Keeping a watchful eye on Ted Waxball and later, Tom Floyd, was a full time job. Unfortunately, the Bruin Elders were wrong to assume that Waxball could never make it, and the Elders were also wrong to think that just because Floyd seemed to have lost interest in it after his brother's death, the idea to mass produce the potion had died too. What happened in the last few days caught the Bruin Elders offguard and they suffered one set back after another. This was as close to the Hufflepuff prophecy Squibkind had ever reached; the reality of a Squibless world and the chaos that would ensue when it happened.

The purple potion was unnamed, but over decades, rumours of its existence necessitated it being christened with a few. The more common ones were Elixir of Magic, the Squib Holy Grail, and more recently, Squib Vitamin X. The individual who developed it centuries ago was a brilliant Potionmaker, Sophie Bruin, the only Squib ever to attend Hogwarts. After she was expelled from the school in her first year for failure to perform magic, she set out to create a potion that would give Squibs like herself the ability, and have the same rights and privileges as non-Squibs. She was the first to disprove the popular belief that it was impossible for Squibs to concoct potions. Sophie Bruin was their great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother.

Her version of the potion had almost the same imperfections as the one Floyd was using and while it was her life's work and she did use it with success, she had eventually become too ill to work on it as a result of her self-experimentation. She asked her three Squib daughters to continue. Not a month later, Sophie Bruin died, never seeing her vision for Squibs come to fruition. She was only forty-five years old.

At her deathbed, she admitted what she knew was the truth; the potion was unsafe and unethical to produce. She put an eternal death curse on everything related to the potion creation, binding her daughters and everyone related to them never to reveal the potion's existence, including how to make it, to anyone outside blood relatives, until it could be made with more acceptable ingredients and be absolutely safe to use. The handful who foolishly dared to share the knowledge was rewarded with instantaneous death and the recipients of the information suffered the same fate.

Sometime after Sophie Bruin passed away, the Hufflepuff prophecy was made. Although they loved her and could not tell her while she was still living, two of her three daughters were horrified at what their mother had created and what she had to use to create it. Concerned about their mother's legacy and the thousands who were going to suffer as foretold by Hufflepuff's prediction, they tried to convince their younger sister not to continue and to destroy evidence of their mother's work. Devoted, Sophie Bruin's youngest daughter who she named Helga after the Hogwarts founder, could not let go of her mother's dream. She moved away and they never heard from her again.

The family secret would be passed on from generation to generation, to Squibs and magically able alike, and the Bruin family would be divided into three; those who carried on with the clandestine experiments, those who were passionately against it, who vowed to keep the prophecy from coming true, and those who silently waited in the wings hoping a better potion would become available and that the unrest that Hufflepuff predicted would not come true. She used to belong to the latter group and remembered everyday of her life what made her change her mind.

Pia glanced over her fireplace mantel and found what had kept her going during the past trying week; the reason that she changed from being a passive spectator to an active anti-potion Bruin. It was a picture of two young girls, neither more than eight years old, on a backyard swing, laughing, happy, still unaware of the family secret that would haunt their lives like an accident waiting to happen. There were other more recent images of her and her sister beside it but that one was her favourite. Her sister was always so positive about everything. She was the activist, the passionate one, the one who believed she could change the world and everyone in it. Thinking about her always lifted Pia's spirits up. And no matter how hopeless their cause was, Pia would press on if only to make her suffering and death not for naught.

"We may be losing the fight but we're fighting for what's right," she reminded them firmly, putting her heart behind her words "It has already killed a lot of our friends and a lot of our family. If the prophecy is coming true then we know thousands more will suffer and die. We can't give up."

"Pia's right. We can't just stand back and watch it happen," Bruno echoed her belief.

"Maybe Lestrange will help us out like the last time," Rusty opined, his morale buoyed by Bruno's and Pia's comments.

"Maybe I should hex you to remind you that she killed everyone involved the last time," Sienna brought him back to reality, "Her methods are barbaric and the only reason she did that was so she could teach her kin a lesson for not getting her involved in their scheme and to make the Ghoul an example for all the world to see."

They all were wondering what Bellatrix Lestrange was up to. It was indeed worrisome that her distant nephew, Floyd, had her support to use the potion this time around. As she had feared, Floyd's presence in Britain last year had forged an alliance with the equally evil Lestrange. Floyd cost Lestrange galleons betting that the Cannons would lose in the Quidditch final, and pawned what his brother had intended to be a Squib undertaking so the witch would spare his life.

The Bruin Elders did not think the staunchly Anti Muggle Lestrange would want such a potion to exist but again they were wrong. Wiser and better connected than Floyd, she got the right expert to work on it and ordered Floyd to lie low, lulling the Council into a sense of complacency. As she warned the Elders then, it was only a matter of time before they came up with a more stable version of the Sophie Bruin purple potion.

It took Lestrange a year. They suspected a few days ago they were mass producing from somewhere within Britain when that centaur was killed. There were the deaths of the Hogwarts house elf and the giant from the Pyrenees that Lestrange had been able to pass off as non-suspicious. Intelligence from the London Bruins believed Lestrange robbed Gringott's not only because she needed the goblin to complete the potion but more so to finance a major undertaking. The Dark Witch knew that the Bruin Elders would never lead authorities to investigate anything remotely associated with the purple potion for fear that its existence would be discovered.

"But why is she shipping the potion here? Toronto is not her turf and one would think she'd start from within hers," Sienna asked.

"I agree. We're missing something," Pia replied, wishing she knew what, "The Council wants an update in half an hour and I'll try to convince them that it's time to up the alert level to critical. We need more of us here in Toronto and they should be prepared to do what no other Council has ever before."

The possibility of orders to kill chilled her as it did most of the Bruin family members she knew. They were adverse to the use of violence which was what got them in this dire situation in the first place. The gravity of the impending discovery of the existence of the potion did warrant the use of force. And to put an end to the threat they needed to know who Lestrange's potion master was.

"So what do we do now?"

Pia took out a compact mirror from her purse and gently tapped on it with a series of pauses. A few seconds later, a set of brown eyes stared back at her.

"We don't have it," she said to the man staring back at her, "Is it at the diner?"

"I was in there until the Obliviators and Hit Wizards got us out. They think it was a malicious prank. It's all like usual. The phial's not there."

Pia tapped the mirror again and the image on it split in two. A second set of brown eyes appeared.

"Where are they?" she asked the woman from within the other half of the mirror.

"His place, kitchen, Imperturbed."

"Interesting. I would have thought that they'd go straight to the Ministry."

"Maybe they don't have the potion," Sienna suggested.

"If we don't have the potion, they don't have the potion, maybe someone else has it," Rusty added.

"Floyd may have it," Bruno said from behind.

The twins argued.

"Floyd wasn't there because if he were we'd know. He's not subtle."

"I disagree. His murder of that Cannon keeper was clever. If there's one thing we should have learned by now is not to underestimate the asshole."

"It will simplify matters if Floyd has it. If these two have it, the fact that they did not take it to the Ministry tells us they're planning something with it," she arbitrated but the twins always found something else to disagree about.

"That has to be good," he said. "They're thinking."

"Or still bad," she said. "We can't trust them to do the right thing. We should try and retrieve that phial."

"He's an Auror and I read she's no pushover in a fight," Pia had to put an end to that idea, "The odds of a handful of wizards and witches untrained in magical combat coercing them to hand over the phial are quite low."

"We know they're both reasonable. Let's knock on his door, tell them who we are and what we're trying to do. Ask them to give us the potion back," Bruno was sweet but not very bright for a twenty-year old.

"Right. Maybe they'll volunteer to be Obliviated and dance the polka for us," Sienna said sarcastically, then realized it was Bruno, she retracted. "We can't. The deathbed curse, remember? Grandma Sophie wanted this known to blood relatives only."

An official looking owl came swooping into the room entering from somewhere in the back of the house and went straight to Pia. She told the man and woman on the mirror to stay on their beats and await instructions. She tapped the mirror once, caused the images to disappear and put it away.

"They're definitely up to something," she said as her eyes flitted over the letter.

"What is it?"

"They've asked for an audience with Ministers Scrimgeour and Truelove, the Supreme Mugwump, Healer Hama, the Chief Squib, the Unspeakable and MLE Heads. I can't imagine them demanding this audience if they didn't have the real thing."

"That's at least ten more people who know about it that shouldn't," Sienna calculated.

"Show and tell is not until two hours from now."

"Granger's going to take it apart," Sienna came to the same conclusion she did. "We have to stop her."

"She'll need a level 5 lab that's not under Ministry surveillance and there's only two or three here in Ontario. Let's stake those out and try to take the potion again," Rusty surprisingly agreed with his sister. "If only the phial wasn't indestructible this would be much easier."

Pia thought for a moment as three sets of brown eyes waited for her opinion. The Elders had dropped the ball too many times and this was now bigger than they could handle. They needed help from outside the family and from what she knew of Potter and Granger they were probably the best help they could get.

"We can't overpower them. They'll be ready for us," she stated the obvious. "I know it's odd but for someone I've never met I trust Granger completely. I vote we let her take it apart and see what they do with it."

"But that's against what we've vowed to do!"

Pia expected this from Sienna and from most of the seven members of the Bruin Elders Council.

"Sienna's right, Pia," Rusty concurred, "For centuries our families have worked so hard to keep the truth about its existence hidden. If she takes it apart she’ll know how to put it together. We can't let it happen."

"We need their help."

"We've never needed help before!"

"We've never been closer to the prophecy as we are now!" she blurted out. "We should have put an end to this two years ago when we realized Waxball had Helga Braun's uncoded copy of Grandma Sophie's potion instructions. Or even last year after the incident at the Ghoul. We should have moved against Floyd then."

Sienna tried to reason with her, "That's all water under the bridge but there's a big difference between the potion remaining a legend and the Ministry knowing it exists for real. Once the Ministries know it will only be a matter of time before the rest of the magical world finds out. And after that, there will be extreme political pressure to mass produce it, even in its current unsafe state. We will have the chaotic Squibless world that Hufflepuff predicted."

"With Floyd and Lestrange selling the potion it will only be a matter of time before the Ministry gets a hold of another sample," Pia replied.

"But we don't know when or if that will ever happen," Sienna retorted.

"And we don't know if Granger will go ahead and give the potion to the Ministry once she finds out what's in the potion either."

"Potter will want to if only to arrest Floyd."

"Again, we don't know that. Bruno has a point; they're reasonable. They know what this potion can mean and we need their help because even if the Elders agree to use force, we'll be like pesky flies to Lestrange and her Death Eaters."

She continued, "We know the potion is evil because of what's needed to make it. We know it's unstable and we know there is a one in twenty chance the drinker will have a severe reaction from it. Thousands are in imminent danger of illness and death. Extreme measures are warranted."

Sienna fell silent knowing she was right.

"I know the Elders will likely say 'no' but I'll try to convince them anyway. They're still hoping to contain this and avoid a messy and very public confrontation. But they've been wrong so many times I'm going with my gut on this and I'd really rather if I did this with all of you behind me."

They all looked at each other with anxious and frightened expressions. Going against the Council's wishes was unheard of and she was asking them to do that based on her gut feeling that Potter and Granger could be trusted to do the decent thing. One by one, her cousins nodded their heads in support.

"Are you certain what we're doing falls outside Grandma Sophie's deathbed curse?"

"As long as we don't tell them about the potion, what's in it and how to make it we should be fine. I just hope Granger's good enough at potion making to figure the potion out."

Pia was assessing other indirect ways to assist Potter and Granger without invoking the curse that would cause their deaths. It was then that a yellow pendant hanging around her neck warmed against her chest. She took it out from under her sweater. The Bruin family crest of a black badger towering over a lion, a snake and an eagle shimmered.

"The Council is meeting right now," Pia said to them as she held on to the metal and waited nervously, unsure how she was going to say what she had to say. She had been summoned to report on their failure to retrieve the phial, "Wish me luck."

In the blink of an eye, she was no longer in her living room.

XXXXXXXXXX

Moments ago at Harry's place, Harry was staring at Hermione speechless, his facial expression unreadable as it seemed to cycle through a few different emotions. Quite guilty for not telling him right away that she had the potion all along, she started apologizing.

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know what to do and ..."

"You considered not telling me," he looked a bit angry and a bit amused.

She knew that fact would be a touchy issue.

"I was undecided. I needed some time to think. I know this potion is important to you but its existence is a big deal and there are serious..."

Before she could finish her rambling, Harry suddenly held her by the shoulders and pulled her closer, pressing his lips firmly on hers. Her brain did not even have time to process it as he quickly pushed her back, her arms limp at her sides, startled like the rest of her body was. Her mouth was slightly open, instinctively and traitorously wanting and feeling it deserved a lot more. After all, if not for her quick thinking, things would be very different.

The caustic remark that she formulated failed to reach her mouth as he once again beat her to the punch.

"There. We're even," he declared.

How he had managed to come up with that conclusion was beyond her and she was annoyed that he had manhandled her twice that morning already. To be totally honest about it, she was only slightly annoyed at him this time and was more irritated at herself for the lack of conviction in her displeasure.

"That was brilliant, by the way," he praised.

"Next time, just thank me."

"That's what I did."

She gritted her teeth as she saw what looked like a smirk on his face just before he turned away. She thought about telling him not to kiss her again but did not get the chance.

"Wait till Andy hears...it's okay if I tell her about this, right? She has seen Floyd use the potion. He hexed her."

"Do you trust her?" she asked what seemed apparent.

"If there was one person here in Toronto to trust that would be Andy."

"That's good to know," she replied, hoping she wasn't too obvious about being uncomfortable with the prospect of working with the woman.

Harry got on the phone and without giving specifics asked Andy to come right away. He also contacted his boss about putting together that important meeting in two hours, the meeting she was still unsure what would be about. She could tell from the Harry's body and verbal language that the request was not well received. While he did that she called Luna again about the Filch breakable phial that should have already arrived from St. Mungo's. Hermione asked her to perform more tests, look more meticulously for potion remnants and previous spells performed on it. It was good Luna did not ask why, for she wanted the Unspeakable to examine it without knowledge of what she was looking for.

After they were off their phones Harry told her about a Level 5 lab that had been shut down and unused due to hospital budgetary cuts. Not two minutes later, Harry ushered her out of the front door in response to a car honking.

"I must say, pale blond isn't really your color," Andy greeted him dryly as he opened the passenger door.

"So I've been told," he answered.

Since the change after imbibing the juice, Hermione had been waiting for Harry to say how similar it was to Draco's hair color and to start accusing Draco of being one of those who attempted to take the phial at the diner. It would be a coincidence because she knew Draco was in London with an important Muggle trial to attend to. She spoke with him on the phone minutes before she left for Toronto to give him her answer to Mexico.

That conversation seemed to have happened so long ago and seeing Harry again she could not think about going to Mexico, alone or with anyone. This case of Harry's was more important than that. She'd have to call Draco back at some point, definitely when Harry wasn't around to listen in.

Harry must have thought it farfetched too, for surely the sight of that hair would have made him think of Draco. For a split second, her heart quickened when she thought she saw Harry with Draco's grey eyes. She imagined it for sure because when she looked back a second later they were green.

Hermione could not even begin to think what this time she was going to spend with Harry would mean to her and Draco. Even though she knew a relationship with Harry was just not possible, every second with him was making her think that being with someone else was not possible either.

"A Beemer, nice," Harry commented on the pretty black car Andy was driving.

“I thought you’d like it,” came the woman’s reply.

Then he froze, unsure of what to do when he noticed it was a two-seater.

"Sorry, Harry didn't mention you were coming," she apologized to her then turned to Harry, "Ours is still out of commission and I hope never to see that piece of shit again. This was the only decent car in the lot. It's a loaner from Jack. Unfortunately it's all Muggle and he prefers it to remain that way. It might be a bit snug but I think you two can fit okay in that passenger seat. Where are we going anyway? Hotel?"

By the sounds of it, this Jack who owned the vehicle was someone not to get on the bad side of. She looked at the passenger seat. Snug would be quite an understatement if she shared it with Harry. Thank goodness Harry felt the same way for he was assessing options.

"Scarborough Grace. There are no near Apparition sites and too many Muggles around that hospital."

"I'll take a cab," she suggested.

"No, I'm not letting you go around Toronto unprotected after what happened at the diner," Harry replied.

What Harry said irritated her. For one, she preferred the way he treated her when they were fighting Voldemort. They were equals, partners, and although unspoken they knew the other had the other's back. She was not some princess who needed a bodyguard, which was how he was making her feel at the moment. And secondly, after Roy Hunt, she was not keen on his type of protection.

"I'm not five, I don't need a Nanny. I can take care of myself."

"You may not be five but you sure are acting like one," he said to her firmly, irritating her even more. "I'll drive. Andy can meet us there."

"You know you can't drive in Toronto," Andy reminded him.

"Since when?"

"Since you got here and can't accept the fact that the rest of the city is not driving on the wrong side of the road," Andy retorted, "And you definitely can't drive stick."

Harry took out his wand and waved it, creating a backseat. Hermione helped herself in and looked out the window, to ease a somewhat painful discomfort that was definitely an unwarranted stupid reaction.

"I'll put it back to the way it was."

"He'll know."

"He can fire me."

"You can't say I didn't try," Andy said then asked as she weaved in and out of traffic, "Why are we off to the Grace, anyway?"

Once again, Harry cast the spell to allow them to talk freely.

"Hermione has the phial."

"And why are we not handing it in to the Ministry right away?"

"Because I want to see what's in it first," Hermione replied before Harry could, fleetingly meeting Andy's questioning stare from the rear view mirror, sensing her disapproval.

"Harry, I see the desperation but this is not a good idea."

"We need her help. She's an expert in potions."

"I have no doubt that she is, but she's a non Canadian civilian here on a Visitor's pass. Muller will chop your head off for dragging her into this fully aware that you're breaking more rules than you can count with your fingers and toes. Merlin knows we have too many lazy assed overpaid underworked Ministry experts who can analyze the potion."

Was she implying that she was lazy, overpaid and underworked?

"This case is too important."

"Are you sure it's about that?"

She really didn't want to cause trouble.

"I trust her."

"Your trusting her is going to get her killed."

Hermione wished she were somewhere else. They really should argue about her some other time, preferably when she couldn’t hear them.

"I won't let that happen!"

"What exactly did you tell her?"

"What she needs to know!"

Was she invisible or something? Perhaps she should remind them she was there.

"Did you tell her that there's an insane, dangerous and pissed off Squib on the loose; that the bastard's using and selling magic enabling potion and that asshole's planning something big with it? Did you tell her how you wasted the entire year watching the cocksucker, knowing the truth that nobody would believe, with him playing the part of a wrongly accused and perennially harassed non-wizard, and how that changed this morning when the fuck cursed me and let me live?"

"She knows!"

Hermione could not stand it anymore and finally said to them, "Will you two stop talking about me as if I'm not here?"

Andy pulled over the side of the road abruptly and turned to her.

"That's only fitting because you shouldn't be here. This isn't a field trip or a simulation to give you a break from your mundane day job…"

The condescending tone of her voice was infuriating. Mundane?! Just because she wasn't getting cursed everyday like Aurors were did not make her job unexciting! How dare she judge her life so quickly!

"Andy, stop it…" Harry warned her.

"What's between you and Harry is personal, and if he wants you to stay and you want to stay, that's fine. But you can't ride with us, especially not with this case. I do suggest that you go back to London because your being involved is going to be fucking distraction and it's going to get us all fucking killed."

"Andy!"

"It's okay, Harry," she said to him before answering the foul mouthed woman behind the wheel. "You're right. I shouldn't be here. I am a civilian and I'm not trained to fight crime and the Dark Arts as you and Harry are. But I'm not as stupid as you think I am. I know danger. I know evil. I've seen it and fought it, knowing death was always a possibility. You may find it hard to believe but I can hold my own in combat so you don't have to worry about babysitting me. If you need proof we can step out into that alley and I'll show you."

Was she insane? That was definitely all talk to defend her ego. It was one thing not needing their protection in case things got a bit hairy but what was she thinking challenging the likely very experienced Canadian Auror, when the last time she was in a duel was…of course it had been so long she couldn't even remember when it was!

"That won't be necessary," Harry interjected, "Hermione has great instincts, Andy. If things get too intense she can always Disapparate to safety, right?"

"Of course, I can," she reassured them, noting to herself that 'can' was quite different from 'will'. "And do you really think I'm going to enjoy this? I'm supposed to go to Mexico, on holidays, living my mundane life, working on a tan on the beach all day and dancing and drinking tequila all night. I'd rather be there if not for the fact that there seems to be a dearth of social intelligence here and somebody should be constantly pointing out to you two that this case that you have is more than about a Squib using a magic enabling potion to do bad things!"

Andy turned to Harry with a perplexed look, visibly annoyed at her insult and too proud to ask her what she meant herself.

"What the fuck is she talking about?"

