Stranger Than Fiction

rowan37

Rating: G
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 23/06/2008
Last Updated: 26/08/2008
Status: completed

A story dealing with events in DH and after the epilogue, related from Professor McGonagall's perspective.

Chapters

1. An Unexpected Tale

2. Hermione's Visit

3. McGonagall Investigates

4. Harry's Visit

5. Letters and Lettings

6. Echoes from the Past

7. A Visit to the Ministry

8. Hermione's Tale

9. Harry's Tale

10. Epilogue

1. An Unexpected Tale

Stranger Than Fiction

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Part 1. An Unexpected Tale

I suppose that if they knew about us, one of the things that would most annoy Muggles about wizards and witches is that, providing we stay clear of accidents, we tend to have long and healthy lives. Obviously, that wasn’t the case for many during the two periods of Voldermort’s power, but it was generally true during the intervening years and again since his final demise. This has certainly been so in my case and I daren’t tell you how old I am now, but my health is still excellent, all things considered, and I am enjoying life greatly. This might surprise some of you, as you probably think of me as a sad old spinster, who only lived for her work and therefore expected that I would go into a decline the moment I gave up my post at Hogwarts. Not so. Staying at Hogwarts, with all of the sad memories and with Dumbledore gone, would have been the situation guaranteed to drive me into St. Mungo’s. Instead, getting out and starting a new life far away, surrounded by my books and with fresh challenges has been an invigorating and life enhancing experience.

My one regret is that I have lost touch with most of my old students and particularly with Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and the rest of that crowd. Someone told me the other day that Harry was still happily married to Ginny Weasley and Hermione to Ginny’s brother Ron some nineteen years after that final confrontation with Voldermort at Hogwarts. I have to confess that I find this very hard to believe. I heard about the marriages, although unfortunately I wasn’t able to attend either wedding, and so it is perfectly possible that they might still be together. But happy? I really doubt that, given what I know about those two relationships. You see I am in a fairly privileged position in that regard. Being the head of their house, I always had a special bond with Harry and Hermione and I think that they confided things to me that they probably hid from everyone else. That was certainly the case when they each came to see me to say their goodbyes, after I announced my departure from Hogwarts. They came separately and I don’t think that either of them knew about the other’s visit. I certainly didn’t tell them, although perhaps I should have.

I suppose that I need to make it clear that the person who gave me the news about my old student’s lives was a Muggle and she didn’t really tell me as such. In fact, she announced it to a whole room full of other Muggles, who I had incidentally joined incognito, because to her it was just the happy ending to a story that she had been reading. It is the absolute, if rather amazing, truth. She had read the brief details in a Muggle book and had no idea that she was talking about people who I actually know and care deeply about! But I must be confusing you, so let me explain exactly what happened.

I live fairly quietly now. I have a small, unremarkable house in a sleepy little wizarding community in the extreme south west of England – about as far from Hogwarts as you can get without actually crossing salt water. I chose the south west because, like my native Scotland, it has some outstandingly beautiful scenery and the peaceful, unhurried pace of life that I now find that I prefer. I don’t teach anymore, well apart from the occasional private session, but I keep myself very busy with a number of personal research projects. One of these involves investigating the factors that contribute to Muggle children developing magical abilities. This project is proving to be of great interest and has made me very popular on the after-dinner speaking circuit in southern England, a very lucrative little exercise I might add. In the interests of my research, I try to mix with Muggles and particularly Muggle educational establishments as much as possible and I pay fairly frequent visits to the Muggle towns and villages in my vicinity, going under the pseudonym of Miranda Montague. I like to think that I blend in quite well and I am thoroughly enjoying the subterfuge. As part of this work, I have joined a book club that meets once a month in a back room of a small public library in the nearest large town. I took this step after I found out that they had a special interest in reviewing works that deal with magic and folklore.

On the day in question, I had apparated to a quiet place behind the bus station, as usual, and walked down the high street to the library. The weather was quite cool and so I was wearing my favourite red tartan cloak with matching wrap around calf-length skirt and tamashanta. I had combined this with a comfortable pair of purple, flat-soled, suede knee length boots and a beautiful cerise silk, high-necked blouse that I obtained from a distinguished woman’s outfitters in London. I could tell that I was suitably attired because I noticed several admiring glances as I made my way. One gentleman, in particular, was so taken by my appearance that he completely forgot to look where he was going and walked straight into a lamppost. I am sure that he was not seriously hurt as he didn’t loose consciousness entirely, but was just jolted back and slid slowly to the pavement in a crumpled heap. However, I continued on and didn’t stop to enquire after his health. Sympathising with Muggles always leads to trouble in my experience.