Scourgifying her mouth came to mind. Hermione really didn't feel like going through that entire rant about the social implications of the magic enabling potion again, especially not for her.

"He'll explain later," Hermione snapped at her, "Let me put this in words you can understand better. I don't fucking care that I shouldn't be here. The fact is I am here and I can help if you fucking let me. So, it's your fucking choice. You can either unlock the fucking car door so I can get out or put up with me and shut the fuck up!"

Chapter 36 - The Alley

Harry was so stunned at the barrage of expletives from Hermione his mouth was agape for a good few seconds. He would have never believed it had he not witnessed it himself. It was so unexpected hearing so many 'f' words coming out of her it stirred his already florid fantasies into a state of frenzy.

Down boy! Not now!

The sight of two witches glaring coldly at each other doused imaginary freezing water in his pants. Knowing firsthand what powers each of them had, he was quite worried that any inadvertent magical discharge in the small interior of Jack Muller's black BMW would spark a major explosive incident. It was a definite setback if they did not get along well enough to work on the case together.

Before he could think of what to say to calm them down, the unmistakable sound of doors unlocking broke the glacial silence and multiplied the already heightened tension in the air. He quickly locked them back before Hermione could exit and faced his partner, who now had a most satisfied expression on her face.

"What are you doing?"

Andy turned to him, shrugged and deadpanned, "She gave me a fucking choice; I picked one."

"You picked the wrong one!"

"I'm not putting up with your English Ice Princess and nobody, nobody tells me to shut the fuck up!"

"Um, I believe I just did," said a derisive voice from the back seat.

Hermione was really asking for it. Harry remembered the last time someone had cussed at Andy and was thankful she seemed to have not thought Hermione deserving of what she did to that unfortunate person.

Andy continued to express her ire, refusing to talk to Hermione directly, "Explain to her that I'm actually doing her a favour. Because really, if she doesn't leave the car now, she'll be in imminent danger and it won't have anything to do with this fucking case."

"Oh, was that a threat? I'm so scared," mocked Hermione, alarm bells were ringing all over, "Outside, now, and don't forget your wand."

Crack!

"Oh, shit!"

"And you said she was a smart woman."

He did a quick visual scan of the perimeter and found Hermione in a narrow alley lined by trash bins across the street from where they were parked. Was she nuts? He was really putting it kindly when he said that she had good combat instincts for as much as he'd like to see two women duel (really, what man wouldn't?), Andy would make short work of her in that confined space.

"Don't worry too much. I'll have her back for you in one piece."

Click! Click!

A quick swoosh of his wand and a pair of magical manacles suddenly appeared shackling both Andy's wrists to the steering wheel. He conjured them just in the nick of time, the chains rattling as Andy tried and failed to Disapparate.

"Take them off!" she said to him forcefully.

"No. You're on time out!" he replied to her in kind, "Jeez, you should know better. She's a civilian!"

"I never back down from a fight!"

"Oh yeah I forgot. You can't because you're in primary school and this is some schoolyard girly fight," he said to her, ignoring her flaring nostrils and the clenched jaw. "You're going to put up with her because I'm asking you to. I'll talk to her about the shutting you up part because we both know that's not going to happen but you better appear happy about having her around when I get her back. We need her."

Harry heard her swear at him. She would eventually calm down, take out her wand and try to disengage herself from the magical handcuffs. He figured they had a couple of minutes. He Disapparated, and reappeared a few feet from where Hermione was.

"Where is she?!"

She was looking over his shoulder, squinting towards where the car was parked some fifty meters away, and she realized why Andy had not come.

"Release her!"

"Seriously?!"

"Let her come," she was serious, flexing her wand a couple of times, "Don't worry. I'll try not to leave a permanent mark."

Had the situation not been dire he would have found her bravado more amusing.

"Okay, she may have deserved the cursing but challenging her to a duel? Are you mad?"

She stubbornly declared, "I'm going to prove to her that I know how to defend myself."

"She's an Auror, you're a Healer," Harry reminded her, "You're pushing your luck a bit too far."

"I'm not afraid of her!"

"I know you're not. But really, and I don't mean to belittle your abilities in any way, you don't want to be in this one. She's won the national Witch and Wizard Duel championship trophy five years in succession. She's very competitive and, on top of that, she’s quite pissed off."

"Oh, well, that's good to know," the fact she just heard seemed to not have dampened her resolve to go ahead. "I won't feel as bad if I lose and you won't think that I'm too much of a coward if I Disapparate to save myself. You could have mentioned this before, you know."

"I would have if I knew you were going to pick a fight."

"She started it!"

What exactly did Andy start?

"Explain it to me because I seem to be missing something here. Andy doesn't want you tagging along the case, big deal. But how did we get from there to me having to restrain her from hexing you and me ending up in this alley trying to convince you not to fight? Now that is beyond logic, wouldn't you agree?"

"She called my work mundane!"

"And I guess we must smite down everyone who thinks so," he hoped the sarcasm would point out to her just how foolish this all was, "I know she can be a real pain without even trying, but she is not the enemy."

"She called me your English Ice Princess!"

His brows lifted slightly as it surprised him that troubled her. The inflamed reaction she was exhibiting was definitely proof that she was not that. His pause seemed to have made her unleash a thought she had been meaning to hold on to.

"Is that code for when you two talk about me? Is that what you told her, that I'm icy, frosty, frigid!?"

"No, of course not..." maybe ice-like was mentioned once about how she was treating him but it would be foolish to admit that.

"And who is she supposed to be? Your Canadian Fire Queen?" she scoffed sarcastically.

If there was only one rhetorical question in the entire English language that would be it.

"Just how much does she know about us?"

Lie.

"Not a lot..." he started and when Hermione gave him a scowl he admitted, "Okay, she knows quite a bit. But that doesn't matter."

"Let me make it clear that I am nobody's princess..."

"I'll point that out to her," and Merlin forbid anyone ever mention anything vaguely synonymous to 'ice' again.

"And while I'm sure you find what happened between us entertaining, I do not appreciate being conversation fodder for you and any of your girlfriends!"

He remembered that being a concern for her that night in Toronto he was Roy. Did she just refer to Andy as...?

"She's not my girl…”

"I was willing to work with her but I will most certainly not put up with her foul language!" Hermione expressed a thought that he knew Jack had heard from so many of Andy's ex-partners.

"It's just how she talks. She doesn't bite when she barks and she's actually likable once you get to know her," he explained, not really getting through to her. "Look, she'll have realized by now just how silly this is and I know you agree that it is. We have to prevent that social disaster, remember? So, can you stop acting like...this and just come back to the car with me?"

Hermione finally put away her wand.

"No," she replied.

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"She's right. Ministry rules and all that distraction bit. I shouldn't be with you."

One minute she wanted to hex her, the next she was agreeing with her. Women! And he wasn't even sure if he totally understood why they were in the alley so he gave up trying to understand that. Knowing her and knowing what was at stake, she was going to stay in Toronto. But what was she planning on doing?

"What about the phial?"

"I promise you'll have the phial back well before the big meeting in two hours."

She was thinking in the background, he could tell. With the possible London connection, he knew she was considering bringing in the Order, if she hadn't decided already. Hopefully they could talk about that later. But right now, safety around the phial was a big concern and her protection was something he could not delegate to someone else. That sense of desperation he had about her earlier that day just got more desperate.

"If I get Ministry approval, will you work with us?"

"You should really discuss things with your partner first because she clearly does not agree with you on that one."

"Andy will, once she understands."

"If she does, fine, but I'm not working with someone who doesn't want me working with them. Either way we can cover more ground if we split up."

"Splitting up isn't right."

Hermione said to him, "Until you get approval from the Ministry, the less you have to do with this phial the better. It'll take some time to take the potion apart and yours is better spent doing something else. We need to find out who those people were at the diner and why they wanted it, and we need to find out where this potion is coming from. I'm sure you and Andy have other things to look into and from the looks of it you've been up all night, you need some rest. "

"You'll be in danger."

When she did not say anything immediately after that, Harry had hoped he had gotten through to her.

"I was perfectly safe until I started hanging out with you," she pointed out in a somewhat more somber tone, "I told you, I can take care of myself."

As he looked into her eyes he sensed she meant so much more with what she just said to him. It hurt her to say it she could not hide it. Like many times since she came that morning she was going to look away but he reached out, took her hand into his, and held it steadily, before she could.

"I know you can and I know you don't feel as safe around me as you did before, but I wish you'd give me a second chance and let me take care of you, too."

Knowingly or not, she opened herself up briefly for him to see her struggles within. He inched closer wanting to hold her but she immediately stepped back and took her hand away.

"We're wasting time. We should get going."

They understood each other well enough to know she wasn't just talking about the case. That was painful and he wondered how much more rejection he could endure before giving up.

Hermione steered their conversation to the more pressing matter before them. She was determined to not get him involved in the potion analysis.

"There's a professor at York University, Dr. Deng Mao Tan. I'm doing some collaborative work with him. He won't mind me using his lab."

York U did have a Level 5 lab and it would have been his first choice if not for the fact that it had been cited for improper research practices once too often and Professor Tan would have unlikely provided assistance to someone affiliated with the Ministry. Muller would have already guessed they were going to analyze the potion and Professor Tan's lab was the least accessible to the Ministry. The Professor had in the past accused Ministry on spying on him and stealing his research; his lab was always Ministry bug proof and would be perfect to keep it all covert. And, unless the Ministry knew Hermione was with him and that she was an acquaintance of the professor, they would not even think he would go there.

"Let me come with you," he offered as a courtesy.

"I'll take a cab."

This was frustrating.

"You're too stubborn for your own good!"

"I know," she admitted as she summoned his phone, added her number to it and in his notes, the inscriptions on the inside of the phial she was taking with her. She gave it back to him. "Check the empty phial for any markings too and get in touch with the Maro Flacon Companie in Romania. They should be able to give you the buyer's name and shipping address."

"Andy can do that. I'll stay with you," he would not take no for an answer, "Someone's after the potion and while I don't think it's Floyd, we can't assume that whoever wants it will be more pleasant. I am coming with you whether you like it or not. It's my job."

"Your job? Like I was your job last year? I guess the whole Roy Hunt thing did not leave a bad taste in your mouth," Hermione was obviously annoyed, "I'm not part of your job!"

"You may not be but the phial is. It is my job to make sure the phial gets to the Ministry so unless you give it to me, I'm not letting you out of my sight," he said to her, realizing the only way she would not fight this was if there was a good official reason for him to come with her.

"Fine. What choice do I have? After you lost it at the diner, I can't just hand it over to you again, can I?"

He almost pointed out the technically, he didn't lose it but thought he should be thankful for small victories.

"Let's go tell Andy the plan and it's probably best to let me do the talking for now."

"Eggshells," he heard her say under her breath.

"Eggshells?"

"Over there by the rubbish bin," she pointed behind him.

True enough, a sack full of eggshells had not successfully made it into the big metal container and half of it was littered on the ground beside it. Why she pointed that out, Merlin only knew.

They started walking back to the black car.

"What is she doing?" she exclaimed, appearing aghast and scandalized, "Is she giving me the finger?!"

"No. I think that's for me," he replied, seeing Andy was still shackled, odd because she should have broken the spell by now.

Something was not right. He drew out his wand. As they got closer he saw that Andy was actually frantically trying to warn them about something.

Crunch! Crunch!

Behind them, eggshells! He turned just in time to shield him and Hermione from a curse that came from a stubby man who had just appeared beside the trash bin.

Crash!

The hex ricocheted off his charm and bore a deep hole in the opposing wall, powdering red brick on the spot. Harry aimed his wand at their attacker but was not quick enough.

"Stupefy!" a familiar male voice exclaimed, blasting his target up against metal. Their assailant fell into a heap, but got up quicker than he thought possible, swearing.

The voice was Floyd's and he had just appeared with several others at the entrance of the alley, blocking their path to the car. He could not even see if Andy was okay.

"The next idiot who fires off a curse in her direction dies!"

Several popping sounds signaled the arrival of more of his henchmen. The worst case scenario was that Andy was still handcuffed to the car, was under attack and it was his fault. He quickly turned to Hermione as he saw eight to nine hooded figures in what looked like Death Eater robes with wands pointing at them, closing in on them front and back, the alley narrowing even more as they did.

"Disapparate to the Ministry, now," Harry hissed at Hermione, who he noticed had her wand in her hand.

That was the safest place for her that he could think of.

"No, and don't argue," she hissed back, "We’ve got to get to Andy."

It would have been pointless. Their safety warranted risking Apparating onto a Muggle infested street.

“Reducto!”

Hermione sent an entire fire escape down the side of one building, falling onto a couple of their foes, causing a distraction. Prepared to encounter more of Floyd's men where Andy was, he grabbed Hermione's arm on his left.

Whack!

A deep searing pain cut through his arm forcing him to let go of her as he let out an involuntary yelp.

"Harry! Watch out!" Hermione yelled out a warning.

He regained focus just in time to lean back and duck out of the way of a barbed whip that Floyd was controlling with his wand as it sailed just under his eye, grazing his face. He aimed for it and hit it with a transfiguring spell, sending it back to Floyd. Harry would have been pleased by the look of a big giant noodle on him had it not been for the fact that Hermione was now unarmed, and was physically being restrained by two big brutes.

"Stupefy!" one of Floyd's men shouted from behind, and he felt a slight tickle on his back.

A flurry of missed spells ensued. He had to ward off some and take cover behind one of the trash bins, not assuming they would be as ineffective. Surely, all this magical activity would bring the MLE soon.

"Enough!" Floyd commanded.

Harry peered out through the settling dust to take a quick look and saw Floyd and his party had taken cover as well. He was almost certain that they were Squibs who had taken the potion too, for Floyd would unlikely command the same respect from wizards. Nonetheless, this was a pathetic bunch, and he would have been more brazen had he been alone in the alley with them. Stupid as it was, he got up from where he had crouched down and walked out in the open.

"Potter," Floyd greeted him. "I've finally drawn blood. Can you tell I've been practicing? Quite an improvement from last year, wouldn't you say so?"

Wetness was indeed trickling off his left hand as it hung by his side. He could not afford to look as his eyes were busy watching Floyd and the periphery for any other curses.

"Not sure if it's an improvement. I must say, this is less humiliating than pasta on my face. Would you like red or creamy sauce with that? I can mix something up real quick."

There was suppressed sniggering from within the shadows. It wasn't time to infuriate Floyd further but he just could not help it. How was he going to get Hermione back? He scouted her sentry. They were humongous but not armed and the one on her left had her wand sticking out of his back pocket.

"I know you!" Hermione said, talking to Floyd. "I've met you before!"

"I guess I did make an impression after all," Floyd turned his attention towards her. "I have often wondered if we would have known each other more intimately had Roy over there not duped you into going out with him. That must have been awful finding out that he lied to you."

"Did you kill Ron Weasley?"

"Who? Oh, do you mean the Canon Keeper fiancé of yours? Is that what he's telling you?" Floyd let out a loud amused laugh as Hermione listened to his every word. "Just between you and me he's running away from the guilt so he's blaming me for the accident. If I really wanted to kill someone I would have killed him."

"What do you want, Floyd?" he asked, almost set about what to do. "The phial?"

He laughed and his minions followed suit.

"No, not really. Although, as you can see, it is an amazing potion I could get a lot of money for it. In a few days, what you find out about it wouldn't matter anymore. However, I do need Miss Granger."

"I kind of need her, too, and my need is a bit urgent," he replied, "What do you need her for?"

"Insurance, so you'd behave yourself."

That answer came quick and somehow, even though he could use her as leverage, he was not convinced Floyd was telling the entire truth. He could not wait for the MLE.

“Who came up with that lame idea?” mocked Hermione.

Crack!

"Fuck! He's Disapparated!"

Pop!

Harry reappeared behind the two thugs and grabbed Hermione's wand.

"Incendio!"

"Ah!!"

"Stupefy!"

Thump!

One of them keeled over as the other was off doing the pants-on-fire dance.

A sudden spate of popping sounds filled in the alley. More Apparitionists. Harry could tell they weren't MLE but was too concerned about Hermione. Floyd had her by the arm and was using her as a shield. But judging from the look on his face and the flurry of curses in the background, the new arrivals were not part of his team. Not MLE but not Floyd's. He'd have to think about that later.

"Leave the Bruins! They're not worth it! And no one gets left behind." he yelled out.

Floyd mumbled a spell which Harry could not hear over the fighting, the missed curses and the cracking sounds of a magical retreat. It caused Hermione to lose consciousness, and he guessed it was to prevent the splinching that would likely happen if Floyd Disapparated with someone reluctant to go.

The momentary loss of balance brought about by Hermione's dead weight was an opening. He lunged forward, hurtling himself hard towards Floyd before he could disappear with her. The momentum landed them feet away from Hermione and knocked their wands away from their reach.

Floyd recovered from the impact sooner than he did. A large boot caught him in the mid section as he tried to get up, causing him to fall on the ground again. He barely got back his wind back when his head exploded as the same Timberland shoe found the side of his head.

"They wouldn't let Squibs play Quidditch so I played a lot of soccer growing up," Floyd explained.

Another well placed kick brought him down on his stomach again, but he would not give Floyd the satisfaction of hearing him groan and he was going to get up until he passed out.

“Wish they let me play Quidditch instead?”

He heard Floyd walk around him, then timing it perfectly, he avoided the next foot that came his way. Harry used the force of the glancing blow to get Floyd off his feet. This time, he was up at the same time Floyd was.

Ignoring the gnawing aches and pains, Harry quickly landed several jabs into the git’s face, staggering Floyd backwards, throwing punch after punch until he physically had to stop to recover. What he saw as he did was a surprise. Floyd spit out a tooth and some blood, but aside from that, there was hardly a scratch on his face.

He grinned mockingly, “Are you done?”

Before he could try another round of blows, a curse hit Floyd from the side. It was from one of the latecomers, a Stunner, although it did not even move Floyd. The brown haired wizard who cast it seemed not as perplexed as he was but sent another ineffective one, drawing more annoyance than anything else. What was going on?

“I hate pesky Bruins,” Floyd muttered under his breath as he shoved his right hand in air, palm towards the direction of his attacker, sending the man up and back a few feet.

That was definitely new and unexpected.

Harry saw his wand on the ground and was about to retrieve it when Floyd got a hold of his neck. With extraordinary strength, Floyd lifted him up by the throat, until he could not feel his feet touching ground, the firm grip on his windpipe made breathing quite impossible.

He brought his hands up to try and pry off Floyd’s fingers but couldn’t. His legs continued to dangle and frantically search for secure footing even as he was able to force a couple of coughs to relieve his need for air.

“I could kill you right now,” Floyd taunted.

His face was hot, his eyes watery and he was sure he was going to lose consciousness soon. He saw a couple of spells hit Floyd but that did not even distract him.

Vroom! Vroom! Vrrooommmm!

From the corner of his eye, he saw Andy in Muller’s black car careening down from the street into the alley, horns blasting like crazy as figures got out of the way. She was heading straight at them, pedal to the metal. Floyd had seen her too, for only someone deaf would not have heard the warning that she was coming. He looked irritated that he had to deal with it but did not move a muscle. Harry prepared himself for the impact.

Crash!

The sound of metal against metal rang as Andy hit Floyd, dragged him a few feet and crushed his legs between the now silent but steaming front of the Beemer and a large rusty trash bin.

Floyd let out an agonized cry. Unfortunately, the force of the collision did not make Floyd let go of him and as the injured man cried out, Harry felt his grasp tighten even more. His feet found traction and with all the remaining energy he could muster, he threw his weight down, packing a blow onto Floyd’s arm from above, hearing bone snap.

With another scream, he finally let go. Harry found himself on his knees on top of the carhood holding onto his neck, panting, trying to catch his breath, looking into the eyes of a somewhat dazed Andy who was struggling to get her wand up through the semi-deflated air bag.

Then the car moved back…an inch…and another.

“What the fuck…?”

He didn’t have to know how to lip-read to discern what Andy just muttered from inside the cabin as she saw something that made her eyes widen. He turned and witnessed what she did. Floyd physically moved the car back again. There was blood everywhere. His legs were mangled, his arm was unnaturally bent, and he was looking at him with hatred in his eyes.

Then, with a snap of his fingers, Floyd was gone.

---

A/N. I kind of needed Floyd to become a worthier villain - what do you think?

Chapter 37 – The Gringotts Robbery Suspect and Elder Obliviator

Floyd was gone but they were definitely not out of the woods yet. Harry slid off the hood of the car on the driver's side, unmindful of the glass shards from the broken windshield as he scanned the area where he last saw Hermione. She wasn't there.

"Um…Harry, I need some help here!" Andy hollered out after him as he went past her to search.

Panicked, Andy's call for assistance and the rattling of chains did not register. The alley was now quiet save for the hissing from Jack's car. He found his wand at the same time he found Hermione. She was on her feet, unsteady, being held up by a tall, generously-built man beside one of the trash bins.

Rushing, he pointed his wand as he approached.

"Let her go!"

"Harry, no."

Hermione motioned with her hand, putting herself between him and her captor. A bespectacled woman with short, brown hair was beside the stranger and she handed Hermione her wand.

"Who are you?" he asked as he lowered his, noticing a design on the sleeve of her robes that reminded him of Hogwarts.

"We are nobody and it would not benefit you in any way to seek us out. We are not the enemy," she replied and then turned to Hermione and said, "We trust you to do the right thing."

With those parting words she Disapparated and so did the man beside her.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked her, worried.

"I'm fine. Are you?" she said to him, concerned at the sight of Floyd's handiwork.

"Yes, I'm okay."

Hurriedly, he walked back towards the car to free Andy before any more attacks happened. Hermione followed him close.

"Well, it's about time," Andy said to him, relieved as the manacles came off. "Jeez, Harry, you look like you were in a car wreck."

Andy liked to joke about injury. She was pulling something from the glove compartment of Jack's car.

"I was in a car wreck. Nice piece of offensive driving, by the way," he complimented.

"Thanks," she replied, still rummaging for something in the car.

He caught a glimpse of the damage Floyd had inflicted on his face and neck from the side mirror. It looked worse that he felt but at least he had his own hair back. In the meantime, Hermione had found a wooden square box, toppled it upside down and motioned him to sit.

"Let me have a look."

Harry let her, taking advantage of her studying him intently to do the same to her. Somebody tried to grab her at the diner and Floyd attacked them to get to her. He only had himself to blame for putting her in danger and the chances of her going back to London was now next to none. What did they want with her?

"You really should go to a hospital, get a more extensive examination," Hermione said after she finished scanning for internal injuries.

Andy handed her a magical first aid kit.

"What for? You're a Healer, aren't you? Make yourself useful."

Andy had walked away to secure their perimeter before Hermione could respond and he had to physically stop her from pointing her wand at the other woman.

"Just once, really," she said through gritted teeth, fuming.

He mouthed the word 'no', and for now she would heed his advice. Hermione gave him a dagger look as if it was his fault she walked right into that.

Frustrated, she vented her ire on the object that was given her. Perusing its contents and making a scoffing sound every now and then as she read labels on the items in the kit, tossing some by the wayside, no doubt finding something wrong with them.

Andy had rejoined them and was already rolling her eyes up at what Hermione was doing, a distraction was in order.

"I was hoping you'd join the fight sooner. What took you so long, anyway?" Harry asked her, vigilant for any more suspicious activity, still wondering why the MLE had not come.

"I was a bit busy entertaining a couple of Floyd's men," she said, then tartly added, "That and changing gears with both hands tied to the wheel was a bit of a challenge."

"I told you, you should have released her," Hermione murmured against her breath.

He was about to protest, comment on the fact that Andy should have been able to take the shackles off easily and that Hermione should have been a bit more thankful that he did what he did, but had to clench his jaw as he felt a sudden stinging sensation over his arm. Hermione was probing the insides of the deep gash with a heat producing spell. Did she forget the numbing charm?

"That stings."

"Good. That means it's cleaning the wound like it's supposed to."

Hermione was still angry but there was no time to deal with that at the moment. Harry wanted to talk to Andy about what she found out at the diner and discuss what to do next. His blonde partner was a few feet away staring at the smoke coming off the front of the dented hood, biting her bottom lip, appraising the damage to Jack's car.

Clang! Pffffffttt...

The front bumper that was barely hanging on to the rest of the car gave way causing all three of them to jump back slightly as the front passenger tire began to rapidly lose air.

"Any ideas on how to break the news to Jack?" he asked Andy as a frown formed on her face.

"So, you think he'd notice, huh?"

He chuckled as Andy's phone rang and she took the call. His laughter was abbreviated by the same burning healing spell on the cut under his eye. It probably was too late to ask her for a bit of magical anaesthetic.

"You won't believe what just happened," Andy said over the phone livelier than she would normally have, turning and walking away from them. That would be Jack on the other end. "We ran into Floyd."

Hermione briefly met his gaze and confirmed what she already knew, "He's the Squib you've been after."

"Yes," he replied, relieved that it seemed she was starting to believe him.

They talked as Andy’s voice carried towards them in the background.

"It looks like he's less affected by curses when he's on the potion, he was just absorbing them."

"What does he want with me?"

What transpired a few moments before was now just sinking in and like him Hermione was struggling to make sense of it.

"I’m not sure. He and his brother were stealing research ideas last year," he responded. "Are you working on something worth stealing?"

"I crushed his legs... Harry broke his arm...there's blood all over... he survived and disappeared without a wand...you should have seen it…"

Hermione answered, "I don't think so."

"Think about it some more," he suggested as Hermione reduced the swelling that Floyd's foot had left on his face. "He's up to something big, something related to this year's conference, it might give us ideas what it is and hopefully stop him in time."

"And he beat the crap out of Harry, almost killed him really if I hadn't done what I did..."

Harry asked Hermione, "That man and that woman; Floyd referred them as Bruins, did they say anything else to you?"

Hermione answered the negative. She was unusually quiet, not asking questions, at least not out loud. She closed his wounds with essence of dittany.

"Yeah, he's here…there's so much going on we don't understand…"

"You know who they are."

It wasn't a question.

"Kind of, but not really."

He'd have to ask her again about them when they had more time.

"No, we didn't get a chance to discuss that yet..."

"They said they trusted you to do the right thing. Does that change what you want to do?"

"No, it doesn't."

"Let me talk to him...he's reasonable..."

He had been eavesdropping on Andy's conversation with Jack and it was going just where he had thought it would go. Harry had hoped to talk to Andy before Jack did because after Jack did, Andy would not have much of a choice.

Harry quickly got up, startling Hermione, "We have to go."

"You're sending troops over…okay…we'll wait..."

He pulled Hermione behind him as Andy’s conversation with Jack ended and she put her phone away.

When Andy turned to face them, her wand was pointed at Harry. Harry's was already aimed at her.

"Drop the wand," he said to her, unable to pull the trigger as he intended to, "I don't want to hex you a second time."

XXXXXXXXXX

Back in London, Dean was at the busy Underground Hammersmith station standing in front of a long stretch of wall temporarily magically segregated from Muggle view. This would be the third magical damage to public property reported since last night. His partner, a Pureblood rookie with the personality of the concrete structure they were staring at, was taking notes.

In bold, flashing neon colors written in hard to Scourgify magical reappearing ink was something he had heard of before.

VITAMIN X

Earlier that day, he had interrogated a Squib crook who claimed to have paid good money for Vitamin X, some potion that would allow him to do magic. The git was arrested by police as he unsuccessfully tried to rob a bank with a wand. The Ministry shrink dismissed him as delusional.

Vitamin X. Dean wondered if it was some new street drug, a powerful hallucinogen perhaps, and if there were other similar cases they dismissed as mere loony cases. Someone was taking advantage of Squibs, selling them empty promises of a magic enabling potion, and advertising the merchandise quite effectively.

Squibs and magic. He smiled to himself. Wait ‘til she hears about this. Maybe he could see her before tonight.

"Kids," his partner said derisively, as he copied the graffiti on his notebook. "Must have nothing better to do."

That was rich coming from someone who still lived with his Mum. Dean ignored him as much as possible because doing so was the only way coming to work would not be a chore. He'd have to think of a more subtle way to get rid of this one. Gumboil was already on his ass about the six other partners he went through since Harry.

His pager went off. Two dead bodies had just turned up at a popular Squib hang-out.

"Wait for the clean up crew and stay until they’re done," Dean ordered his junior.

"But that could take forever."

Whiners were the worst partners.

"That's the point."

XXXXXXXXXX

Meanwhile, Ginny was at her desk at the Prophet. She had just come from the daily staff meeting where potential headline stories for the next morning edition of the paper had been identified and assignments were handed out. The old fuddy-duddy was still pissed at her for her anti-Scrimgeour editorial and was sending her off to scour the MLE Hit Wizard arrests and investigations for potential fillers. Filler stories were the pits, an assignment fit for those in the Chief's doghouse. That was where she was.

At the end of the meeting there was a headliner which no one wanted to work on. She volunteered with the relieved blessing of her fellow reporters and the reluctant agreement of the boss. Gringotts was carrying on a separate non-Ministry sanctioned investigation on the robbery that happened the day before and the Chief wanted someone on it. But as the goblins were an unfriendly bunch, particularly those who worked at Gringotts, her co-workers knew a dead end headliner when they saw one. She wanted to do it for more personal reasons. She wanted to help find Ragnok.

Ginny scribbled a quick note on a parchment.

Gringotts robbery investigation. Can you help?

Ginny signed it and sent it off by express owl. She would have to wait a bit and patience was her least developed virtue. Logging on to the Ministry database, she started working on promising short features, taking down notes.

Squib robs store using wand as weapon, claims he can do magic. Policemen Obliviated.

Magical graffiti at Kings Cross. Vitamin X, recreational drug?

Mysterious death of suspected Death Eater associate at known wizard nightspot. No witnesses.

She carried on for about half an hour, picking similar stories. By the time the reply owl came back, she had plenty of filler crap to stuff the Chief's big ass.

Her contact at Gringotts was a goblin of position that she had at one time helped out of a bind. The goblin knew and trusted her brother, Bill. It was Bill who told him to ask her for help.

The goblin had sired a child out of wedlock, a crime punishable by death in Goblin Law. While the specifics of what she had to do through the Society for the Protection of Magical Beings were never going to see the light of day, the goblin owed her and was the rare one who was sincerely grateful.

While she could have abused it by demanding interviews she knew he could never refuse, she didn't. She didn't help him to gain future favours. But this investigation was more than a story, and like the one other time she approached him for help, gave him the option of what information and how much information to give her.

The goblin's reply was cryptic.

Sir Isaac Umber is coming in for questioning in an hour. Best get to him before that.

Umber. She knew that name. He was a successful investment banker amongst Muggles and a philanthropist in both Magical and Muggle worlds. He had been knighted by the Muggle Queen for his contribution to the English banking system and for his charity work. The goblins had invited him for questioning. If she was told to get to him before that, it only meant one thing.

Goblin justice had been served; his guilt had been decided.

XXXXXXXXXX

Across town in the penthouse office suite of the Bank of Great Britain, a tall, bespectacled elderly man with graying brown hair appeared within his fireplace, encased in a green flame. He stepped out, dusted off his Armani suit and picked up the phone.

"Can I help you, Mr. Umber?"

He may have been a knight but he disliked being called Sir Isaac.

"Martha, reschedule all my appointments for the next two weeks," he said to his assistant.

"Will do, Mr. Umber."

The man hung up. That was why she was hired. She did not ask questions.

He paced the well trodden rug in front of his sturdy oak desk, expecting his arrival soon. They had agreed to meet away from the other Elder Bruin Council members.

After years of relative non-activity, the Bruins were being called into action. The Prophecy was coming true and they were failing miserably to prevent the remaining events that were about to happen.

As leader for the English arm, he had his hands full in Britain. Lestrange had masked her intentions of the knowledge of the family secret well and they had paid the price of their non-action and their preference for peaceful solutions. They were no where closer to knowing who her potion master was than they were days ago when the centaur was murdered and they first suspected Lestrange was going to attempt to reproduce it.

He was a descendant of Sophie Bruin's eldest daughter, Brumhilda. Brumhilda and her sister Sabrina destroyed notes and information about their mother's potion after she died, not wanting to leave anything to chance. While their anti-potion descendants did not have the exact instructions on how to make Grandma Sophie's potion, those actively involved in the cause to prevent its creation knew enough to monitor activity that may be related to it. The deathbed curse had made the job easy for while the Bruins may have been of differing opinions as to whether or not the potion should exist, if it was going to be made Grandma Sophie wanted it to be by one of them. But things went sour when one of Helga's granddaughters was foolish enough to carry with her an unencrypted copy of how to make the magic enabling potion.

To challenge Lestrange in open warfare was suicide for not only were they unskilled to fight the Dark Arts, that would mean exposing their existence and the reason for their existence to the world. It was one thing for the potion to be a myth but it would be a less than ideal situation if knowledge of the potion's existence would become widespread. It would be almost as bad as creating the potion itself.

He had already met with the other six members of the Bruin Council of Elders twice today and it was not yet nightfall. Potion shipments were being made from Britain to Toronto and the Toronto arm had to deal with that Squib scoundrel who had obviously been using the potion and studying Quikspell for quite some time.

His Toronto Elder counterpart, his cousin Ecruminus Brown, had expressed a rare celebratory delight during their second meeting upon knowledge that Potter and Granger still had the phial. His suggestion to let them take it apart was met with open hostility and they were the only ones who supported the motion to trust the pair and allow them to help.

On cue, green flame surged in his fireplace and Ecruminus stepped out. Ecruminus was as tall as he was but was stockier, had less hair and dressed considerably less distinguished than he did. His face was in a permanent scowl lately. He was deeply worried about the events that had transpired and where their future seemed to be headed at.

While Isaac was concerned about the social upheaval that would occur if the potion was used widely, there was more reason for Ecruminus to be worried. Ecruminus was the Chief of the Association for the Protection of Squibs. The potion was unsafe for use and they knew this. He feared the promise of the capability to do magic would make Squibs take foolish risks with their health and bring about more persecution of Magical Beings.

"I’m sorry I’m late,” his Squib cousin said as he approached, “Another Floyd situation came up. He attacked the Potter party.”

Aside from Lestrange, the only way they could get to the Potion Master was through Floyd and that was the only reason they had not neutralized him yet.

“Why did he do that?” Isaac asked.

“That’s unclear. Maybe he wants the potion back or he wants to test his magic. Or maybe he’s finally tired of playing with Potter.”

There was one other possibility that popped in his head but Isaac thought it too farfetched he quickly dismissed it.

“I sent my team to help them. She may be delayed.”

Isaac didn’t have much time.

“I hope she comes soon. I have a meeting with the Gringotts goblins in an hour. Best not to keep that bunch waiting.”

His concern was addressed as the fireplace produced the same flame and Pia Russet stepped out.

“How did it go?” Ecruminus asked her as she joined them on the rug.

“It is worse than what our sources tell us,” the young woman reported, distress in her eyes, “Floyd has studied the potion well and can wield its powers without use of a wand.”

There was silence, the three of them at a loss for words. Neutralizing Floyd just became a priority.

“And what of Granger and Potter?” Isaac broke the silence.

“They’re alive, they still have the potion and we made contact as you instructed. I sense that she knows of us.”

“Do we know why Floyd attacked them?”

“Not the potion. It was probably to show Potter his new wares although he did seem interested in Granger.”

Isaac did not want to hear that.

“For our sake I hope we are right about them,” Ecruminus said nervously, “Assist them for now, but once the tables turn, be prepared to do the worst.”

Pia nodded. She had lost so much to the cause she knew what was at stake.

“I must return. Floyd just suffered extensive physical injuries and will be more vulnerable. We may have a window of opportunity to find him and get the information we need. Do you have further instructions before I go?” Pia asked.

“Two,” her Elder spoke to her gravely, “If you find Floyd, eliminate the lowlife. The identity of the Potion Master is now secondary. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle Crum, I understand. And the other?”

Ecruminus took a big breath in and waited for Isaac to nod his head.

“You were in attendance and you know we are in violation of the Council’s wishes. My lack of magical ability is a liability and there will be a time when I will deny ever having this conversation with you.”

He paused to allow Pia to take in fully what he was saying.

“You are to take orders from your Uncle Isaac from now on and until this imminent threat is over.”

Pia hesitated, understandably worried about being on unknown footing.

“I trust him, Pia. So should you.”

“And what if your orders and his orders contradict each other?”

Pia looked at Isaac, looking into his eyes, as if measuring him for worthiness of her trust.

Ecruminus replied, “Then you are to follow his.”

“No,” Isaac interrupted, meeting her penetrating gaze, “You are to follow what your heart tells you is right.”

“Isaac! It’s not fair to ask her to make such a big decision!”

“By going against the Council she already has,” Isaac replied, and Ecruminus knew it to be the truth. They had to tell her what they were asking. “To protect Bruin interests Ecruminus needs to remain head of the Squibs. He will lose that, and a lot more, if the Council finds out he has ordered you to aid Potter and Granger. You are young and idealistic. They will be more lenient if you act on your own and I will make sure you are protected when the Council finds out.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Pia replied and then turned to Ecruminus with concern, “I will do as you wish.”

They embraced and then Pia left the same way they came.

“She’s a brave soul,” Ecruminus was fighting off tears, “Take care of her.”

“You know I will,” Isaac replied.

“Let’s get this over with,” Ecruminus announced.

Isaac took his wand out and waved it at his Squib cousin.

“Obliviate!”

For a brief moment only the whites of Ecruminus' eyes could be seen. As Bruin Elder Council members they had gone against the Council’s wishes three times and for the third time, Isaac made Ecruminus forget.

“Isaac, we have to do something!”

Interestingly enough that was what Ecruminus said right after the other two times he was Obliviated.

“I should tell Pia to assist them!”

“No, you’re not an Occlumens and they will find out. We both know it is important that you stay in the Council and that you remain Chief Squib. Leave it to me.”

Ecruminus would not be able to argue with that.

“What are you planning to do?”

“It is better you don't know. Now, have you decided what to do when you meet with Granger and Potter?”

“They can be trusted more than anyone on the Toronto MLE. We will oppose any attempts to take them off the case but there will be no human testing until the potion’s safety can be determined without a doubt.”

“And that will delay confirmation of what it can do, buy us some time. Make sure you make the MLE responsible for the potion's safety but have your people around it 24/7, make a switch at first opportunity. Granger can keep a secret but once the Ministry figures it out, it will be very difficult to keep a lid on it.”

“What about Gringotts? What is that about?”

“They suspect I might know something about the robbery.”

“I don’t trust goblins. Be careful.”

He would be. He'd dealt with Gringotts goblins before. He always was.

Ecruminus left with some peace of mind and it was now up to Potter and Granger to prove them right. Potter's and Granger's adventures as teenagers were well known to him and he always thought that they would not have survived Voldemort had they not had innate intangible skill to react to situations like the one they were going through appropriately.

Of the two, he had followed Hermione Granger’s life more closely. He felt uneasy about her appearance in Toronto and her close involvement in the case but, just like last year, he chose to step back and allow the present to play itself out. He was unclear what her role in the Prophecy would be but knowing who she was and what she was capable of, he was quite hopeful her contribution would result in a most positive outcome.

A/N. Surprise! I had thought I couldn't but I actually wrote it and the rewrite was well worth the while. Enjoy :)

---

Chapter 38 – Healer versus Auror

Andy did not move a muscle.

"Give it up, Harry. I'm siding with Jack on this one," she said to him, unflinching, "We got a glimpse of what it can do. The potion has to be turned in."

"He'll have it in two hours."

"He wants it now! And you might as well lower your weapon because you and I know that you're not going to use it on me."

As much Andy knew he wouldn't hex her, he knew Andy wouldn't hex him either; at least not under the present circumstances. If she wanted to, she would have already. He lowered his wand somewhat and so did she. He would try to get her on their side one more time.

"I need your help on this one."

"Listen. You know I bend a lot of rules; I friggin enjoy it. But this is different. I'm not getting into that hole you're digging until you give me one hell of a reason why you have to do this and it better not be so you can get your dick back into her pants!"

A warm feeling rushed up his face, embarrassed as Andy hit a raw nerve. It wasn't so much because of the rudeness of her delivery. It was a figure of speech; a dysphemism. Well, kind of. What Andy said was partly true and her recognition of his desire to hang on to Hermione was bang on. What Hermione had said to him about the possible consequences of the potion's existence made sense but defiance of a direct order from his superior and hiding evidence from the Ministry was a big deal, especially after seeing what Floyd could do with it. They could get away with something like this back when they were teenagers but as adults they were expected to act more responsibly.

He would probably not have gone this far if not for the fact that this was what Hermione wanted to. He was doing it for her because it was important to her. And all this, being together in the last couple of hours working side by side, reminded him so much of how it used to be and what it was that he wanted back.

Harry was so distracted by his thoughts he was not able to stop the hot flash of a curse Hermione let go of from somewhere behind him. Andy's wand discharged in response, containing Hermione's hex and sending it his way, fast. Their proximity and his lack of preparation handcuffed him and the power with which his partner parried the offensive move overwhelmed his hastily produced defense.

Blag!

He fell to the ground, arms and legs unable to move.

"Stupefy!" Hermione tried again.

"Cursio rebundo!" Andy's wand flicked the spell right back at her, and she barely was able to get out of the way. Andy mocked her efforts, "You have to do better than that!"

He had to help her. His wand had fallen beside him and he was trapped in Hermione's straightjacket curse. It would be pointless to physically struggle. He looked over to where Hermione had fallen on the ground.