The small room in the library was quite stuffy with all twelve of us crowded in and I quickly shed my cloak and hat, before seating myself on one of the hard wooden chairs provided. Our moderator, peering over half-rimmed spectacles, perched herself on the corner of the desk at the front of the room, swinging one leg to and fro, while using the other to support her fairly spindly frame. She got the meeting started and encouraged us to discuss the books that we had each been reading. One of the members of our group is a chubby, vociferous young woman with long, untidy blond hair who is called Melissa something or other. She reported, with great enthusiasm, that she had just finished reading a book entitled “The Deathly Hallows,” which was all about a young wizard boy called Harry Potter! Well, how I did not cry out audibly when she mentioned that name I will never know. But as she went on to briefly describe the events of the book, it all sounded horribly familiar and I sat uncomfortably trying to cover my confusion. She outlined a story that was a very rough account of events that I remember all too well. I was extremely glad that I had thought to use my Muggle alias when joining the book club as there was actually a character in the story called Minerva McGonagall, who was quite clearly a slightly overblown literary parody of my self. I could hardly believe my ears and you can be sure that I questioned Melissa very closely. It turns out that this book is the final volume in a series of seven, which has detailed the whole of Harry Potter’s time at Hogwarts! How and why the books have been written, I couldn’t quite comprehend. However, Melissa assured me that the series is extremely popular and has made the author a great deal of money. Who the author is and where she obtained her information, which, if Melissa’s account is to be believed, is reasonably accurate if a little melodramatic, I cannot possibly imagine. It was the strangest experience to hear these events related in Melissa’s breathless, excited voice and to pretend that I was as ignorant of the details described as the rest of the group.

“And what happened to them all at the end?” I asked eventually, with as casual a tone as I could manage.

“Well, that’s the interesting thing,” replied Melissa enthusiastically. “The story ends with Harry deciding to give up the Elder Wand and that really is a perfectly good end point. But then the author goes on to provide an epilogue that takes place 19 years later. I’m not quite sure what the purpose of it is as nothing really happens and it isn’t particularly interesting, but it shows that Harry is happily married to Ginny Weasley, you know that red-haired girl I mentioned a couple of times, and they have three kids. Hermione and Ron are also happily married and have two kids,” she concluded with a contented sigh.

The presence of the epilogue provoked a good deal of discussion in the group and most of us were in agreement that this was a poor literary device, as the reader should at least be left with some room for interpretation at the end of any good work of literature. One of the ladies said that it reminded her of those children’s stories that ended, “And they all lived happily ever after.” We had a good laugh over that comment.

I was perhaps the most sceptical of the group, obviously for my own undisclosed reasons. After all, I had known all about the marriages for a long time, although I had no notion about the number and names of any children involved in the unions. However, I had always thought that these marriages were a big mistake, brought about by the desperation followed by sudden joy and relief that had been part of that time and I never expected them to last.

“Are you sure that in this epilogue it said that they were all happy, Melissa?” I asked when the discussion had died down.

“Well, I suppose not in so many words,” she reluctantly agreed, “but that was certainly the impression that I was given,” she finished brightly.

So, perhaps things were not so clear cut after all. I could hardly believe that they were, given what I knew. But how could I be sure? When I got home that night I tried to remember as much about my final meetings with Hermione and Harry as I could. What I was able to recollect most clearly was that, beneath his outward bravado, Harry didn’t seem very happy, even though he was finally free of such a tremendous burden. As for Hermione, well as usual she spent most of her time with me talking about Harry. She tried to pretend that she was happy for him, now that he was safe and was dating Ginny Weasley, but I sensed that something was not quite right and she confessed as much, although she immediately denied it afterwards. There were a lot of things that were playing on Hermione’s mind about the months leading up to that final confrontation with Voldemort which she seemed eager to discuss and I was only too happy to provide her with a sympathetic ear.

2. Hermione's Visit

Stranger Than Fiction

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Part 2. Hermione’s Visit

Hermione had come to see me early in September, when things were beginning to settle back to some sort of strained normality. As soon as I had made my decision to leave Hogwarts, I had rented a small, two-bedroom house in Hogsmeade, just to get away from the school grounds, while I decided what I was going to do and where I was going to go. I remember that the weather had taken a turn for the worse that day. A strong, chill wind was coming in off the North Sea bending the trees, which were already shedding yellowing leaves, and driving angry grey clouds across a pale sky. I poked my head out of the door once during the late morning to take a look and retreated back inside for the remainder of the day, lighting the fire for the first time in months.

I had just completed a few routine household chores and was settling into my favourite armchair by the fire with a good book in the middle of the afternoon, when I heard a muffled knock on the door. Heaving myself reluctantly from my cosy position, I made my way out of the sitting room and along the narrow, undulating hallway. When I opened the dark, heavy oak front door, I found Hermione standing on the doorstep, surprisingly dressed in her old school uniform, complemented by a pair of grey woollen gloves in recognition of the cold bite in the air. She was carrying a stack of new-looking books under one arm. Due to the wind, her hair was even more bushy and unruly than normal and her cheeks and nose were a rosy pink.

“Hello Professor,” she said rather breathlessly, probably due to the weight of the books that she had been carrying. “I heard that you were staying here and I have just been doing some shopping,” at this point she gestured with her pile of books in case I might not have already noticed them, “and I thought that I would drop by to say hello.”

“Come in, come in dear,” I replied hesitantly, stepping back and holding the door fully open. “That way,” I pointed down the hallway, “and first door on your right.” I followed Hermione’s hunched figure into the sitting room and indicated the matching armchair across from my own.

“Eh, take off your robes dear and make yourself comfortable. Would you like a cup of tea or anything?”

“Oh, no thank you. I won’t stop for long but I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t leave without me having the chance to say goodbye,” she said, rather sadly I thought. “You were always my favourite teacher after all.”

“Well, that’s very nice of you to say so dear,” I replied, slightly flustered, slumping inelegantly down in my chair across from her. “Are you staying at Hogwarts?”

“I might as well,” she shrugged. “I’m just trying to catch up a bit on what I’ve missed. The last two years have hardly been ideal and I suppose that I ought to try to finish my education, although, to be honest, it doesn’t seem as important now as it once did. Anyway -” she started, brightening, “what are you going to do now?”

“I’m not really sure,” I confessed. “It just didn’t seem right for me to stay at Hogwarts. Things are changing and its time for a new guard to take over. The place isn’t the same without Professor Dumbledore. But don’t you worry about me. I have come through much greater challenges than this in my time and I am sure that I will soon come up with a brilliant new idea,” I finished with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

A silence settled over us and Hermione appeared to be deep in thought. The sound of the logs crackling in the fireplace seemed to intensify and I was suddenly conscious of the soft ticking of the carriage clock that was perched precariously on the rather erratic, wooden mantelpiece. “And… What about you dear?” I asked in an attempt to break the sombre mood that had suddenly descended upon us.

“Oh, I don’t know really,” she sighed. “As I said, I suppose I’ll complete my education, but after that I don’t really have any firm ideas. I know that I fretted over my OWLs but for the last three years so much of my time has been taken up with worrying about Harry Potter that life seems a bit empty now that it’s all over. Anyway, he has Ginny to worry about him now,” she said quietly, almost to herself. She looked up at me and I couldn’t help noticing a slight sparkle in her eyes. “It’s funny, but for the first time in ages I can actually just concentrate on what I want to do, but I’m not really sure what that is anymore.”

“Well, you are a very, very bright witch, Hermione,” I replied as positively as I could. “You certainly don’t want to waste your talents. They could be applied in all sorts of areas. I might add that you have shown yourself to be extremely determined and resourceful over the last few years. These are admirable qualities in anyone. It also doesn’t hurt that you are known to be a close friend of Harry Potter,” I added as an afterthought and then immediately regretted it.

“I was a close friend you mean,” Hermione responded regretfully. “I haven’t really seen Harry much lately. He spends most of his time with Ginny and gives Ron and me a wide berth. I suppose he doesn’t really need us as much now.”

“Oh, I am sure that isn’t the case, dear,” I said hurriedly, feeling uncomfortable with the direction that this conversation was taking. “But what about Mr.Weasley? I understood that you and he are seeing each other now.”