"Hermione, release me!"

Andy made sure she wouldn't; his partner one of the best mind players he ever met.

"Oh sure! Get your ex-boyfriend to fight your fight for you!"

That definitely riled Hermione up even more.

"He was never my boyfriend!"

Hermione quickly got up and aimed her wand at Andy. A surge of red light sent Andy soaring back as the full energy of Hermione's non-verbal attack did not totally bounce off latter's attempt to block it. Andy's impeccable body awareness and control allowed her to right herself mid air and still land on both feet.

"Could have fooled me," was Andy's snide reply as she regained her footing in time to redirect a couple more volleys, "You sure are acting like his jealous ex-bitch!"

Jealous? Really? No time, he needed his wand right away. He concentrated, neck slanted towards the piece of wood a couple of feet to his right. It did work out of desperation before.

Accio wand!

"This is getting fucking boring," he heard Andy say.

"Sapone bocca!"

From the lack of response he figured Andy was not able to dodge that unfamiliar one. He had to look, realizing instantly what that spell did. Andy was talking, soapy bubbles coming out of her mouth instead of words as she angrily spoke.

"That should clean up your filthy mouth," Hermione said satisfied at the small victory she had achieved.

He should have warned Hermione that it was better to allow Andy to talk. Shutting her up made her bite worse.

Accio wand!

Using a combination of spells he had seen Andy use before, three short bursts of light later, Andy had Hermione disarmed, bound and unable to speak, her wand in Andy's possession. Andy was not an Auror because she looked good.

Accio wand!

"Accio phial!"

Rip!

Hermione’s robes pocket tore as Andy had broken the soapy mouth spell and retrieved the evidence using her wand.

"Up you go."

Andy levitated her prisoner precariously and speedily up thirty feet into the air. Harry heard a muffled scream from Hermione, realizing that he must have told Andy offhandedly that she was afraid of heights. Andy was choosing to humiliate rather than inflict pain. Hermione would have preferred pain.

Relashio!

"Put her down, gently!"

Harry finally freed himself and had his wand aimed, once again at Andy. Andy had one wand pointed at him and one at Hermione.

"Be serious, Harry," Andy said matter-of-factly, "You can't pull the trigger."

Without second thought he did, catching Andy offguard.

“Fuck, Harry!”

On reflex, Andy brought both wands together to protect herself, the force of their combined hexes resulting in a small explosion, causing her to fall on her back and Hermione's now unlevitated figure to suddenly drop from the sky. Never intending to hurt her, Andy joined him in his attempt to cushion her freefall. He had to take advantage of the opening she gave him.

Harry hastily conjured a large safety net and hit Andy with a jinx just as Hermione landed on it.

“Ha!Ha!Ha!Hee…”

Loud uncontrollable laughter pierced the air just as the Hermione’s muffled screams ended. He released Hermione so she could get off the mesh and be able to verbally express herself. She was understandably as mad as hell.

“Give me my wand back!” she demanded from him.

“Ho!Ho!Ho!”

“No! We need to talk to her!”

“We will, after. I promise!” Hermione replied, determined to get some revenge.

“Ha!Ha!Ha!”

“Do you really want to attack an unarmed Ministry official?”

“Just this particular one!”

“Hee!Hee!Hee!”

“It’s not necessary!”

“Oh, believe me, it is!”

“Ho!Ho!Ho!”

“You can go to prison!”

“Honestly, Harry. I’ve stolen Ministry evidence and am about to tamper with it. Let’s put things in perspective!”

He had had it with trying to be a pacifist.

“Fine! Here!” he put her wand in her hand, “Knock yourself out!”

He watched as Hermione marched over to where Andy was and pointed her wand at the Auror. Andy was doubled up, tears streaming down her face as she could not stop laughing. It was really the only hex he could think of that would incapacitate her but not make her too miffed at him.

“Ha!Ha!Ha!”

Hermione took a good five seconds.

“Ugh! Finite Incantatem!”she couldn’t curse Andy either. She took the phial back and walked away, muttering to herself as she did, “You really shouldn’t have told him you had the phial.”

She pulled out parchment and a quill from her purse and started scribbling. What was up with her and her sudden liking for note writing? She did it earlier too. Andy finally recovered from all the laughing, stood before him and quite pissed off. He still had a wand aimed at Andy to keep her away.

“You were actually going to let her?!”

“She’s a Healer. What’s the worse that she could do? Give you a few painful boils?”

“I heard that!” Hermione resented what he just said, but went back to her note writing.

“Well, you’re an Auror. Was that the worst you could do?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Sure, my jaw hurts and my side is sore but you’re too fucking nice. Of all the fucking hexes, you picked the laughing curse?!” Andy swore at him, “If I were someone else you'd be dead by now.”

“If you were someone else, I would have used a different one.”

"I do admit your hex was unexpected. I didn’t think you’d let her fall."

He answered, feeling she had calmed down, "I trusted you had that covered."

"Yeah, that was really stupid of me," she crossed her arms across her chest. Then with concern, Andy said to him seriously, “But what you’re doing is a hundred times more stupid.”

"We really need your help."

“It’s obvious she doesn’t want to help,” Hermione interrupted.

"She just needs to understand why."

"Then explain it to her," Hermione snapped at him impatiently, still writing, "It should be easy enough to admit to the truth in what she said."

So, she knew he was letting her run with the potion to regain and rekindle the close friendship they once had. That should have been a given. After all, Hermione knew him so well. Now that it was out in the open it really sounded as foolish as Andy pictured it. Foolish but he would do it for her over and over again.

Andy found the voice he couldn't find and screamed at Hermione, "What kind of a friend are you?! You know why he's doing this idiotic thing and you're letting him do it! This little stunt of yours just earned him a suspension pending an inquiry! He could be banned from law enforcement for the rest of his life!"

He didn't really think of or care about that.

"Andy, it's okay..."

"No! It's not okay! I can't just listen and watch her treat you like shit. I can't think of anything you could have done to her to deserve this!"

"You just don't know..."

"It has been a year! Nobody deserves what you've endured from her! And you're too fucking desperate to see it and too fucking nice to tell it to her face! She's using you! She doesn't want you to hand the potion in because she wants to be famous for being the first to figure it out!"

Harry defended Hermione, "She's not like that."

"Open your eyes! She's stringing you along for a fucking ride and she's enjoying it all the way!"

He honestly didn't see it that way. He looked at Hermione, disturbed that the accusations didn't seem to bother her at all. If anything, it seemed that she was a bit embarrassed, as if she had been caught with her hand inside the cookie jar.

Hermione had seemingly finally finished her list and met Andy's mockery and indignation with indifference, "Nobody is stringing him along for a ride. He's a grown man and he's done a lot more stupid things for less."

She was right about that.

"He trusts you and he says we need you," she paused and forced herself to say, "I seem to have regained a smidgen of trust in him so I'm going to take a leap and trust you. Am I going to regret it?"

After his Roy Hunt betrayal, trust, no matter how little, was good; he would take it. He listened to Andy's reply, his hope for a smooth resolution quickly dampened by the tone of her voice.

Andy's answer was colder than ice, "I can't promise you anything."

At least Andy was giving her a warning. Hermione took Andy’s wand from Harry and he knew what she was going to do. He would be more prepared this time around.

"Fair enough," Hermione replied, giving Andy back her wand, "I apologize for losing my temper. I shouldn't have cursed you. I wouldn't have asked and let Harry to get involved had I been sure I could do this on my own. And no, I'm not doing this to be famous. If you hold off on arresting us I'll try to explain why I have to do this."

Andy’s answer made Harry relax a bit more, “I’m listening."

"You saw what that Squib can do. You already think that it's because of the potion. Imagine how many other Squibs will want it just to be able do magic."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"No, there isn't. But from what I've heard Floyd has had to take it a few times and he's selling it. What's the going price for magic in a bottle?"

"So Squibs are about to get the shaft but why do you need to take the potion apart? If it is what we think it is, holding one phial hostage is not going to accomplish anything," Andy reasoned out, "Others are obviously after it and by asking for a meeting with high level Ministry officials, you've alerted spies of every conceivable shape or form."

Harry was observing Hermione all throughout Andy's monologue then just realized something.

"You had hoped that would happen. You wanted to flush the players out."

Hermione gave him an apologetic look.

"I did wonder who was going to show, foolishly not thinking just how dangerous that would be. The truth of the matter is I was most concerned about the Ministry analyzing it. The Ministry isn't ready for what the phial contains and I just couldn't hand it over."

"You never intended to return the phial," Harry concluded from the tone in her voice.

"I did; I wanted to because it was important to you to expose Floyd. I was hoping that if I knew for sure what's in the potion we could go to that meeting and I could convince our audience that it shouldn't be scrutinized. I really thought I could hand it over, but after hearing what it does, I don't think I can take that chance," she answered him honestly with a hint of regret.

"You're not making sense," Andy finally said, frustrated, "It's one phial, there are more out there. Not giving it back is not a solution and it’s not an option. You will both go to jail for this."

Andy had a good point but unlike her he had faith in Hermione to do the right thing and to find a way to do it. They always found a way.

Hermione pressed on, "Had we taken it to them immediately, they would have analyzed it like any other evidence and by this time, it would be too late to prevent the rest of the world from knowing that it exists and what's in it."

"You already know what's in it?" Harry asked her.

"No, I don't; although I can make an educated guess based on what I've heard this Floyd can do while he's on it. That's why I want to take it apart. I want to know for sure because if I'm right the Ministry should not have it.”

"So, what do you think is in it?" Andy asked.

"Magic cannot be created out of thin air. Research on magic enabling potions and artifacts are banned not only because of the social impact but also because it is one of the five principal exceptions to Gamp's law of elemental transfiguration. What do you think gives the potion its magical properties? Think about it.”

"Wandless magic and the ability to withstand spells…fuck…"

Harry realized too what Hermione was getting at. Floyd absorbed spells like a giant would and did magic like a house-elf would. What was about to happen to magical beings was going to be worse than what would happen to Squibs if the potion became public.

"This one phial is priceless not because of how much it’s going to cost to buy it but how much it’s going to cost to make it. I may just be delaying the inevitable but keeping the potion off public scrutiny for as long as possible will give us more time to catch whoever is making it and hopefully put an end to this."

Andy was finally seeing it from her point of view, "I can already hear Squibs clamoring for it. They will be demanding magical being blood if that's what's in it. You're right; the Ministry shouldn't have it. They'll fuck this all up. Magical beings are segregated and abused enough as it is."

The conclusion Andy had arrived at was a surprise to both of them.

"We can talk about that after we know for sure what's in it," he suggested, not really liking the idea of not handing it in to the Ministry at all, hoping they would find a way.

"Jack will not give you two hours. He'll have everyone looking for you."

"That's fine," he replied, confident they would be, "He won't see us until then. In the meantime, we need you on the inside to check things out for us. We need to find out where the potion is coming from and we can do that through the phials. Do you have the empty one?"

Andy gave it to Hermione who quickly showed her the number markings on it. Harry handed her information of the one Hermione had and how to track down the buyer.

Harry continued, "What did you find out at the diner?"

"The HWs think it was a prank, nothing malicious. It definitely wasn't Floyd; not messy enough. The Muggles were mostly confused and distraught but there was a Squib witness who said there were a bunch of teenagers who walked in and he definitely saw one pull out something powdery and black just before the mayhem started."

The guy who threw him against the wall was definitely not a teenager, and neither was the woman who told everyone to get out.

"Get the name of that Squib; we might want to pay him a visit. Find out why the MLE didn't come when we needed them and see what you can find out about the Bruins."

"The Boston hockey team?"

Andy was Canadian. She breathed hockey.

"No. The Bruins, descendants of a Squib named Sophie Bruin," Hermione answered and Harry remembered how she said she knew who they were. He still couldn’t place the name she gave Andy and would have to ask her later. "I doubt you'll find anything if you do a search but this might help."

Hermione gave Andy the parchment she had been writing on earlier.

"What's this?"

Harry saw a list. Books and newspaper articles?

"You can borrow these books from any good size Muggle library."

A few popping sounds disrupted their discussion. The MLE had finally arrived and he noticed that took a long time. The protective spells Andy had put up earlier would hide them for a couple more minutes.

"I hate to point this out and I mean no offence but we're in the middle of a fucking case against a Squib-wizard-magical being and you want me to go to the library to take some books out? This isn't the time to be doing fucking homework."

"She does have a point, Hermione," Harry cautiously agreed in a more hushed tone as the Jack's men drew closer, "You can just tell us what you know."

"I could but I don't want to influence what you think," she insisted to do it her way, "I don't know the exact dates of those Daily Prophet articles. However, they are all written by the same reporter."

Andy read the parchment and couldn't help mention what she knew of the name on it, "Ginny Weasley, Ron's sister and another ex-girlfriend."

"I was never his girlfriend."

"So you keep saying,” Andy gave Harry a fleeting what-is-her-problem look then urged him, “You have to go. You're going to have to hex me and make it convincing. Let me contact you as soon as I'm in the clear because I know Jack; he will be watching."

Harry raised his wand but the spell was slow in coming.

"For Merlin's sake!" Hermione hissed, "Petrificus Totalus!"

Blag!

He stared at trigger-happy, quick-draw Hermione, mouth slightly open. She was looking down on the now stiff Andy with a most satisfied expression.

"Sorry. No offence meant."

It was a hollow apology if he ever heard one. Harry decided not to look at Andy's face and grabbed Hermione's arm.

Crack!

---

A/N. I really love this one and this version is more believable. Andy was obviously holding back - it was a definite mismatch and the action was kind of lame but I couldn't make them really go at it because they do need Andy on this case.

Poor Harry - having to deal with all the estrogen. Andy's mouth is really something. The things she comes up with! LOL!

Chapter 39 - The Story of the Magic Pill

As Harry and Hermione Disapparated from the downtown Toronto alley, back in London, Ginny was ushered into the Bank of Great Britain Penthouse office of Sir Isaac Umber. The tall distinguished gentleman met her at the door with a firm handshake and a warm smile.

So far, he was just as she read he was, and her gut feeling even before she met him was he had absolutely nothing to do with the robbery. The Ministry had rightly dismissed the evidence against him, the same evidence the goblins likely had. The man before her was not stupid and she immediately concluded that he was set up. She had a suspicion who; the question was why? And she did need to get something a bit more objective to help locate Ragnok, hoping that the man before him had some answers.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Umber. I know you're a very busy man," she greeted him, craning her neck up as they walked in.

"I read your weekly editorial," the older man confessed, motioning her to sit. "I've always wanted to meet the fiery soul behind the writing. How can I be of assistance?"

"In the interest of saving time I hope you won't take it against me if I ask blunt questions," Ginny decided on the approach considering he only gave her ten minutes.

"Merlin forbid we futz around at a time like this," his tone was a bit philosophical and seemed inwardly pleased he had come up with it.

"I'm working on a story about the Gringotts robbery. I have sources who say you know a lot about it."

"About the robbery?" Umber repeated, she noted the maneuver to delay, "I'm afraid that I don't know any more about it than the average Prophet reader."

A lie if she ever heard one. Maybe she was wrong about him being a good guy.

"You were one of the first to be brought in for questioning by the MLE."

"They did have good reason to. The MLE found several notes in my handwriting amongst Ragnok's possessions detailing the Gringotts strike."

"Do you know Ragnok?"

"Being a banker I've had to deal with Gringotts goblins countless times. I knew Ragnok. He was one of the more trusting ones and was quite reasonable to work with."

Umber talked of Ragnok with a tone of respect and remorse, and it did not escape Ginny how Umber referred to him in the past.

"You talk about him as if he's dead."

"I apologize for my insensitivity. That's just an old man talking. The Ragnok I knew was a family man. I was quite troubled when they said he had assisted in the robbery and had gone missing. He would never abandon them for any material treasure in the world."

Ginny could not agree more.

Umber added, "You must also know that the MLE and goblins found a cache of stolen items inside my vault at Gringotts. Half the missing items have been recovered."

"But the MLE cleared you."

"After interrogations with two of their best Legilimiens. They somewhat agreed with me that if I really robbed Gringotts I would not be foolish enough to stash it in my own vault. That and I clearly wouldn't write Ragnok in my own handwriting and use company stationary. It's a serious violation of bank rules and what would my staff think?"

How could he find something amusing in all that?

"You're being framed."

"Obviously."

"And you're not concerned?!"

"Young Miss Weasley, when you get to be my age not too many things will concern you."

An overwhelming impulse swelled within her and she could not control it. Ginny knew this man was innocent and could only think about the preventable injustice that was about to take place. She briefly thought about what her goblin contact would do if she did what she was about to do but decided whatever it was, she could deal with it later.

"Are you feeling okay, Miss Weasley? Can I get you something to drink? Tea perhaps?"

She shook her head.

"The goblins have decided your guilt. I'm certain you've heard of Goblin justice. They will make an example of you if only to prevent any future break-ins. You cannot come to that meeting they invited you to, at least not without a high ranking Ministry official."

Ginny was out of breath, both from the gravity of her warning and from the fact that what she just said seemed not to trouble Umber at all. In fact he was laughing. The man had lost his marbles.

"Our mutual friend at Gringotts was quite right about you."

"What do you mean?"

"The goblin who gave you my name. He said you would try to persuade me not to come as he has been since I got the invite late last night," he was smiling.

"And you're still going?"

"I'm an old man of some social standing. I cannot ignore a Gringotts inquisition. I must meet with them and settle the matter," he explained.

Surely, having dealt with goblins before, he knew settling the matter for them meant settling the matter their way.

"You must tell them someone is trying to frame you."

"Oh, they know. They even know who it was who robbed them, the same witch who wants to smear my good name."

"Lestrange."

Umber laughed, "See? Even you know. But the goblins will never make her pay and they need to make an example."

"How can you be okay with this?"

"Each of us has a role to play in the world we live in."

"And being scapegoat is yours?"

"Not sure yet. One never knows until one gets to that fork in the road and has to choose. But it's exciting to know the choices and try to figure out what's best, anticipate where that road will lead you, then see when you get there if you were right."

Ginny had decided then that as innocent as Sir Isaac Umber was of stealing from the goblins, he was definitely off his rocker.

"Why did she go through all that trouble to set you up? Why you?"

"That's a question you'd have to ask her. I'm afraid our time is up, Miss Weasley," Umber got up and said to her gravely with cold hard truth that unnerved her, "I know Ragnok was your friend, but do not waste your time looking for someone who is forever lost."

As she stood, she accidentally knocked over a book from edge of his desk onto the floor. She bent down to pick it up and it was only then that she noticed the aged area rug her feet had been on. Her heartbeat quickened considerably as she saw the design on it, somewhat jaded, and really out of place in the modernly designed office.

"Curious piece of rug you have here," she stood up and appraised it more from afar. A black badger standing tall over a lion, a snake and an eagle. "It reminds me of Hogwarts. We're you a Hufflepuff?"

He wasn't.

Umber joined her side, "I was sorted a Ravenclaw."

"You sound disappointed."

"I wish I had more loyalty."

"Is that what this piece depicts? That loyalty should be above courage, cunning and intelligence?"

"It's the family emblem and the rug was a hand me down. I believe its original owner, a great-great-grandmother of mine, was a Hufflepuff and to her it signified that her House was the best of the four at Hogwarts. There was another of my relatives who idolized Helga the Founder. It can signify whatever you fancy."

"What does it mean to you?"

"It reminds me that loyalty is important and that sometimes it's hard to be fiercely so; that situations will arise when you have to have courage, cunning and intelligence to remain loyal and show it," he said to her wistfully, "Of course, some will say if you are truly loyal you won't need any of the others to be so."

She handed him the thick hardbound book that fell on the floor but something caught her eye she did not let go.

"The Story of the Magic Pill," she read the title out loud as they both held on to the book with faded covers, each tugging back a bit.

Umber did not let go as he asked, "Do you read Muggle stories, Miss Weasley?"

"Not a lot but I've read this one. A friend of mine, a Muggle-born, brought it to my attention in the course of doing research for an article I wrote a few years back. Your office seems like an odd place for a children's storybook to be in."

The book looked older but otherwise appeared the same as the one Hermione lent her to read a couple of years ago.

"My granddaughter's, for when she comes in to visit. Did you like it?"

"Not really. I liked the part about young Helga discovering the pill that would give everyone the ability to do magic but it doesn't have a happy ending."

"No, it doesn't. It made everybody around her greedy and mean to each other."

"Made her wish she never made it in the first place. Not the traditional children's story ending one would hope for."

"No," he tugged a bit harder and she let go. "Have a good day, Miss Weasley."

"You, too, Mr. Umber. And best of luck with the goblins."

Ginny left the Umber office with mixed emotions. She was unable to find new information about Ragnok and the Gringotts robbery, except perhaps confirm that Umber was a fall guy. He had her wondering about the outcome of his meeting with the goblins, and if he wasn't concerned about it she wasn't going to be either. She still refused to believe what Umber said about Ragnok. It would not be real to her until she saw him, dead or alive.