Hermione laughed briefly, possibly because she thought that my reference to her new relationship was a bit old fashioned, but that is how we described these things in my day. “Ron? Yes, it has always been me and Ron. Harry Potter’s side kicks.” She sounded remorseful. “It’s strange, we only really got to know each other through Harry, but then he always seemed to be off somewhere; mostly in detention, or playing Quidditch, or with one of his female admirers such as Cho Chang, or, to be fair, fighting for his life as often as not and then it was just me and Ron.” She sighed. “The thing is, Harry can be very stubborn and hot headed at times. Often, he wouldn’t listen to me and I always thought that I had a better chance of making him see sense if I could get Ron on my side as well. I am certain that is how I managed to persuade Harry into starting Dumbledore’s Army and there were lots of other times, I’m sure.” She paused, staring into the fire. “Ron’s OK. He drives me mad sometimes and he can be uncouth and uncaring but he has his good points and he seems to really like me, which is not something to be sniffed at. I think that I can understand him. I know what it’s like to live your life in Harry Potter’s shadow, although I was never really jealous like Ron. Well, apart from that time when Harry was cheating in potions with that book he was given.” She suddenly snapped out of her reverie. “Anyway, I’m not speaking to the worm at the moment,” she said with a sudden flash of anger. “I found a book called “Twelve fail-safe ways to charm witches” in his room the other day. He tried to pretend at first that he didn’t know how it got there, but he finally confessed that he had been using it to try to get me to go out with him. I was furious, because I thought that he had mended his ways, but really it was all fake and coming from a book.”

I couldn’t help smiling at this typical example of Mr. Weasley’s crass behaviour. “I’m sure he meant well, dear. You should take it as a compliment,” I quavered, suppressing the urge to laugh.

“Hm, perhaps you’re right,” Hermione replied, her temper abating, “and it isn’t as if I’m spoilt for choice, now that Harry is otherwise engaged. If it wasn’t for Ron, I’d have no close friends at all. That is what you get for concentrating all your efforts on one relationship and neglecting any others.”

Hermione seemed to be drifting away from me again, absorbed by her own thoughts. “But we had our moments, Harry and I. There was that time in fourth year when Harry and Ron had a big row over Harry’s name coming out of the Goblet of Fire. Ron thought that Harry had put it in himself, but I knew that Harry would never do something like that. They weren’t speaking and I had to choose between continuing to help Harry or giving Ron my support.” She paused, a small smile of remembrance playing across her lips for a few moments. “There was another time that I had to make a similar choice,” she began again, more seriously, “and that was much harder and far worse. It was when the three of us were living in a tent and trying to decide what to do towards the end of last year. To be honest, we were all getting on each others nerves a bit. Ron got really annoyed because Harry seemed unfocused and he thought that we were wasting our time. They had another shouting match and Ron decided to leave. He wanted me to go with him and I had to decide between them again, although it wasn’t really that simple. Obviously, I stayed but I went to pieces after that,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, it all seemed so hopeless and I thought that with Ron gone I had no chance of getting Harry to take action. I just seemed to cry all of the time. I couldn’t sleep and Harry was so unsympathetic, which isn’t like him at all. I am sure that it was that horcrux affecting us both. That’s probably what tipped Ron over the edge as well. We had Regulus’s locket with us, complete with Voldemort’s soul fragment,” she added by way of explanation. “Still, we finally sorted out a plan and things got better between us. At least until I accidentally broke Harry’s wand. Then Ron eventually came back and the rest, as they say, is history, although I never did find out how Harry eased Ron’s concerns about him and me.”

Hermione seemed totally absorbed now, completely lost in her own recollections, as if I and my sitting room had become part of her imagination. “We had some amazing adventures as well, Harry and I, when Ron was hurt or just not around for some reason,” she continued, almost dreamily. “I suppose that I must have been scared at the time, but now I just look back at those adventures as times when we were incredibly close. It seemed as if it was just Harry and me against everyone else. Like when we used the time turner to rescue Sirius and when we went into the Forbidden Forest with Professor Umbridge. Then we fought the Death Eaters together in the Ministry of Magic and, of course, there was the time at Godric’s Hollow.” She smiled again, warming to her theme. “Harry always tried to keep me safe. He always looked out for me; even when we were battling away in that last fight in Hogwarts. Whenever I stumbled or was in trouble, it always seemed to be Harry pulling me clear or pushing me ahead of him. I remember thinking that it was just like old times, before….” She hesitated briefly, but then continued, leaving that thought unfinished. “It’s funny really, because that’s when Ron and I really got started. It must have been the tension or something, but Ron had been really resourceful and then he said something that was very sweet and clearly meant for my benefit and I just found myself kissing him.” Hermione frowned, “Harry got really angry when he saw us and just for a moment I thought…” She stopped again, but this time she seemed unwilling to continue, worried that she was revealing too much.

“Thought what, dear?” I probed, my appetite whetted.

“I thought…I thought that we might manage to win out over Voldemort after all,” she lied unconvincingly, betrayed by the rising colour in her cheeks. “Anyway, that’s all in the past now,” she continued hurriedly. “Harry is with Ginny and I’m with Ron. I’m really happy about the way things turned out. It’s just that sometimes I miss how it used to be.”

“Well, there’s no reason for things to change too much is there, dear. I mean you are all almost part of the same family now,” I offered.

Hermione grimaced. “That isn’t really how it works. I mean, I love the Weasleys and they have been very good to me, but sometimes they can be a bit insecure, particularly Ron and Ginny. I think that they get it from their mother. Ginny has been a bit off with me ever since she first started going out with Harry. Sometimes she can be really rude, as if she wants to make it clear that Harry is off limits as far as I’m concerned. And Harry and I both know that Ron was really jealous of our relationship at one time, so we have to tread fairly carefully there as well. So, the upshot is that Harry and I don’t see much of each other now and when we do we hardly talk, because Ron and Ginny are always around.” She hesitated and a worried frown formed on her brow. “I just can’t help thinking that Ginny has always been a bit too concerned with Harry’s celebrity status. She has been obsessed with him for all of the time that I’ve known her. And to think that I gave her advice at one time, but I never realised how far she would be willing to go to get what she wanted. I thought that it was only a harmless infatuation that would run its course, but she managed to change her whole personality almost overnight, just to try to get Harry to notice her. She even told me once that she purposely arranged an assignation with Dean Thomas, just so that Harry would catch them kissing in a corridor! Unfortunately, Ron showed up as well and got all brotherly, so that backfired a bit. I just wish sometimes that Harry would realise how manipulative she can be and could just get past his hormones for five minutes.”

Hermione suddenly seemed to realise where she was and abruptly stopped talking. She smiled uneasily at me. “But what am I saying? I am sure that they will be very happy together. Ginny is really a lovely girl. She’s just a bit over zealous sometimes and she loves Harry, that’s quite clear.”

“Well, it is what Harry thinks that is most important after all,” I said uneasily, not knowing what advice I could give her.

Hermione considered this for a few moments and then changed tack. “Have you ever thought of getting married Professor?” She didn’t wait for my reply but continued on. “Do you think that any person can really be complete by themselves? I mean…do you think that for each of us there is someone out there who is our other half, someone who will complement us perfectly?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to this sudden, unexpected outburst. “I am really not sure about that dear,” I stalled and then attempted to distract Hermione by returning to her original question. “But I did think of getting married; twice as a matter of fact,” I confided. “The first wizard that I thought that I was in love with was killed by Voldemort and the second never really felt the same way about me, unfortunately.”

“I know,” Hermione replied. “It’s horrible when you like someone and they don’t return your feelings, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is, dear,” I said sadly, “but one just has to get over it and carry on.”

“I suppose so,” Hermione answered thoughtfully but she looked even more miserable than she had before. Then, like a conjurer performing a tried and tested illusion, she forced a cheerful expression to spread across her face. “That’s good advice,” she mumbled through a fixed, false smile. “You know, it has been really good talking to you Professor and I will miss you. But I had better be going. I’m taking up far too much of your time with my troubles and that isn’t what I intended at all. Anyway, I have a long walk back. Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself and keep in touch?”

“Yes dear,” I responded, really meaning to keep my word. “I’m glad that we had this chat. Now, are you sure that you really need to go? You can stay and have some tea if you would like.”