And what a coincidence. It had been three years since she reluctantly accepted the assignment to write about the Hufflepuff prophecy. She had pursued it like she did any story, obsessively and hating each and every road block and dead end she met at every turn. Since going to Germany last year she did not have any new leads. The trail had gone very cold, until today.

She recognized the family coat of arms and the book that was supposed to define the family philosophy. Had she, in fact, found a Bruin? And if so, was it mere coincidence that Lestrange was trying to frame one?

XXXXXXXXXX

Sometime ago, Dean arrived at a popular Squib hang-out where two half naked lifeless bodies lay on the blood stained floor, beaten up almost beyond recognition. He watched Ministry forensics document the crime scene as he wondered why two known dangerous criminals, one a Squib and one a Muggle, would have wands. A Death Eater mark hovered over the victims.

A colleague talked to him, "Pummeled and then murdered with the killing curse. Talk about overkill."

"Lestrange does like to play with her food. Looks like she wanted to pass on a message," Dean replied, moving their garments a bit more off their torsos.

Flesh was carved off their chests and raw red muscle oozed with blood, forming a letter.

"And what message do you think is that?"

"I'm not sure," Dean replied with a foreboding feeling that something nasty was imminent, "But 'X' usually stands for danger."

XXXXXXXX

At St. Mungo’s, a figure under an invisibility cloak was in the same room as the Miracle Squib awaiting the opportunity to be alone with him. He wondered when they were going to leave the poor man be. He was aching to get his job done and he had to go to Toronto.

Finally, it seemed that the final test had been drawn and the final snotty intern had seen and examined him. The Healer’s assistant had drawn his privacy curtains in and he was told to get some rest.

After making sure they would not be rudely interrupted, he dispensed of the cloak temporarily. The still listless Argus Filch did not even recognize him when he appeared from under the cloak. It was unfortunate for them both that Filch did not die from the side effects of the potion. This errand was really beneath him but he had to tie up the loose end and to get it done right. The Death Eater traitor and the non-magical misfits he sold stolen potion to had been made examples of. The element of surprise was key for the Toronto operation's success. There would be no more unauthorized use of the purple potion in London prior to it.

He set down a thick collection of tattered parchment on a patient table right in front of the former Hogwarts caretaker.

“Imperio!”

One by one, Filch crumpled the pieces of aged parchment before him and started eating them. It would take longer than the Avada Kedavra but at least his death would be more meaningful and amusing.

On the twenty-eighth page of the rules and regulations he had compiled as Hogwarts caretaker, Argus Filch choked and breathed his last breath.

XXXXXXXXX

Sir Isaac Umber took out a rare coin collection of first print American silver dollars from his walk-in concealed safe and wrapped them. He would send them over to his friend at Gringotts, having just lost their friendly wager when the Prophet reporter warned him about the Gobbledegook inquiry. He really should have learned his lesson last year to never bet against a Weasley.

He had a few minutes before he was expected at the Wizards Bank. The old book on his desk was open on a still half empty page and black ink appeared on it as the final chapter of the story was magically updating itself.

Allowing Weasley to see the family emblem was intentional but her seeing the book wasn’t. It would have only taken her a second to open it and realize that the hardbound was different from what she had read. The most glaring difference was that the one on his desk had no ending, at least not yet.

The Story of the Magic Pill was the worst Muggle children's story ever written. The mere thought that it was brought a smile to his face. It was first published some fifty years ago and it was never the author's desire to garner fame and fortune for it but it was a story that had to be written to help educate generations to be careful of what you dream of.

This particular copy that he had in front of him was different in that it was magically bound to an actual living individual, just as each of the others in his safe were. These individuals were a select group of women he had been somewhat watching over for years who had one commonality.

They were supposed to be dead.

The Hufflepuff prophecy not only warned of the chaos that a magic potion would bring, it also foretold of the one individual who would be involved in the upheaval, a powerful witch descended from the Squib who created it and parented by non-magical Purebloods. Many decades ago, an edict was passed by the Bruin elders that no Squib couple in the family would be allowed to raise daughters. Umber remembered the very first time he had to deal with one of the Bruin cursed, as these condemned babies were referred to. He was in Toronto with his wife and daughter, visiting family, unaware of the favour his cousin Ecruminus was about to ask of him.

"She's having a girl, Isaac," Ecruminus said to him nervously one night they were at a Muggle bar.

Ecruminus' Squib wife was pregnant with their first and was due to deliver any moment now.

"You don't know that," he tried to assure him.

"We had a skilled Healer try out this new gender detecting spell," his cousin explained.

"The Healer could be wrong."

"But what if she's right!? The Council will take our child away and kill her!"

Ecruminus was distraught. Isaac was not a Squib and neither was his wife. He would never have to go through what his cousin was going through but could relate. He and his wife would be devastated if anything happened to their daughter.

"You know how I feel about the rule that purely Squib couples in the family must not raise daughters. You knew that when you took a Squib for a wife. But we are not members of the Elder Council. We cannot change that and we have to abide. It's to protect against the fulfillment of the prophecy."

"She's only a child, a baby. Killing hundreds to protect against the prophecy that one such Bruin would come and make it a reality is sickening; it's murder! My daughter could be a Squib like me and her death would be for nothing," Ecruminus passionately made his sentiments known, "I need your help. You're the only one I can trust."

Isaac hesitated, unsure of what to say.

"I don't think I can, Crummy. The Council…"

"Please," his cousin pleaded, "You're a great wizard. When the baby comes you can hide her for us."

"Crummy, how would I do that?"

"I don't know, just keep her alive."

"But the Council already knows you have a baby coming. They will be suspicious."

"We'll tell them we had a miscarriage. That the baby died."

"They will investigate. They'll know. You won't be able to lie to them," Isaac was trying his best to persuade his cousin that it was not a good idea.

"I can if you do something with my memory."

"No!"

He had to draw the line.

"You're very good at memory charms and Obliviation," Crummy pointed the truth out. "If there was one person who could do this that would be you."

A few days later, Ecruminus and Daisy Brown became proud parents of an eight pound baby boy. Isaac was present at the time of the home delivery and he told his relieved cousin that he was worried over nothing. At that very moment, at a nearby Magical hospital birthing ward, another Squib couple was marvelling at seeing their baby for the first time after being taken right at birth for precautionary observation. Their baby was fine. They had a girl.

That was how it all started for him. He kept a close eye on his niece as he had promised Ecruminus before wiping his memory. She was a Math teacher at a Muggle school with a Muggle husband and two grown sons. Ecruminus would have been proud. She too was a Squib.

Over the course of time, with his active involvement in the Bruin cause to protect against the prophecy, he would encounter and come to know of Bruin Squib couples in the same situation, less so when gender detection spells and Muggle fetal gender tests became common practice. There were couples who pressed on hoping for leniency or hoping to hide their daughters as Ecruminus had. He could not stand back and idly watch the Council take the cursed daughters away. He saved those he could.

Umber may have disagreed with some of the methods used by the Council but he was not irresponsible. He tracked the lives of those he rescued with the thought that he would have to intervene if one of them turned out to be the ONE. As their number increased, that became a challenge. He found an ancient magical ritual that helped him do that through the pages of the book.

Of the dozen or so special books he had, three were very different in that right after dissolving a strand of hair into the pages of the Story of the Magic Potion as part of the rite, the final chapter of the book disappeared. The strands of hair, he would confirm later, belonged to those who had great magical potential.

The owner of the book before him was a most interesting find. More than twenty five years ago he got a panicky call from Toronto. Ecruminus said it was an emergency, that it involved family. He got to Toronto and found himself in the Muggle Toronto Hospital Intensive Care Unit beside his cousin, looking into a room through a glass window.

There was a young woman with brown hair lying motionless on the bed, hooked up to monitors and Muggle life support. She was pregnant.

"She's a Bruin, a direct descendant of the sister of the founder of this hospital," Ecruminus explained to him.

"What happened to her?"

"Car accident. Her husband died a few hours ago. She's been declared brain dead as well. The only reason she's on life support is because her baby's still alive."

"Why are we here?"

"She's a Squib and so is her husband," Ecruminus said sadly, "She was advised at the start of her pregnancy to get a sonogram. She refused and was being watched as a possible violator. She's having a daughter."

"Positive?"

"She had an ultrasound earlier today to check on the baby. It's confirmed."

"The Maples, huh?"

"She's a cardiologist. Her husband was a brain surgeon. I've been assigned to make sure it's done. We have to do something."

He pushed away an evil thought. What the baby's parents were should not matter. She may not be the one.

"I'll take care of it."

The following day, an emergency Caesarian section was performed. The doctors announced that the baby girl they delivered was stillborn and he had to Obliviate his cousin for the second time. Two days later, Isaac left a baby girl inside the home of a Muggle couple he had already identified as suitable parents for a future placement. The dentists had been married for more than five years and were told they could not have a child of their own. They had enlisted to adopt.

He left a copy of the book asking only that the child be loved as they would their own and to make sure she read the story.

Over the years he had come to watch her grow up from a distance. He made sure her Muggle parents would send her to Hogwarts and be accepting of the fact that she was a witch. Curiously, the title of the final chapter of her book first appeared the afternoon she was on the train to attend her first year at the Wizards School. He felt pride when he learned of her role in Voldemort’s defeat, cementing his belief that he had done the right thing. That she chose to be a Healer was no surprise but it was certainly interesting that at this very crucial time in their family's history she would become very involved in it. And it was more interesting that words began to reappear again in the final chapter of her book the second she arrived in Toronto. What he read, so far, was all good.

The alarm on his watch sounded. He had to go. Umber put the book back into his safe amongst other similar looking books, took a small phial from a square wooden box and locked the secret compartment.

Knowing he would need it when he faced the goblins, he uncorked the phial and quickly drank the purple potion in it.

Chapter 40 - On Eggshells

Kingsley Shacklebolt had just Flooed into St. Mungo's and headed for the Spell Damage Ward. He came from his office where he had a lengthy Floo conversation with his Toronto counterpart, Jack Muller. In past dealings he had always found the Canadian a reasonable guy. Muller's reaction to what Harry had allegedly done, and Kingsley had a feeling the allegations were true, was appropriate.

He had fifteen minutes before he was to meet with Minister Scrimgeour and Head Unspeakable Goddess Hush to discuss their game plan for the meeting Harry had demanded in Toronto. He had to brief them about the possibility of the existence of magic enabling potion and he had very few facts. He needed to speak with Harry to ask him what this was really about and what he and Hermione were up to.

And while the Toronto MLE was still unaware of Hermione's involvement, it was only a matter of time before they found out. She was definitely in a lot of trouble too. He'd have to be a bit more creative about her.

As it was becoming more apparent to him that the recent events in London and Toronto were related, he had reviewed the Roy Hunt file and read through the Floyd and Waxball incident of last year. He remembered Harry's frustration stemming from the lack of evidence and the loss of witnesses. There was a definite cover up. Being an oldtimer he had seen too many cases like that and like most of them, it had eventually gone cold and became less of a priority.

Harry could not let go, not after what happened to Ron, insisting Ron was murdered by the same magic capable Squib he had met in Toronto. There was no proof and Floyd had a solid alibi. He asked to be transferred to the Canadian city and now, after a year of perseverance, he finally found his evidence. Kingsley couldn't blame him for being a bit paranoid about it. He presumed Harry had asked Hermione for help and that was how she got involved.

Kingsley got to the crime scene and found it already cordoned off, crawling with MLE and forensics. Tonks was just outside the room deep in conversation with the dead man's Healer. He'd talk to her later. He walked through the magical barrier to join the hit wizard who was examining the still warm but very dead Argus Filch.

"Dean, thanks for joining us on this one," Kingsley shook Dean Thomas' hand.

"Not that I don't want to help but it's kind of a bugger being pulled from a high profile double murder case," Dean replied dryly, "Gumboil isn't pleased either."

"The double murder involves Death Eaters. It now belongs to the Auror Office," Kingsley informed him and did not have to mention how much more displeased Head Hit Wizard Gumboil was with that. "I requested your temporary reassignment so you can help us with it."

"And am I here because this has something to do with that?"

Dean caught on quickly.

Kingsley nodded and handed him a file, "And likely with an old case of yours."

"Roy Hunt."

"The Toronto file."

Dean laughed, amused, "Harry's secret mission."

"I couldn't show it to you last year and forbade Harry to tell you about it," Kingsley was aware Dean was unhappy being kept in the dark about that, "It was my call."

"You said it was classified."

"It still is."

"What do you need me for? The real Roy Hunt died in a prison brawl three months ago."

He thought with the murder of the Miracle Squib that would be obvious but realized Dean needed to be filled in some more.

"Read the file, then we'll talk. Come to my office in about an hour," Kingsley said as they turned their attention to Filch, "So, what do you think?"

"Unorthodox, creative M.O. No death mark but that doesn't mean anything. Whoever it was it would be a Hogwarts alum from when Filch was caretaker, probably had one too many detentions for violating Filch's not-to-do list. This killing was not a first and judging from how Filch died, this murderer has lots of patience and an unusual sense of humor or, maybe, he or she thought it would be poetic justice."

Kingsley nodded, "Not too shabby for a Hit Wizard. We suspect Mr. Filch was part of the party that stole from Gringotts, that he was a loose end that had to be tied up. We think Lestrange is behind it though this obviously wasn't her. No offense to Mr. Filch here but I feel a certain amount of respect for murderers who do not rely on the killing curse. I doubt we'll find many clues."

Dean grunted a half agreement then added, "It's just unfortunate about Filch."

"What makes you say that?"

Dean eyed the single piece of parchment in front of the Squib that matched the one that was lodged halfway into his throat and dangling from his mouth.

"If only he made a few less rules, he would still be alive."

XXXXXXXXXX

Just moments ago, in the northern part of Toronto, Harry and Hermione reappeared between two tall buildings on the York U campus away from the Muggle public eye, his hand letting go of her arm as she stepped away. She found the path to Dr. Tan's Lab and seemed to know how to get there.

Following her in silence, he felt somberness in her pervading mood that was not there before. Something was bothering her big time and he was almost certain it wasn't totally about the phial of magic potion.

"Are you okay?" he had to ask as he caught up with her.

The need to converse more openly with her made quietness between them an itch that had to be scratched. There was a lot to be said but he wasn't sure where or how to begin.

Hermione stopped, turned to face him, and asked him seriously, "Do you think I'm stringing you along for a ride?"

"Of course not," he tried to reassure her and, sensing Andy's diatribe got to her, added, "Andy doesn't know everything."

"Is she always like that?"

"Like what?"

"Protective of you."

Was that jealousy? He wasn't sure. He was about to say that Andy reminded him of how she was many years ago but decided against it.

"Is she, really?" he answered nonchalantly.

That seemingly was the only benign thing to say. It was like he was walking on eggshells around her, overly cautious not to say something that would make her walk out of his life again. Eggshells...she mentioned that before. She must know he was handling her with kid gloves.

Andy asked him once why he even bothered to patch things up with her, seeing how it was so obvious that Hermione didn't want to have anything to do with him anymore. Had she wanted or needed his apology she would have been more receptive. Andy opined that the only other reason any woman could drag this on forever was to get some measure of revenge by putting him through the torture. There were countless other women besides her. Why didn't he just give her up?

His partner had a good point but how does one give up on fifteen years of friendship? How does one give up caring about the one constant in his life, the one person who had been there from the very beginning and the one being who saw him for who he really was? And he had already been with countless other women besides her and wasn't keen on doing that again.

For years they were always there for each other, unspoken but proven and tested through time. It was his fault that wasn't the case anymore and it would be a lifetime of regret if he didn't exhaust all means to fix it. He loved her and he desperately wanted her to believe that, for only then could he even hope that she would reciprocate. Not seeing her the past year made him realize even more what he was missing in his life. And as the day wore on it seemed to him quite possible that, despite their rough start, things between them had turned around.

"She's right, you know," Hermione admitted as if annoyed that she did, "You're too nice. You shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be doing me favors, not after this past year."

It was amusing to him how she could agree with Andy and yet allow him to help her.

"Did you expect me to wrestle the potion from you?" he asked jokingly. "Or turn you in for trying to steal it?"

He was trying to be funny but she did not even break a smile. She knew he would never do that.

"I shouldn't have convinced you this was the right thing to do."

"Well, isn't this the right thing to do?"

That wasn't a real question either.

"That's not the point," she was really upset at herself, "I knew you would do as I asked. It was inconsiderate of me to let you sacrifice your work here in Toronto. Even if Kingsley will let you have your old job back in London, you might not be able to work elsewhere..."

"Ssssh…"

Without a thought he raised a finger and pressed it lightly against her soft lips. Everything came to a halt; her...him…time...and all he could hear was the steady strong cadence of his heartbeat. He was quite unprepared for the gut wringing sensation the feel of her slightly open mouth and her warm breath on his skin would evoke. Her eyes spoke to him as they did so many times before, relieving him of the burden of uncertainly he had lived with since Ron died. He missed that, that reassurance that she cared about him, that look that he had taken for granted in the past more times than he could remember. It was even more of a relief because she still did in spite of what he had done.

While in times past and probably under less tenuous circumstances he would have pressed her then and there, he remembered his earlier mistake and instinct told him 'not yet'. And while she did say she wanted him out of her life, he couldn't believe that she really did, at least he hoped that she wouldn't when she heard the truth. She had to trust him more so he could convince her of what really happened. For now he allowed himself to be comforted by the knowledge that, despite everything, she still cared about him deeply and that she was staying.

"The sooner you accept that I'm here and we're doing this together, the sooner we'll get to the bottom of it," he said to her seriously as he withdrew his touch reluctantly. "Look, you convinced me that this is the right thing to do. You and Andy may think I'm doing this just to get back on your good side but give me a bit more credit that it's not about that…at least not entirely."

Finally, he saw her eyes smile somewhat at his openness.

"But your job…"

"Small sacrifice to prevent what can happen, don't you think?" he rebutted. "In my mind I am doing my job, just not exactly the way my boss wants it done. And let's not forget, you wouldn't be here had I not asked for your help, so stop feeling guilty."

Her brows furrowed as a clouded emotion loomed behind her brown eyes.

"I'm here because of the potion," she replied.

That was true; how could he forget. It was a reminder that he felt was as painful for her to say to him as for him to hear from her. She wanted it to be clear that she wasn't staying because he asked her to. It was in keeping with the fact that she wasn't stringing him along, nipping false hope right in the bud.

It was a reality check and was a reflection of where their relationship was at that very moment. They were a long way from where they were before, longer from where he wanted them to be, but he had to focus on the positive. They were now on speaking terms. Good, civil speaking terms.

He nodded slightly, signalling that he understood.

"At least you're here," he answered her quietly.

Hermione brought up Ron.

"It was very confusing when Ron died and for a very long time I couldn't think about you. I never meant to hurt you, Harry and I'm sorry that I did. I just wanted you to leave me alone."

Her apology was earnest and he understood how she couldn't and didn't want to think about him. At first, he gave her space because he knew she needed it but when she still didn't want to see him weeks after he began to worry. Avoiding him was her solution but he had hung on to the hope that she would realize that wasn't a permanent one. Did she really think he would leave her alone?

"I have trouble doing that."

"I figured as much," she smiled weakly, then shrugged, "Story of my life. I can't get what I want."

They began moving again towards the direction of the lab. As they got out in the open he clutched his concealed wand and intermittently scanned the perimeter for unfriendlies. While he did not think anyone could have followed them there, he could not be certain. He was there not only to protect the phial but more so to protect her.

set him free…save her…

Harry remembered the last part of the cryptic message from the Jane Doe they picked up from the Muggle loony bin yesterday and he could not help but think that the 'her' that was mentioned in it was Hermione. But save her from what? The conference was opening in two days and his gut was telling him Floyd needed her for something other than what the arse admitted to. He certainly found them quick enough. And how did news of Hermione's presence in Toronto travel so fast?

"When did you decide to come to Toronto?" he asked.

They were walking briskly on the sidewalk beside the length of a snowcovered football field.

"The Order asked me late last night."

"Who else knows you're here?"

"Aside from the Order, not many. I may have mentioned it to Delilah, Dennis, a couple of others maybe, I don't remember."

A couple of others...for a person who remembered every line in every book she read, he found it hard to believe that she would forget. Not mentioning Malfoy told him her personal life was off limits. She definitely did not want to talk about him.

Damn! Malfoy! The hair and the look on her face after he took the Juice...he should have recognized it as she had the moment he saw it. But he could not share that thought with her. Now wasn't the time for another confrontation, not when she was at least talking with him again. Bringing the git up in the same breath as evil suspect who's dating you only because he has something twisted to gain from it was definitely going to put her on the defensive again.