Hermione considered this suggestion for a moment. “No, I had better be getting back. I am really sorry that you’re leaving. You have always been someone who I could turn to when I had a problem.” And with that she pushed herself up from her chair, gathered up her books and robes, leaned forward to kiss me lightly on the cheek and then went out into the hallway, leaving me deep in thought.

3. McGonagall Investigates

Stranger Than Fiction

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Part 3. McGonagall Investigates

My conversation with Hermione left me strangely troubled. I had obtained the very firm impression that she was unhappy and directionless and I hated to see such a talented, young witch burdened in this way. It occurred to me that the evil effects of Lord Voldemort’s reign of terror hadn’t entirely disappeared with his death.

I had always had the impression that Hermione Granger was rather smitten with Harry Potter and our conversation had only seemed to confirm that I was not mistaken. I remember having my suspicions firmly aroused when attending Bill Weasley’s wedding to Fleur Delacour the previous year. I sat near the back of the congregation on the bridegroom’s side, dressed very discreetly, with a large-brimmed hat that hid much of my face and few people probably even realised that I was present. I noticed Hermione, who I thought looked particularly radiant that day, sitting down towards the front of the room, but at first I thought that Harry Potter was absent. I pointed this out to Molly Weasley as she passed by and she confided in me that, as a necessary precaution, Harry had used polyjuice potion to disguise himself as a mythical member of the Weasley clan called Cousin Barny. She indicated an unfamiliar red-headed boy sitting wedged between Hermione and Ron Weasley on the second row of seats. I kept a close eye on the three of them during the ceremony, hoping that Harry wouldn’t do anything stupid to give himself away and so I witnessed what I took to be a very telling sign. Just before it was pronounced that Bill and Fleur were declared bonded for life, I couldn’t help noticing Hermione turning to look at the polyjuiced Harry with a beaming smile on her face and tears filling her eyes. I always find that it is these little unguarded moments that generally give away our true feelings and I have to confess that I allowed myself a small smile of satisfaction at the time over my deductive powers.

The disconcerting thing though, was that I had always been under the impression that Mr. Potter reciprocated Hermione’s feelings, although he sometimes had a strange way of showing it. From our conversation of the previous day, Hermione clearly wasn’t of a similar opinion. I didn’t really like the thought that I could have been so wrong in my observations and so, as I had nothing pressing to do that day, I decided to conduct a small investigation of my own to see if I could get a clearer picture. One person who had a great deal of contact with the famous trio of Harry, Ron and Hermione during their early years at Hogwarts was the grounds keeper and occasional Care of Magical Creatures teacher, Rubeus Hagrid. Although he was not the brightest of individuals, I thought that Hagrid could possibly help to confirm or deny my suspicions.

After the horrendous weather of the previous day, the wind had now changed around to the south and the morning had started brightly. With a warm and much calmer outlook forecast for the rest of the day, it seemed an ideal time to pay Hagrid a visit.

As I get older, it seems that I can no longer get about as quickly as I used to. However, I generally find that a judicious combination of magic and shoe leather gets me where I want to go and so late that afternoon I could be found walking slowly up the hill from Hogwarts Castle towards Hagrid’s dilapidated hut. In colder weather, you could generally tell if Hagrid was at home, even from some distance away, by the plume of greyish yellow smoke that would normally be rising from his chimney. However, today the hut sat quiet and brooding, with the sentinel trees of the Forbidden Forest standing guard behind. The dwelling was already deep in shadow because of the low angle of the sun at this time of the year, although the tops of the trees behind were outlined with a blaze of yellow and the sky above them was a deep, cloudless blue. As I drew closer, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of occupation, as a series of bangs and grunts reached me through the stillness of the afternoon air.

“Ger’away Fang,” boomed a familiar deep voice with a broad West Country lilt. “It’s not fer you. Watch out yeh great pudden, yeh’ll have it over in a minute!”

I knocked loudly on the door, to ensure that I could be overheard above the commotion emanating from inside. I was greeted by a sudden brief silence, followed by a questioning, “Who’s tha’?”

“It’s me Hagrid, Minerva McGonagall,” I shouted, as if to an elderly relative who was hard of hearing.

“Professor McGonagall? Well, I never. This is a surprise. I thought yeh’d already gone.” Hagrid opened the door dressed in his usual jumble of well worn jacket, shirt and trousers. He seemed flustered; his straggly hair and beard were matted and unkempt and he had a sooty, black smear across his nose. Evidently, I had interrupted him in the process of lighting his fire for the preparation of his evening meal, unless I was mistaken in my assumption that the large black, iron cauldron sitting on the hearth contained nothing more alarming than some stew.