It could have been Malfoy who was at the diner. It was too much of a coincidence, he thought, but seemingly farfetched too. Even he would have to admit the only reason he thought of Malfoy was because his intentions were highly suspect and he could not stand the thought of Hermione ending up with him. Openly accusing Malfoy was not an option unless Harry had absolute proof that he was in Toronto and that he was at that diner. He'd check into that later. But if Malfoy suddenly showed up with the slightest hint of a scratch he would arrest him in an instant, even if there would be no real reason to.

Harry wanted Malfoy to be neck deep in this potion business. Catching him red handed would solve his dilemma of how to quickly convince Hermione to stop seeing him. He was mulling possibilities of how the ferret would be involved when she interrupted his thoughts. She knew why he asked the questions he asked.

"You really think Floyd needs me for something other than what he told you?"

"I could be overreacting," he tried to play his worry down, "But he did want something from you last year and I don't think he ever got it."

"And you think Ron got involved and that's why he killed Ron?"

"I don't know," he said honestly, "I just know he was there at the Stadium during the match."

"The guy with Omnioculars, a few rows down from where we were," Hermione suddenly realized.

"That's right. You saw him."

This was good. She was receptive to the truth.

"I didn't see his face. Ron was not himself during the beginning of the game and was distracted by something or someone in the crowd. I was following Ron's gaze when I saw him. He Disapparated after he..." she paused and looked at him,"...saw you. He was looking at you."

"He was gone when I got to his seat. I thought he was there for you only to realize later that it was really Ron he wanted to hurt. By the time I saw Ron falling it was too late to stop it."

There was so much more to tell her about what happened last year. He had to tell her the whole truth about Roy Hunt, how he was asked to go to Toronto as him, and how things went awry. He would have continued to offer information had she not looked away. She was confused and upset; about Ron, he presumed. Backing off, again.

They had arrived at the front entrance of Dr. Tan's lab and he stopped just before pulling the door open.

"Listen," he said to her, "All of this is probably overwhelming. I want you to believe me, but if you can't right now, then you can't."

She nodded, then said something he didn't quite expect, "All things considered, I'm glad you're here with me."

"You are?"

"My confidence in my fighting skills has waned considerably after my dismal performance at defending myself. I doubt I can keep the phial safe. Can you believe how pathetic I've become at combat?"

"Don't be too hard on yourself. Andy's been an Auror for a while. She does it for a living."

"I kept thinking about the possible serious injuries I could inflict and kept hoping I wouldn't cause permanent damage," she explained, unhappy about it."That was never a problem before."

"Too bad you've developed a conscience and lost your edge," he teased her and it did make her feel better.

"Not to make you feel guilty but doesn't that ever cross your mind? How do you do it?"

"It helps when the other guy shoots first and it helps knowing that they deserve it. I also try to think that it's better them than me," he replied.

"Self preservation...will keep that in mind for the next time."

Next time?

"You can't seriously be thinking..." his concern was interrupted by a chuckle.

"Who, Andy? Merlin, no!" she answered quickly, "I should have listened to you on that one. I may be stubborn but I'm not stupid."

She was laughing at herself somewhat as he pulled the door open for her to go through. He followed her in with a wide smile on his face. This felt good.

They approached the information counter and were told by the receptionist to wait inside what appeared to be an anteroom. They found a few lumpy sofas and uncomfortable wooden chairs in it, an indication that the lab preferred their guests on their feet. They drifted apart and roamed.

As they waited he couldn't help but notice that the room's plain walls were adorned with framed posters depicting the Lab's past and current Muggle undertakings. Tired from sleep deprivation and the magical scuffle he had engaged in, he was just eager for Hermione to find out for certain what the contents of the phial were. He quickly browsed through them until he found himself staring at one particular piece.

It was small and somewhat unobtrusive as it hung on the east wall amongst the oldest posters. He stood in front of it for a long time. It was different in that it was a painting, an old painting of a badger, a lion, an eagle and a snake, and the only reason it held his interest was because it reminded him so much of Hogwarts.

---

A/N. I realize some (maybe many) will disagree with Harry's approach. It puts him on unequal footing in the relationship, certainly exposed to being taken advantage of, but stupid as it may sound, true love makes one vulnerable to pain and the possibility of being hurt. Ónly the bravest and the most daring (or the most stupid - if you want to call it that) can reap love's richest rewards.

Hermione is not giving him hope but he's just hoping for the best, thinking she would come around once she discovers the truth about Ron's death. Is he being foolish? Any thoughts on whether or not Hermione should take him back once she finds out the truth about Roy and Ron? Is the truth enough?

Chapter 41 - Conflicted

As far as Hermione was concerned, things with Harry were just as she expected... not according to plan. As she stood in front of a poster on advanced plant cross pollination, she cast him a quick glance at the opposite corner of the room, thankful for the moment she could have without his aura interfering with her thought processes.

You don't really believe that aura hogwash do you?

Of course not. But if you come up with a better explanation, I'm happy to rethink it.

This wasn't a good time to be arguing with herself either but that was how bad things were. She needed a sounding board; she needed to talk to Ginny. She tried Ginny's mobile but got her voicemail. She left one, a rambling one...

"Hey, it's me. So...I'm here pretending to be looking at plant pictures...he's over there looking at a painting...it's bad...call me...", then just as she was about to hang up, added, "Oh! And we ran into the Bruins."

Right after, she realized how crazy that sounded, which was kind of good since it stressed urgency. A mental regroup was necessary.

Priority.

Potion.

Goal.

Stop reproduction.

Focus.

Right.

Stop thinking about him.

That should be easy. Your mind draws a blank when he's close and he's been too close.

And don't encourage him.

Not that he needs encouragement.

Hermione threw him another furtive look. She was sure he had not moved from the spot and was seemingly engrossed with the small painting on the wall. She sighed. Why did this have to be so complicated? If only he would do as she asked and just let her go.

She turned away to stare blankly at the poster before her, odd looking trees stared back. Where to start?

The phial. The phial was to blame. Had she not seen it and had she not been curious about what was in it she wouldn't have stayed. Had she not stayed, she wouldn't have found herself with the potion and she wouldn't have made that pitch to him to keep it from the Ministry. She wouldn't have met Floyd and she wouldn't be feeling this mixed up about Harry.

Earlier, as she took care of his injuries, she overheard his partner describe what the Squib did to him. A panic overcame her as she realized that he almost died, again. Life was too short, seemingly shorter all the time with him, and she kept thinking about having regrets. It was déjà vu. She asked herself how she would feel if he died today.

Her answer annoyed her and added to her irritation of his partner having really good points about what he was doing to 'get into her pants'. If she were Andy she would have probably said the same things to her, using less repugnant language, of course. And she had to be honest with herself. Despite the fact she had no right to be, she was jealous of the blonde woman and the obvious easy-going relationship she had with Harry.

So, Hermione had to stay in Toronto longer than she wanted to, spend time with him much more than she was prepared to, and deal with emotions she never intended to, all because she recognized the bloody phial!

The phial was to blame.

She had moved on to the next poster, half read the blown up journal article that boasted of the first set of transgenetic mice.

He's telling the truth about this Squib, Floyd.

Maybe.

He has no reason to lie.

He has lied to you before.

What if Ron was murdered?

It makes no difference.

What if he really loves you?

She ended that train of thought. It was starting to creep up on her…hope…possibility…an exercise she was certain would only hurt both of them even more. She had trodden this path with him before and she should have learned her lesson. Really, she should think no further than earlier in his living room; how she wanted to and they almost but she couldn't.

It was quite obvious that Harry thought her lack of enthusiasm to see or talk with him the past year was because of what he did to her as Roy Hunt; that it was punishment. But it wasn't about him. It would have been easier to address if it were.

Hermione seriously just wanted him to stop; she wanted them both to move on, she wanted him to leave her alone. She was avoiding him all this time hoping he would do so without resistance and they wouldn't have to talk about what happened. She didn't want to talk about what happened because she knew that if they did, this would happen. He would make sense, be believable, and she'd consider giving them a second chance. Like him, a part of her could not let go even though it would be the right thing to do.

The right thing to do...she still thought letting go was, but now with less conviction than before. She missed him; his face, his voice, his hair, his presence, and their talks. She missed him much more than she thought she did. The longing was eating up her resolve and his open advances were effectively nibbling through her defenses. She couldn't dismiss him as easily as she thought she could and should, considering what he did to her. Somewhere within her bruised and hardened exterior was her old self who already believed that he had good reason, that he did not mean to do what he did, that she should give him a chance to explain and make things better between them.

There was merit to Andy’s crude remarks about her and her shoddy treatment of Harry in the past year. But having him back in her life was not an option for her. She could not trust herself not to betray Ron again and she couldn’t live with herself if she did. So, she hid from him, thankful that he didn’t know what her avoidance was truly about, not thinking that Harry needed his own peace of mind. She did not mean to hurt him.

She should just deal with it once and for all so they can both put this behind them. And for Harry, he would not be able to until he was satisfied she had all the facts. She knew what he was thinking; that she would change her mind if he proved to her what he knew was the truth.

If Harry is telling the truth, if Ron was murdered and if he seriously wants you in his life, what's the harm in giving it another try?

Needless pain and waste of time. It's not going to work.

You don't know that. What have you got to lose?

Not much, aside from the little pride you have left and the small morsel of dignity you're trying to hold on to. And there’s Ron.

Maybe Ron didn't kill himself. Maybe it wasn't your fault Ron died.

You've been through this before. You've thought this before.

For the longest time she was convinced that she had pushed Ron beyond his limits and that he took his own life to prove a point - that she did not care about him as much as she did about Harry. Her actions spoke louder than words and while she never lied to Ron, she never had the heart to admit that fact to him either.

When Harry first mentioned the Squib a year ago she couldn't believe anything that came out of his mouth. Even then he had no reason to lie about that but Ron's unusual behavior on the pitch during that game made her conclude that his knowledge of what she had done with Harry and hearing her final decision about them took him over the edge.

She never talked about it, not even with Ginny who believed that all the guilt she had after Ron's 'accident' was because of the Roy Hunt affair. Right after Ron's funeral, there were times when she thought she would go insane thinking how Ron would still be alive had she done things differently, about what she could have done differently. The nightmares came. It seeped through her entire being and her every waking moment. Family, friends and work all suffered until Ginny broke through and injected enough sense in her. The nightly doses of dreamless draught she self medicated with helped and provided some respite from the remorse that she could never talk about with anyone.

It was a good thing that time did heal most emotional afflictions and Hermione did feel that after a year, she was going to be able to live some semblance of a normal life. But when Harry started sending her more notes recently, she began entertaining the idea that she was wrong and that there was truth to what he had said all along. A few times she had actually thought about looking into it but the certainty of having to come to Harry to ask for information froze her. She asked Kingsley in passing once and even Kingsley said there was no proof. Hermione decided not to proceed, telling herself that if it could be proven Harry, or someone else, would have done so by now.

It wasn't that she didn't want to confirm what really happened to Ron but every time she thought about the likelihood of her being mistaken and of maybe, on her own, investigating Ron's death, she would question her motive. Did she really want justice for Ron or did she just want to feel better about herself and feel less culpable for what she had done? And was she hoping that with less guilt everything would be honky-dory between her and Harry?

In the end she always circled back to the fact that how Ron died would not make him less dead. It would not take away the sorrow she felt each time she thought of him or the disgust she felt because of what she did.

She realized now that she should give this thing that happened between her and Harry the same finality she had given hers and Ron's. She would have to look Harry in the eye and tell him straight that knowledge of the truth, whatever that was, didn't change the fact that they could never be the way they were. She'd have to tell him that she actually preferred not knowing because knowing would hurt more. She had a feeling he would not understand.

The question was would she be strong enough to do that? Or, would she cave in and listen to the other voice of reason about giving them a second chance? That voice that still desperately wanted to believe that he really did want a life with her, that deep down he was still the decent and good man she had known him to be and that she could still have what she wanted to have with him. It was the same nagging voice that reminded her how most of their lives she had wished for him to be happy, hating the fact that she couldn't do much more than she was doing and now that it seemed she could directly influence that, she was causing the exact opposite.

She was desperate to talk with someone about Ron more honestly; better Ginny than Harry.

Hermione moved over to her side to the next poster. It was a futuristic one, Star Trek like. It was a news article dated in the year 2159 and it was about the discovery of the one pill that would cure-all.

Panacea, Medicine’s Holy Grail

The fictional distraction was welcome but it made her think of the Squib Holy Grail and the Bruins. Keeping the purple potion from the Ministry was an impulsive decision and truth be told she wasn't a hundred percent sure it was right one. Her excuse was impaired judgment from seeing and talking with Harry for the first time in almost a year. Several times already, even before hearing Andy make some annoyingly very good points, she had asked herself who did she think she was? What gave her the right to make this decision and what made her do something so stupid so as to jeopardize her and Harry's careers? It was definitely a decision that was not well thought out.

She was a Healer, in Toronto on some unrelated mission, and by fluke happened upon a magic enabling potion. It was coincidence she was there. She could have just let things play out as if she wasn't but she just couldn't help herself. She just couldn't help thinking about horrifying possibilities and she felt a compelling urge to act, to do what she could to prevent or at least protect against it. They were definitely in a heap of trouble, but she couldn’t worry about that right now.

And she still couldn't think of any reason why the Squib would want her. Maybe it was just as Floyd said, that she would be leverage, but she found that hard to believe. Not that she wanted the Squib to, but Harry was there and Floyd could have just taken him or killed him. Floyd didn't really need leverage. It didn't make sense.

The more she thought about it the more she thought that unlikely. She heard Floyd shout out to his men not to hex her. He didn't want her hurt. But was it her specifically that he wanted or what she did? And she had come to Toronto on an almost spur of the moment decision and had been there not even two hours. How did Floyd know where she was?

"Hermione, this is a pleasant surprise!"

Professor Deng Tan greeted her from the room entrance with a wide smile on his face.

"Professor," she returned the Asian looking man's smile and they walked towards the other, gave each a peck on each cheek as Harry joined her side, "This is Harry Potter, a friend of mine. Harry, this is Professor Deng Tan."

Harry shook the older man's hand and they exchanged pleasantries. She introduced Harry as a friend. She hoped Harry would read less into that than she was.

"It has been too long. How are you?" Professor Tan asked Hermione.

"Just fine. And you?"

Hermione had last seen him years ago at some conference although they spoke by Floo about work when they had projects together.

"If I felt any better I wouldn't need health insurance!" he chided. "So, have you finally decided to come to stay and work with me?"

She laughed and he joined her. He always asked her that although he anticipated she would always decline.

"Professor Tan has gathered a throng of detractors for unabashed poaching from research oriented hospitals like St. Mungo's,” Hermione explained to Harry. “Some of his recruiting methods are, should I say, unacceptable?"

Most were incensed at his brazen techniques but she found him harmless and amusing. He did so because he was driven to have the world’s best Magical research team.

"I’m just innovative and subtlety was never one of my stronger points," he admitted. "You should see our preliminary findings on the modified Wolfbane potion you sent us last week for testing. It looks promising."

"That's great news," Hermione replied. She was looking forward to the phase two Toronto results, hoping the experimental potion would pass the clinical safety testing. But she was there on a different matter. "Professor, is there somewhere private we can talk?"

The professor appraised her and Harry before finally saying, "Of course, you know how much I love secrets. Can he be trusted?"

That was debatable.

She nodded.

Professor Tan led them into the restricted area through a magically locked gate, and up a steep flight of stairs. They found themselves on an elevated hanging walkway flanked by laboratories on either side and followed the professor through the long path which ended in front of an oversized door. He waved his wand. It unlocked itself and they stepped into a windowless interview room, plainly outfitted with an oval wooden desk and a few matching chairs. Off to one corner was a closed exit without any knobs.

He motioned for them to sit and asked as he sat in front of them, "How can I help you?"

Harry spoke before she could, "We'd really appreciate it if you could tell your staff in the other room to take a ten minute break and to shut off the recording devices on their way out."

She tried to hide her surprise and was more successful at it than the professor, who had averted his attention to the wall on their right and spoke a few words in what she could tell was Cantonese, his second language. She met Harry's gaze and read his thoughts. It was a caution, to be selective about what to say, if she still wanted to proceed as she planned. She nodded slightly.

"I'm so sorry about that. I seldom use this room and forgot we use it for observation of adverse experimental reactions."

"Excuse me," Harry said once again and suddenly Disapparated.

An awkward few seconds followed as both she and Professor Tan didn't know what to make of his departure, until they heard a loud crash nearby. Harry reappeared and quickly explained.

"Your staff forgot to turn off one of your Eavesdroppers and I didn't know how to. I think I may have ruined it," he deadpanned.

She loved how he said that, and noticed the professor turning slightly red in the face. She had read somewhere that Eavesdroppers were expensive magical gadgets that had a pick up range of 2 to 500 decibels within ten feet. She couldn't think he did that on purpose but she had known of the Professor's reputation about bending certain rules and expectations if he could get away with it. Unfortunately they really needed a Level 5 lab and his was the most well equipped that she knew in the area. He was also probably the only one who would allow her to use his lab to do what she was about to do.

"We apologize for the inconvenience but we need your help and I'm afraid I can't tell you much, at least not to the extent that I know would satisfy your curiosity."

"What is this about, Hermione?"

"I need to use your most shielded lab to take apart an unknown potion. It’s likely a Class F."

That should require no further explanation. Class F's were potions containing magical being as ingredients. As far as the Potion Registry was concerned, they existed only in theory and internationally banned. What she was about to do was not only illegal, it was also dangerous.

"Will you need my or my staff's assistance?"

"I won't."

XXXXXXXXXX

The Potion Master had just come from St. Mungo's on that little errand and got a panicky call from Toronto.

"Tom's been hurt," the woman was concerned. "He tried to nab Granger, there was fighting, the Bruins came to help and Potter's partner tried to run him over with a car. She crushed his legs."

He already heard about this from a pissed off Lestrange. Floyd wasn't supposed to make second contact with Potter but calling him the idiot that he was was a waste of effort.

“He has the patience of a two year old,” he retorted. The Squib was still needed. "Can you fix him up in time?"

"I'll try."

"And hide him well. His premature display of his skill while on the potion will make his death a priority for the Bruins."

He was not pleased that Potter now knew what to expect but there was nothing he could do about that.

“I’ll try.”

“What about the training?”

“It's coming along as you expected.”

“Do we need more potion?”

“We have enough. The Squibs should be ready in four days.”

“Make it two.”

“We’re pushing it up. Good. They won’t expect it. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Ginny was at Gringotts waiting with other reporters just outside the conference room where the interrogation of the Sir Isaac Umber was taking place. They had been in there for at least an hour, invited to hear the post inquiry briefing of the sham that was happening and everyone was getting antsy. The Goblins were not very good hosts and provided really crappy refreshments.

After she left Umber's office she got back to researching him some more. Interestingly enough, there was a lot of information about his life and works but none about his family. She couldn't find any names of kin in any of his public records, Muggle or magical, as if there was a deliberate attempt to hide it. His birth records had been conveniently ‘misfiled’ and even his Hogwarts records did not contain the names of his parents, who were referred to in documents as Mr. and Mrs. Umber.

What she did find was an obscure Muggle article dated a few years back about a trip to Toronto and he was photographed without his knowledge with an 'unknown family member'. She would have to confirm but she was almost certain that the man that was standing beside him in the picture was a younger Ecruminus Brown, current leader of the Association for the Protection of Squibs.

She wanted to call the Prophet Research and Archive Section to see if someone could pull the Squib’s file while she was stuck at Gringotts but Muggle phones didn’t work in the building. She sent a note through the bank’s courtesy owl service, instead.

Just as she got back to her seat, the double doors to the conference room swung open widely and the bank's Lead Goblin Kurnuk emerged, stone faced as he passed them on his way to the podium. He was followed by the rest of his entourage. One of his goblin advisers gave her a slight nod in greeting. Last to appear was Umber, serene and composed. His body language already told her what the outcome of the interrogation was and she smiled back when he glanced over to where she was and gave her a wink. She didn't know how but he pulled it off and wondered if he would grant her another interview.

"Thank you all for coming," Kurnuk spoke to them in a forceful voice, his minions behind and Umber beside him, "I'm pleased to announce that Sir Isaac Umber has been cleared of any wrongdoing in the robbery that took place yesterday."

Click! Click!

Cameras flashed as the goblin and Umber shook hands. Several voices vied for attention.

"Mr. Umber..."

"Mr. Kurnuk..."

"Sir Isaac..."

One of the ones in the front got pointed at and he fired off a question.

"Sir Isaac, how does it feel to be publicly exonerated?"

"A huge relief," the knight replied, "As you can imagine, it has been a difficult time for my family."

She guessed he meant the family he was hiding from the public eye.

More questions.

"Mr. Kurnuk, what made Gringotts come to this final conclusion?" another of her colleagues asked.

"Mr. Umber has provided us with overwhelming evidence it was someone else," Kurnuk answered.

Really? Umber did not even flinch. He wanted Kurnuk to say that.

"Who robbed your bank, Mr. Kurnuk?" Ginny asked what everyone else wanted to know.

There was silence as everyone waited, each of them wondering if the bank would continue to look for believable scapegoats to pin the crime on. The answer they got was a bit of a shock.

"As of right now, Gringotts Bank, its international and Muggle affiliates have frozen the vaults and assets of Bellatrix Lestrange," he announced and the group of reporters around her gasped. "We urge her to come forward as soon as she is able and provide contradicting evidence to clear her name. She can be assured of safe passage during the interrogation."

The Lead Goblin and his staff were obviously uncomfortable and distressed about what they had done. They left in a rush, ignoring the clamors for more answers to more questions. Gringotts had just declared war on the Death Eaters. There would be a high price to pay for inconveniencing Lestrange.

And Umber was either very brave or a closet lunatic. How he managed to persuade the goblins of his innocence and to openly accuse Lestrange was beyond her imagination. But one thing was certain in her mind as she exchanged looks with the unruffled wizard.

She was staring at a very dead man.

---

A/N . I told someone Umber scares me. He's a rogue, an unpredictable sort.

I've added a glimpse of the potion master, the change in the evil plan and what's happened with Floyd.

So, about Hermione and her current state of conflict - I know a lot think she's avoiding Harry because of what he did as Roy Hunt. She really isn't. She's not playing victim that some have concluded from her actions. She knows and admits she started this all with her desire for a last fling. She just wants Harry to let go but is afraid of the conversation that they have to have about it. She's afraid she can't let go once they talk about the truth and now she realizes that they have to so they can both move on. Conflicted...

I hope that explains Hermione a bit more although I know some will find it irritating that she can't tell Harry what this really is about for her. Some might know her well enough to know and understand why.

Chapter 42 –Traitors Within

The sudden departure of the goblins from the briefing left Sir Isaac Umber besieged by the onslaught of information hungry reporters.

"What evidence do you have, Sir Isaac?"

"I'm not at liberty to say until after the investigation."

He would definitely have less liberty dead.

"Mr. Umber, before today Lestrange's assets have never been frozen despite being a known Death Eater. The Ministry has been trying to make the goblins do that for years and failed. How did you convince the goblins to do it?"

He smiled and replied with a glint in his eye, "Goblins are free beings and their decisions are without external influence. I merely pointed out that whoever it was who robbed Gringotts had to know it was not to be tolerated."

And the goblins actually considered it?

"Do you think the Death Eaters will attack Gringotts?"

"I think Mrs. Lestrange is reasonable. She runs a business; she needs money to do that, it will not benefit her to take down our banking institution that has protected her interests for so long."

Honor and respect among fellow thieves.

"Will she kill or negotiate?"

"It's hard to speculate and I wouldn't want to second guess such a brilliant mind.”

Both. Definitely both.

"Why are you risking your life by implicating the Death Eaters and giving Gringotts evidence against Lestrange?"

"I did not have much of a choice. I was going to be charged with a crime I did not commit. I have my name and my family's reputation to protect."

After his answer, he begged off other questions and made his way out to the lobby. Some reporters continued to hound him until he Disapparated just outside the bank.

Ginny stayed back, thinking about the briefing and his interview earlier that day. She had listened to and observed him during his exchange with reporters. Umber knew exactly what he was doing, he knew exactly what he would tell the goblins during the interrogation and he got his wish - Bellatrix Lestrange with murder in her eyes. This was personal and Lestrange would make sure he would suffer a long and painful death.

She went through random thoughts about the robbery...Lestrange was retiring...needs money to finance retirement party...robs Gringotts...possible Bruin framed for crime...Bruin fights back to rain on Lestrange's retirement parade?

The question that still begged to be answered was why would Lestrange want Umber to take the fall for Gringotts? She obviously thought the goblins would sentence him and that she would get away with it. But it was not like her to do something cowardly like steal and then not take the credit for it, even if it meant she was taking from the goblins. And she looked but did not find any other connection between Lestrange and Umber. What would it gain Umber to risk his life to get Lestrange in trouble with the goblins?

I have my name and my family's reputation to protect.

Ginny didn't notice until then that her heart was pounding harder. That was what the anti-potion Bruins pledged to do. Farfetched but not totally impossible.

Was Lestrange a threat to what the Bruins were trying to protect?

She was too close to this and needed an objective pair of eyes to tell her if she was overreaching. She thought about calling Hermione to run it by her. That and she was curious how things were going with Harry.

As soon as she got out onto Diagon Alley, she took out her mobile phone but before she could place a call saw that there was a message on it. She listened, couldn't help by break into a smile as she heard Hermione's concerned voice. It was good that she thought things were bad...nowadays it was the law of opposites with her. But what the heck were they doing in an art gallery? And did she say Bruins or Ruins?

She called her. It rang...and it rang...

As Ginny waited patiently for Hermione's voicemail to pick up, she glanced at the giant time teller above the Gringotts entrance. It was a good thing the Umber proceedings ended earlier than expected. She had some time. She wanted to drop by Hogwarts to attend a funeral; a house elf's.

XXXXXXXXX

Sometime just before that, at a magical potions lab somewhere north of Toronto, Harry was trying his best to stay awake. It seemed that the two days of sleep deprivation had finally taken its toll. It did not help that he was by himself in a cozy, warm observation booth listening to piped in elevator music and was relegated to being a spectator as Hermione did all the work inside the Level 5 lab. He tried to convince her that he could help but she refused, telling him she needed him to stay outside just in case something bad happened and she couldn't leave the lab on her own.

Was he worried about her safety? Yes. But when she told him she needed a Level 5 lab and was going to take the potion apart he knew it would be dangerous. As much as he was concerned, she was the best person to do it and he understood why she wanted to do this on her own.

Professor Tan had left them at his own private lab some time ago. He did not trust the Professor at all and neither did Hermione but they, in the interest of a nearing deadline, decided to press on and just be on the watch. He had scanned their perimeter and aside from a Muggle movie recorder he found running from within the room he was in, there had been no further attempts to spy on them.

It took a while for Hermione to set up the Professor's lab the way she wanted it set up and he took the opportunity to put in a call to Kingsley. Harry filled him in about the events in the last couple of days, Floyd, the disruption that seemed to be planned at the research conference, and what Hermione was attempting to do. It was good that Kingsley knew about his history with Floyd and the elusive purple potion.

He fought against indignation to rub it in Kingsley's face that he had been right all along. For one, Kingsley had admitted that the MLE from both Toronto and London dropped the ball on this and had an almost apologetic tone throughout their conversation. There was also the fact that there was nothing to gain by not working with him. Kingsley shared with him ongoing events in London that potentially were related to the events in Toronto. There were low level crimes highly suggestive of Squib and Muggle use of a magic enabling potion, a recent interrogation confirming one such concoction was going around under the street name Vitamin Squib X or Vitamin X. There was also word out that Lestrange and the Death Eaters did not want anyone touching or using it, and those who had were made examples of. To add to that, Argus Filch had just been found dead; suffocating as he was forced to ingest a list of his Hogwarts rules. Losing a witness put a considerable damper on their Gringotts robbery investigation, which also pointed strongly to Lestrange.

Kingsley would know more when they met in about an hour and in the meantime, he suggested they avoid MLE contact until their meeting. He was clear; as a leader in the Order he was behind them but as the London Head Auror he would be hard-pressed to justify what they were currently attempting to do. Aside from Andy, who had already contacted him a few minutes earlier and was on her way to meet him, Harry had every intention to stay away from Toronto law enforcement.

Harry barely had time to think about his conversation with Kingsley when Hermione's phone started ringing. She had left it outside the lab and it was on the counter beside her purse.

Ginny. He remembered what she said the last time they spoke.

"You broke it, you should fix it."

"I'm trying to," he replied, "She won't let me."

"Stop making excuses."

Harry had planned to ask her for help with Hermione that time he was in London and she wouldn't cut him some slack. Ginny had known for a long time what this thing between Hermione and him was about, although he didn't know exactly how much she knew. His strained conversations with her even made him wonder if he knew everything she knew and whether or not what they knew were one and the same. Ginny confronted him right after Ron's death seeing right through how the tragedy wedged him and Hermione apart rather than bring them closer.

He wasn't sure how or when Ginny found out. Hermione must have told her. And even if Hermione didn't, having already concluded that his acceptance of the Auror position last year and immediate assignment to Toronto was about Hermione, it would not take much imagination on her part to take the extra leap about why Hermione did not want anything to do with him after Ron died.

Without giving her the Roy Hunt case details, he relented when she cornered him, admitting that he was the stranger who Hermione had an affair with and that Hermione found out from someone else. He was also really dying to tell someone and on hindsight, Ginny was probably the worst person to tell if he wanted sympathy. She already had a very jaded opinion of men who she trusted less than a used artifacts peddler in Knockturn Alley. He told her of how he and Ron had a fight about Hermione. There was some screaming and a lot of swearing, all on her part, and in the end, she had understandably sided with Hermione and with Ron. Ginny was never one to hide her emotions.

Months after, Ginny finally asked and let him tell her his side of the story. It was not as cathartic as he thought it would be because he could not tell her the entire truth either. There was indeed something to the saying that 'the truth will set you free.'

He looked upon the woman behind the glass window and felt the usual throb in his chest. For him, the only person who had to know the absolute truth was Hermione. Not that she could possibly know but he had been waiting a long time for her to hear him out and to release him of its burden, although he recognized that she was under no obligation to do that.

Now that they were talking again, it seemed very possible that he would get his chance. He was hopeful and cautious of the opportunity at the same time. For sure, he would go ahead and tell her if she allowed him, but he had to be prepared for unwanted outcomes. What if telling her everything did not bring about the healing that he so wished for? What if the truth wasn't enough?

Harry let Hermione's phone ring. In a previous life he would have picked up but he was an outsider now, more plainly so as she reminded him about why she was in Toronto and what she wanted that she couldn't get. What if after telling her the truth she still did not want him back in her life? What if she still wanted him to leave her alone?

He would find out the answer to that sooner or later but for now, it was about the potion. Hermione was just about to start. She had added a few extra rows of magical shields around the glass enclosure she was going to put the potion in and a few more surrounding the room.

"I'm ready," she said out loud, knowing he would be listening through the two-way open intercom.

"All set," he replied; she could hear him, too.

He watched her at work. She took out the Floyd phials from her repaired robes pocket and brought the potion up to eye level.

"Purple potion, clear with no visible residues, contained in a dragon washing reinforced Romanian phial," she described what she saw for the log file that they were creating.

Hermione put the full and empty unbreakable phials inside the working space, secured the top lid and inserted her hands into gloves that mimicked the pair of artificial ones inside of the compartment. It would allow her to manipulate the potion without having to touch it and gave her protected access.

"Slowly uncorking phial with potion…"

They waited and not five seconds later, a purple mist hissed from its small mouth, she had to immediately re-cork it. He looked at one of the screens on the panel in front of him, hit the zoom button and knew that if not for Hermione's anticipation of the possibility a lot more of the potion would have evaporated.

"It must not like air. We need the compartment to be in a vacuum."

He found a lever he had noticed before.

"Hang on," he said to her as he pulled it and an indicator light saying air-tight lit on the bottom right of the glass box.

After some time, the light stayed on and she continued. She unsealed the phial again and this time it did not evaporate. She tried the obvious.

"Specialis Revelio!"

Hermione let out an involuntary sigh. Scarpin's Revelaspell did not work. She did say it was unlikely to be that easy. After manually transferring half the potion to the empty unbreakable phial, she re-corked both, opened the top lid, retrieved one of them, and put it in her pocket.

"Saving some for the Ministry?" he asked as she replaced the cover, resealing it air tight.

"Trying to keep our options open," she answered.

The next series of wand motions were not familiar to him. Her intense expression said it all; it was going to be a challenge. When that seemed not to work either, she halved the working potion further, putting some back into the other unbreakable phial that stayed with her. There was not much concoction to work with and the refilling charm was also ineffective.

She summoned a container of reddish liquid from one of the desks and she braced herself as she introduced a drop of it into the phial.

Boom!

The lab immediately filled with purple smoke as the addition caused a muffled explosion. He was on his feet quickly and about to barge into the lab but her calm voice rang from somewhere within the room even before he could call out her name.

"I'm okay. Just stay back."

A vacuuming sound came from the ceiling and the mist started to dissipate. He had to see for himself that she was fine.

"Where are you? What happened?"

The cloud lifted and he saw her picking herself up a few feet away from where she last stood, wand in hand. Hermione had a magical protective shield on that she must have conjured just before she did what she did. It was probably something that had happened to her before.

There were shards of glass everywhere as the blast broke every breakable thing within five feet of the phial. The top lid of the glass enclosure had blown off to a corner but the potion container itself was intact.

"It didn't like me amplifying it," she answered. The way she said it reminded him how she treated potions like they had minds of their own. "That was really amateurish."

She was visibly upset at herself. The unbreakable phial was intact but the potion in it was gone. She paced around the more undamaged parts of the lab.

"Don't worry about it," he tried to make her feel better, "And if you end up using all of it to get answers, you should go ahead. We've gone this far and really, the phial is one of many. Another would surely turn up."

"I'm really hoping that wouldn't ever happen," Hermione said in frustration and talked as she flipped cupboards open and close, searching for something. She addressed the potion, "So, you are special. You won't magically reveal yourself and you won't allow magical reproduction or amplification. But I wonder…"

She found was she was looking for from one of the dusty cupboards way out in the corner. He recognized the contraptions; they were definitely Muggle. Once again, she halved the remaining potion, placed one phial snugly inside a centrifuge and put both the Muggle device and the potion within it back inside the protective airtight container, replacing the lid. The centrifuge whirled around at a fast clip as Hermione set how rapid and timed how long the revolutions were going to be, decanting drops of the less thick portions into several clear test tubes at each stop. He had an inkling of what she was trying to do and she confirmed.

"Seeing as I've tried magic and it didn't work, I'm hoping this will."

This was how Muggles would do it. It was a shot. She then lined up a few microscopes and began preparing specimen slides from the decanted fluids. As she was doing this Andy arrived.

Andy dumped an armful of books and reading materials on the counter in front of him and took one look at the destruction from within the observation room.

"I never liked science experiments. What happened?”

"We just had a contained explosion," Harry replied and recanted what Hermione had done so far.

"That explains doing it the Muggle way," Andy said then asked, insensitively, “”So, how are things with her? Have you managed to get her off her high horse and kiss her senseless yet?”

He immediately blushed like an inexperienced teenager and sputtered like one, “Um…Andy…”

"And don’t you believe her when she tells you she doesn’t want it because she so obviously does…“ breaking glass interrupted her monologue, beaker and several test tubes, prompting Andy to doubt Hermione’s skill at Muggle experiments, “Does she know what she's doing?"

"She knows what she's doing."

Hermione answered back dryly as she quickly cleaned her mess up and perused the first slides, comparing it with reference images on one of the working computers inside the room.

"Good," Andy replied, then mouthed a sentence and gesticulated to Harry, "I need to talk to you in private."

He shut off the sound input from their side.

"That was embarrassing. Why didn't you warn me that she could hear us?"

And he had to do that because he knew what she was going to say? Andy continued before he could answer.

“Well, it’s true. Stuck up Brit. She should just do what she wants, have sex with you and get it over with because this tension between you two can’t be good for case objectivity and concentration.”

Andy sure did not mince with words. From Hermione’s reaction this morning he doubted that was really what she wanted. He did wish Hermione had Andy’s more practical approach.

“You think she wants to have sex with me?”

“For someone who has been with a lot of women you certainly don’t know women.”

“How do you figure that she does?”

“Harry, my slutty grandmother was part Veela. I learned and inherited a lot from her. Trust me, despite what you did to her, she wants you.”

He was still skeptical and besides, he was aiming for her to want more than just sex from him.

“Right about now she already knows we’re talking about her behind her back, probably wondering what about...don’t touch that and let her!”

Andy smacked his hand away as he reached for the switch. She was crazy.

“I’m trying to rebuild trust here,” he tried to explain.

Something broke again. Hermione looked upset as she repaired it. An Erlenmeyer flask. How he remembered that, was amazing.

“She already trusts you; she said so herself. Now let her prove it. You’re not doing anything wrong which brings us back to my first point about your impaired objectivity,” Andy’s voice took a more serious tone. "The phials from Romania, they were ordered and received by a Healer from St. Mungo's. I'll give you one guess which Healer it is."

First Floyd and now, the phials. More and more it seemed that Hermione was a part of this case in more ways that they thought she was. It also troubled him that the evidence of a definite London connection pointed to her.

On the other hand, the conversation he just had with Kingsley made more sense now. The potion supply was coming from London and likely involved the Death Eaters. Were Lestrange and Floyd in this together? What about the other woman Floyd was working for last year?

He rose to Hermione’s defense.

"There's a logical explanation for that."

"Of course there is."

"She probably didn't know."

"Sure. She didn't know that she ordered fifteen hundred Ministry regulated special phials and Merlin knows how many of them are missing."

"I trust her. She's above suspicion," he said to Andy firmly. "Now drop it and let's move on."

"Fine," Andy finally said, but he could sense her still doubting his judgment, which she probably thought was hormone influenced.

Slightly miffed at her distrust, he forcibly flipped the intercom switch back on.

“What else did you find out from the MLE?”

“The Squib witness at the diner does not exist. The name he gave the hit wizards was bogus.”

“Great,” he said, exasperated at yet another dead end, “Why did it take so long for them to respond to the commotion at the alley?”

“There was an active permit for a mock exercise filed by another phantom this morning. Until I called Jack, the Ministry thought it was some drill.”

“And Floyd?”

“An all portraits alert has been sent out and we’re monitoring every Muggle and Magical Hospital we have a presence in.”

Floyd would be too smart for that.

"What about Jack?"

"Pissed as hell. I had to convince him the car wreck was necessary, admit that I got blindsided by your yet to be identified accomplice, lose the tail he put on me without being obvious and then I had to line up to get a fucking library card. Do you know how long it has been since I’ve been in a Muggle library?" Andy complained, "But from what I’ve read so far, some of these Bruins are absolutely nuts."

Andy had been looking at the screens on the panel in front of them which were now linked to the microscopes and the specimens mounted inside the lab. Harry did the same as more slides filled the screen. Each image looked different. All he could tell from his limited knowledge of Muggle biology from before he attended Hogwarts was that they all looked like cells.

"Fuck...I think I'm going to be sick..."

Obviously, Andy knew more than him. He looked over to where his partner was, just in time to see her ashen expression disappear into the nearby trash bin followed by retching noises. That was the second time today he saw her do that. She was having a really tough day. In the meantime, Hermione had joined them in the observation booth. He could already tell what they had before them was not good.

"What is it?" he asked Hermione, who had almost the same troubled look on her face as Andy had.

She pointed at one particular image on the screen.

"These spindle shaped structures interposed side by side are smooth muscles cells," she explained, then moved on to a magnified image, "It's typical of heart muscle and it's not human. This particular one belongs to a house elf."

XXXXXXXXXX

Draco Malfoy was reviewing a magical being case that he had just volunteered to take on. The file was thick and he did not have a lot of time to study it.

It was a challenge to concentrate. She left him a message to tell him Mexico was on hold. She said she had a personal emergency to attend to. She was in Toronto. There was no surprise there.

He really had to study the file. It did not help that the Death Eater mark continued to pester him despite the use of the numbing potion.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

Her voice was always cold; her words, no matter what she said, biting. He did not look up to see who it was. He did not have to.

“I’ve been busy,” came his terse reply.

Her coming to see him was expected. He knew that there were limits to her patience and she forced him to give her his undivided attention.

“Now, now Draco, where are your manners? That’s not the way to talk with your favorite aunt.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Sir Isaac Umber was in his London office. Gringotts went better than expected. Things were going to move very fast and he had to act before Bellatrix Lestrange decided it was time to deal with him. He took out a Bruin medallion from his breast pocket and signaled for an urgent meeting.

As he did, a familiar yellow owl impatiently tapped on his glass window. The contact was unanticipated. Umber took the note from its leg and read it carefully.

Interesting.

Dear Bruin Elder,

You have a traitor in your midst. I suggest you clean house.

The Potion Master

Not long after he read it, his medallion pulsated, sending out bright red sparks at his touch. Another emergent Elder Council assembly, no doubt to discuss this first direct communication from the Potion Master to the Bruin Elders and what it meant that he knew exactly who all of them were.

What was the Potion Master up to?

He read the piece of parchment again. A traitor.

Sir Isaac Umber was well aware that there was a Bruin defector amongst them but the turncoat he was most concerned about wasn’t the young, brown haired man whose image kept reflecting off the Potion Master’s letter.

A/N. Warning - really gory execution scene.

---

Chapter 43 - The Execution of the Blood Rat

Just outside of London at an abandoned meat processing factory, Dennis Creevey was swearing to himself as he waited in the cold for her, wondering what it was that she wanted. He was pissed at being her errand boy and was sick and tired of being at her beck and call. At least Lestrange paid more. The danger he put himself through everyday was really not worth it and he had enough.

He had met the witch almost two years ago at a research conference in Toronto. He was struggling with his career, making illegal permanent love potions for a living and was looking for employment. The witch was head of the magical research division at a Detroit Hospital and was looking for assistants. One of the screening questions was to write an essay about a children's book called the Story of the Magic Pill. His knowledge of it was from the bedtime story his Mum read to him and his brother Colin up until she died just before he turned six. He must have aced it for he got an immediate appointment for an interview.

Creevey did not enjoy working for her but he had to. She was family; he saw evidence of his ancestry, that his mother was in fact a Squib and not a Muggle as everyone believed she was and he could not turn away. It was his destiny, he was told, to be one of those who would help bring this change in the world to fruition. He was needed to protect Sophie Bruin's legacy, to break down social barriers and inequalities that Squibs and Muggles were subjected to, by helping in the search for and to guard the Bruin cursed who would make the potion the way it was meant to be made.

Fine, that was how it was sold to him but he never did buy into the nonsense. Magic was supposed to make life easier, and at that time, there was nothing in his life that was. Desperate, he was in it for the money, although there was no point for everyone else to know that. And when he was asked to work for Granger to keep an eye on her, he thought nothing of it, especially not after those he was taking orders from started taking orders from Lestrange.

As he thought, it was hogwash. He didn't really care if the purple potion was produced the way it was being produced now. The more chaos it created, the more opportunities to make money. What did he care? It was not his war and he didn't need the potion. The Squibs and the magical beings could figure it out. And the extra dough poisoning Granger to keep Lestrange happy was the least he could do for her allowing him to stay alive. He was a half blood, tolerated by Lestrange because Granger was foolish enough to trust an old schoolmate. What was he supposed to do? Say 'no' to the Death Eater?

He liked Granger. She was decent but, unfortunately, cursed. It had been years since the Hogwarts Sorting Hat thought him courageous enough to make him a Gryffindor but dying for someone else was never his idea of bravery. And to be honest with himself, he was not the same person in Hogwarts. Life in the real world had made him, well, a heartless bastard.

The witch was late as she always was, always expecting people to wait for her. He despised her arrogance.

A series of pops suddenly broke through the chilly air and before he could draw his wand out to protect himself, he was bound and gagged by at least four hooded figures. Panic took over. He struggled with all his might, kicking and screaming for naught, as he was carried off into a large room deep into the empty building.

His captors remained cold and expressed no emotion, none of them even peered through their hoods to give him the opportunity to identify them and beg for his life. The sign on the door caught his eye as they entered.

REFUSE and SCRAPS

He began to sweat fear as he saw the huge rust covered Muggle contraption before him. They set him down on an icy, rectangular tiled table right in front of it; one of them directed a very bright yellow light at him as another manually pressed a button. Loud whirring echoed and bounced around the hollow concrete walls as the machine roared to life and the wide mouthed funnel up on its pinnacle vibrated wildly, as if begging to be fed.

"Please..."

Creevey pleaded over the noise, deciding to concentrate his energies to reason with his foes rather than fight in futility. One of them summoned a rat scampering in the shadows and dropped it into the funnel. Its short-lived squeal was replaced by a brief grinding sound and seconds later, a reddish thick liquid trickled from the connecting trough into a collection drum. Merlin!

"Please…don't kill me…I'll do anything…anything that you want…" he quivered as his mind faltered.

"It's too late to beg for your life," a man answered. His voice was familiar. Quincy, her right hand man. "You should have thought about that before you betrayed your own flesh and blood."

"Quincy, no! You don't understand…"

"You were supposed to protect her."

"I did…I was…"

"Loyalty above all else."

He noticed the Bruin insignia on the sleeve of his robe, the badger with a ferocious and wicked expression.

"Lestrange was going to kill me!"

"You should have let her. She would have been kinder."

With those words, Quincy nodded to an extraordinarily large man, the half giant Hughes, who lumbered over to where he was. Creevey tried to fight back once more but it was useless.

"Let me see. Where should we start?"

Quincy pointed his wand and Creevey's pants became undone, his underwear vanished into thin air. He was trembling from within, incredulous at what was happening and in disbelief at what was about to happen to him.

He mocked what he saw, "Jeez, Creevey. Looking at this I almost feel sorry for you. I even wonder if it’s worthy enough to be the place the start."

"Symbolic, if you ask me," one of Quincy's henchmen answered, "Considering how dickless he's acted all this time."

It was decided. Over the next five minutes, he screamed in agony as his captors slowly tore him up into little bits and pieces starting with his least vital appendage, one of them stemming the bleeding, keeping him alive and conscious as long as they could. And after each harvest, they made him watch parts of him go into the funnel in a solid state and come out the other way liquid.

Dennis Creevey was too defeated and too weak to cry out as the Bruins, left with nothing else to rip off, tossed his dismembered head and trunk into the grinding machine.

XXXXXXXXXX

The amount of security, conjured and otherwise, present at the Toronto Ministry of Magic on Queen Street that Thursday morning was astounding. There was a lot of cursing going around as unplanned trips and high level meetings that involved the Supreme Mugwump in combination with any Minister for Magic always brought about an inordinate amount of stress to those responsible for their protection. Thankfully, they were rare and far between.

The gathering was in the unfixed, constantly changing, currently sixth floor conference room of the Ministry. It was exactly eleven a.m. when Ecruminus Brown appeared in one of the seats marked with the names of the invitees to the Potter meeting, the room set to receive only those who were called. The attendees all appeared simultaneously, transported magically by the pull of the enchanted room from wherever in the world they were.

Being the Squib leader for quite a number of years, Ecruminus had met each of the individuals in the room at one point in his life, but never in such an intense atmosphere. Harry Potter and his friend, Hermione Granger, had just been taken into Ministry custody. The Toronto contingent moved immediately after Granger produced the less than half filled phial that he currently had in his hand. Their London counterparts were upset and barbs were being exchanged all over the place. He found the scene disturbing and the squabbling did not auger well for what he had hoped they would accomplish.

"They should be let go!" the visiting Auror Shacklebolt insisted.

"They committed crimes against our Ministry!" replied his Toronto counterpart, Muller, "They cannot go unpunished!"

"They are not the enemy! He acted appropriately based on past experience and she was merely helping a friend!"

"They are loose cannons! Why are you protecting them?! Are they your spies?!"

"Get a grip! There are spies in your Ministry but it's not them. And considering what happened last year, he should not have trusted you with the fact that he found the phial!"

Minister Scrimgeour interrupted, "Kingsley, that's enough!"

"Are you suggesting I'm incompetent?!"

Minister Truelove tried to rein in her Auror, too, "Jack, I do not think Mr. Shacklebolt meant that…"

"You said it; I didn't. You had your chance with Floyd last year and you bungled it. This would be over had you done a better job!"

Wands were drawn and he was about to dive under the table had he not seen the Supreme Mugwump summon their weapons to avert the duel.

"This is why I never had a desire to have children," the grey bearded man commented calmly. "I am hopeful the Ministries can settle the matter of who will get punished, who punishes, and what is reasonable, in a more civil manner. I do suggest that we move on with the more important matter at hand."

Sensing all attention coming to him, he gingerly put the phial at the centre of the table and watched it with the rest. He could not believe he would live to see the day to actually see Grandma Sophie's potion. It did give him a sense of pride that not only was it created by a Squib, it was by his grandmother. That quickly mellowed, put in perspective about what it took to create it.

"The Squib Holy Grail," the Canadian Head of the Department of Mysteries, Gillian Bellow, said under her breath with eager anticipation, "I can't wait to do tests."

"We will do it together, of course," her English counterpart, Unspeakable Hush interjected.

"I hate to point this out but neither of you should. In fact, nobody should," Healer Lana Hama, the Headmistress of the Global Registry of Potionmakers, spoke.

Minister Truelove stressed, "Healer Granger's testimony of what is in it is not enough."

Minister Scrimgeour countered, "I assure you that Healer Granger is highly competent and the reason why she is on our Department of Mysteries retainer. If she says that's what's in the potion, that's what's in the potion."

"She could be the best at what she does but she is not infallible," Minister Truelove replied, "We need at least one confirmatory test and it would be easier if you help us force her to share with us how she did it."

"I'm telling you, none of us should. It is a confirmed Class F potion by a member of the Potionmaker Registry. Section 55 of the International Declaration Against the Experimentation of Magic Enabling Potions, Artifacts and Devices clearly states that any such potion does not require validation, is to be considered as Class F and should be destroyed within a reasonable amount of time," Healer Hama further explained.

"Is that true?" the Canadian Minister turned to her Unspeakable.

"I'm afraid so."

Unspeakable Hush added, "But it was a rule created many years ago and the spirit of the law has always been to protect all of us. In my opinion, safety concerns support us going ahead and finding out more about this potion. This is already on the streets as we speak. We have to be prepared."

"Section 55 is quite clear. The spirit of the law was to prevent someone like us taking it upon ourselves to interpret it any other way," the Potion Headmistress countered.

"Healer Hama is right," the Supreme Mugwump said, "Saying that, the International Confederation of Wizards created the law based on theory and principle. The dire circumstances of the purple potion’s existence and impending global distribution may now supersede what was an ideal. Is the health danger posed by an unknown, unproven potion more important than the threat of finding out more about it and its magic enabling properties? Hah! Interesting! I will call for an immediate review and anticipate a lively discussion. It is a worthwhile exercise for us to rethink conflicting priorities."

The Supreme Mugwump seemed too enthused for his comfort.

Minister Scrimgeour said, "I am most interested about what more it can do, to prepare our men who will face those who use it."

It was his turn.

"I oppose any human testing until the potion passes lower level safety tests. I will not agree to Squibs being guinea pigs until then."

"But that could take weeks!"

"Months even! Depending on when we will be allowed to experiment on it!"

The Unspeakables said one after the other in frustration. Should he say that was the point?

"That may be a priority to you but we should not forget the more pressing matter that requires urgent attention, preventing further distribution of the potion. I know it will be difficult but I look to the MLE and the Auror Offices to do everything in their power to neutralize this Squib Floyd."

"I agree, Ecruminus," Healer Hama concurred. "We will have a bigger problem in our hands once use becomes widespread that this hits the press. What about the Bruins?”

Shacklebolt answered, “We all know they will deny their involvement. There is no point to beat a bush that’s been beaten before.”

Muller replied, “True. At the moment, we are working towards the same goal but if they get in the way, we will make arrests.”

Bellow asked, “Should we alert the magical being leaders?"

"I think we should," Minister Truelove opined, "It is important for them to know that they can trust us, that we are against such a potion, that we would like to work with them to keep it off the streets."

"Their current leader doesn't and will never trust witches and wizards. Such news will only incite him and his people into a state of unrest, unnecessary at this point when nothing is certain yet," that was Minister Scrimgeour, "We all know he is looking for reasons to declare war."

All eyes were turned to the Supreme Mugwump who said to them, "We'll wait, for now. I know what you mean, Rufus. I dread the chaos that will ensue if my magical being counterparts learn of this. At this point we may still be able to stop it on our own."

Ecruminus agreed. Such pandemonium would be needless but he could not help but think how magical beings were once again being excluded. Wizards and witches always arrogantly assumed they had all the correct answers.

The Mugwump continued, "Nonetheless, I trust apprehending the Squib and those he is in cahoots with will be the MLE's priority. I'm not one to overstep my role but perhaps, instead of arresting Mr. Potter and Healer Granger, asking for their assistance on the matter would be the wiser road to take."

Ecruminus was so ecstatic about the outcomes of the meeting he had to remind himself not to smile. He could not have wished for anything more.

Little did he know that there was another Bruin in the room who was thinking the very same thing.

XXXXXXXXXX

Hermione paced impatiently within the confines of an interrogation room. She was alone, left there to await further questioning after both she and Harry were taken away from the meeting. They expected that to happen, and she thought she was quite prepared for it. But all the waiting and uncertainty was getting on her nerves.

Did they believe them? What were they planning to do? Were they under arrest?

Harry had come up with alibis for them, simple enough that they were believable. His excuse was based on a mesh of their combined thoughts about the events of that morning; that the attempt to steal the phial from them at the diner reminded him of the cover-up of last year (his), that he called the meeting to make sure all those who needed to know knew that the potion existed (hers), hoping that would lessen the chances of there being another one (his), and that the most rational decision would be made about it (hers).

On the other hand, the defense he came up for her was a blatant lie; she supposedly did it as a favour for an old friend she just happened to be visiting, not knowing where the potion came from or that it was proof on some active case. That could not have been farther from the truth; it was her who 'persuaded' Harry to tamper with the evidence. This was her fault and if there was anyone who should be punished it would be her. She had no problem telling the truth about that and it was unthinkable for her to fib to get Harry in more trouble than he already was.

She argued with him as he insisted. In the end, Harry appealed to her common sense. Unless they lied they would go to prison, her especially considering the phial could be traced back to her, and even she agreed this was not the time to be incarcerated. Being the trusting, oblivious, gullible friend to an Auror who had good intentions seemed to be the best story they could come up with on such a short notice.

It floored her when Harry said that based on serial numbers, the unbreakable phials were part of the lot she ordered a few days ago. She couldn’t believe it but she couldn’t think of a reason why someone would want to frame her for it. It being some mistake also rang false as it would be too much of a coincidence. She tried calling Dennis but couldn’t get a hold of him. She was going to ask if there was something unusual about the order, some mix up, and maybe to check if the ones they still had in the lab were indeed the Romanian unbreakable ones that they were supposed to get. Andy agreed to keep it off the record while they checked into that.

If the phials were being ordered through St. Mungo’s and it very likely was, then the potion was being produced in London and pieces were falling into place. She had cried the moment she saw evidence of centaur and goblin tissue in the specimen they had. Even Harry thought the very same thing at the lab though neither of them could mention the names of the centaur and goblin they had on their minds. It wasn’t until Kingsley spoke of the strange murder of Firenze and the disappearance of Ragnok at the meeting that it became real.

More and more she was beginning to feel uneasy about all the odd connections that the case seemed to have with her. It was as if she was destined to be in Toronto at that particular moment, that even if the Order had not asked her to persuade Harry to come back, she would have still been involved in this. Her problem was she never really believed in this kind of a preset course that others referred to as destiny.

A pang of guilt washed over her again as she thought about what she got Harry into. She was anxious about it. What if his 'good intention' was not reason enough for the Canadian Ministry to look the other way? What if all that she feared he would get as punishment would come true?

As Hermione seriously considered retracting her previous statement, the door suddenly swung open, startling her. A parade of individuals walked in. Aside from Harry, Kingsley and Harry's Toronto boss, Jack Muller, she did not recognize the two others with them. They looked like Aurors.

Hermione looked at Harry's expression, sensing he had just been in a heated argument and was not happy about something. It was difficult to read anything more into his expression. She glanced briefly over to Kingsley who gave her an imperceptible nod of reassurance. She was in the clear, but what about Harry?

"Am I under arrest?" she asked Muller.

Muller spoke in a firm tone, "No, you're not. In as much as I know you and Mr. Potter here are lying about the extent of your involvement in the matter, I have no proof."

"Are you under arrest?" she asked Harry.

He didn't answer and she could tell he was still simmering beneath the calm front he was putting up.

"No, but he will be subject to a disciplinary hearing at a later time," Muller replied for him, "Healer Granger, we have a proposal we would like you to consider."

Harry shook his head slightly, telling her that she should say 'no'. She turned to Muller.

"A proposal?"

"We understand that Floyd tried to abduct you earlier today. You probably are already aware that the last time you were in Toronto, he and his brother wanted something from you, which we think they never got."

"I'm listening."

"We need to bring Floyd down and we think he will come after you again. We need your help to draw him out into the open."

Hermione could feel all eyes on her, more Harry's than anyone else's. She now understood why he shook his head.

"And what would I have to do?"

"We would like you to stay in Toronto until the end of the Research Conference, attend some talks and perhaps give the one you were invited by the organizers to give. Also, you would have to allow us to intrude upon your privacy and provide you with protection."

Muller stopped talking. She did not even have to think. Her answer was well formed the moment she realized what they were asking her to do and why. Capturing Floyd was key to getting to the potion supplier, to end this before it got out of hand.

Just to cover her bases, she asked Kingsley, "What do you think?"

Kingsley replied, "We need Floyd to get to everyone else. It's dangerous, but it's our only lead right now. You know what can happen if we don't stop Floyd."

With Kingsley thinking the same thing she was, she was more comfortable making the decision.

"What about me? Aren't you going to ask me what I think?"

Harry was definitely irked that she didn't. She didn't have to.

"I already know what you think."

"But I guess what I think doesn't count,” Harry countered pointedly.

Actually, it did, but it wasn’t the time or place to admit to something personal like that. He already knew what her answer was, too, and she wished he would not fight it. When she didn’t say anything, he carried on.

“They're using you just like they did last year. You're going to be bait!"

Floyd was already after her; what difference did it make? It was an opportunity and even if she was bait, at least now, she was an informed one. He must have read her mind.

"Yes, Floyd needs you for something. But you should get protection and lie low, not dangle yourself in public and dare him to make a move," Harry continued, "You've heard what he can do. None of us in this room can guarantee your safety and the next time he comes after you, we might not be as lucky."

And did he really think she would decline because of that?

"I'll do it…" she said to Muller, ignoring Harry's ongoing frustration, "…but only if you grant me two things."

"Just two?" Muller replied, raising his eyebrows.

"I want full access to case files on anything concerning and related to Tom Floyd,” she said and explained to wipe the ‘why’ expression on Muller’s face, “I might find something in it that will tell me what he wants from me and that might give you an idea of what he’s up to."

That was mostly the truth although she had a more private motive. She also wanted to know the official version of the events of last year. It was going to be difficult, but it was time to face the facts. She imagined she and Harry would have a more in-depth discussion about the past soon and she preferred to have more objective information when they did.

"Fair enough. That should not be a problem," Muller answered, "And the other?"

She thought it was worth a shot.

"Drop all the charges against Harry; I want your Ministry’s word that there will be no disciplinary hearing and none of it goes on his record."

Hermione tried not to meet Harry’s intense gaze but failed. She did not want to see him look at her like that. She was going to risk her life anyway so she might as well get as much from it as she could. What was the big deal about her trying to do something nice for him?

XXXXXXXXXX

It was already dark out when the Potion Master arrived in Toronto. After dropping off his suitcase at a Downtown hotel, he quickly Disapparated to a home in Willowdale where he met up with Quincy, Hughes and the witch who was their Bruin leader.

“Is it done?” he asked.

“The rat has been, um…liquidated.”

“Good. And the unexpected problem?”

“Contained. We’ve asked family in Romania to make sure the phials don’t lead to her.”

“Good.”

“How did the meeting go?”

“Just as we planned. Section 55 has been repealed by the International Confederation of Wizards, Healer Granger is set to attend the conference and Tilden Toots has confirmed for Day 1.”

“Excellent.”

“Bellatrix has yet to be informed.”

“I will let her know. Now, if only we can keep Floyd from messing this all up.”

“Someone mentioned my name?” an icy tone came within one of the rooms and Floyd appeared at the doorway, mocking him as he had in the past. “I thought that voice sounded familiar. Hail, the Potion Master!”

The Potion Master matched his frosty reception. He disliked Floyd but the Squib was a necessary evil if he wanted to succeed.

“Tom,” he greeted the man on crutches, “I heard you injured yourself for nothing.”

“I was doing fine until that bitch Marsh ran me over. I thought we could benefit from having Granger at our disposal sooner, you know, soften her up a bit.”

Floyd tried to justify the misdeed that was not part of their plan. This deviation was troublesome.

”And I needed the practice,” Floyd added.

“I can’t argue with that. You could have Disapparated before the car crashed into you if you were more skilled.”

Or less stupid.

“I could have if you made a better potion.”

“Your little stunt just tripled security around her.”

“Once I get my legs back, that won’t matter. I’ll be able to take on a roomful of Aurors, Potter included.”

This gung-ho attitude was an undesirable potion side effect.

“How many times do I have to tell you? You are not invincible.”

Floyd merely smiled, “Not yet.”

“Enough, you two!”

The witch intervened, reminding them both to put their differences aside and work together. They would, for now, but he would have to keep a closer eye on Floyd. Floyd was a git to begin with but he wondered if the potion was bringing that out even more. He would have to keep him on a tighter leash without him knowing it.

The Potion Master had to admit that Floyd’s prowess at harnessing the magical skills afforded by the Bruin potion was astounding considering that he developed it over a short period of time. He would have to decide soon how much longer he would allow his distant cousin to live.