Hagrid quickly confirmed my suspicions. “I was jus’ about ter make supper. Yer welcome ter stop for some if yeh’d like. Won’t be ready for a couple of hours though. It’s skewt. Had to put a couple of my last lot down t’other week, ‘cos they were gettin’ too big and hard to control. Tough as ole boots, their meat is, so yeh have ter cook it slow ter soften it up. Then it’s very tasty, ‘though a bit spicy fer some.”

“Well that’s very kind of you to offer Hagrid,” I said carefully, “and I am sure that it will be delicious, but unfortunately I can’t stop that long.”

“Nah, I’m sure yer busy.” Hagrid sounded slightly relieved. “But yeh’ll have a cup o’ tea though, won’t yeh?”

He moved quickly across the hut to grab his kettle, catching his head on a large copper saucepan, that was hanging from a hook screwed into one of the roof beams, with a tremendous crack that would have stopped any normal mortal in their tracks. Hagrid just staggered briefly and continued on as if nothing had happened.

“Oh, all right, I’m sure a cup of tea won’t hurt” I responded doubtfully, eager to get to the purpose of my visit. I looked around unhopefully and then sat down rather gingerly on one of the rough, wooden, three-legged stools that passed as furniture where Hagrid was concerned. Fang was slumped in the far corner of the room, panting heavily, but wagged his tail lazily in recognition when I looked across at him. For the next few minutes I waited impatiently while Hagrid fussed around making tea, all of the while keeping up an inane stream of chatter about his current domestic problems. When he was finally seated, large tin mugs of scalding, dark liquid in front of both of us, I got straight to the point.

“Hagrid, you probably knew Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley as well as anyone, didn’t you? They were always coming up to your hut for some type of secret assignation, weren’t they? How would you describe the three of them? How did they get on with each other?”

Hagrid chuckled. “Yer right there. They was always up ter somethin’ or other an’ generally tried to rope me in.” He considered for a moment. “How would I describe ‘em? Well, they was the best of friends, them three. Although, like all friends they had their fallings out; Ron and Hermione in partic’lar. Ron could be a bit mean ter Hermione. Really upset her sometimes an’ then they wouldn’t talk for days. Harry was generally all right with ‘em both and kep’ out of it; but yeh know, Harry never was one who liked arguing for the sake of it.”

“And, what about Ginny Weasley?” I enquired as casually as I could.

“Ginny? Well, she’s a bit of a firebran’ that one. Didn’t feature too much as far as I was concerned. Never had much time fer me, if I’m honest. Still, I daresay she’s a nice enough young witch. Bit of a looker an’ all, or so most seem ter think.”

“I believe Harry and Ginny are going out together at the moment. Does that surprise you at all?” I continued probing.

“Surprise me? Nah, I don’ think I’m surprised. A bit disappointed, perhaps.” Hagrid looked thoughtful, like a great big, morose puppy that had buried a bone somewhere and now couldn’t quite remember the exact location.

“Ter be honest, I’ve always thought tha’ Ron and Harry pay a bit too much attention ter appearances where girls are concerned. Being an ‘alf-giant, I know tha’ just going on looks alone can lead ter lots of trouble. It’s what really happened ter the giants yeh see. They look dangerous, so they get treated like they’re dangerous and before yeh know it they’re acting dangerous as well. Now, Hermione, that’s the type of girl tha’ I would go for every time. Bright as a spark and got a heart of gold, that one. I’ll never forget how she helped with Buckbeak and she tried ter stick up fer the house elves too. Old Grawpie certainly took a shine ter her and he seems ter be able ter sense the good in people.”

Hagrid looked wistful, which in his case meant that his bushy eyebrows disappeared completely under the loose strands of hair, hanging down over his broad forehead.

“Yeh can call me a sentimen’al ole fool, but I always imagined me, Harry and Hermione sittin’ around this fire on a winter’s evening chattin’ about the old times. Jus’ seems roight somehow. Still, I suppose that ain’t likely to happen now,” he finished with a deep sigh.

“Well you never know,” I offered, interested that his observations were so similar to my own.

“And what about Ron and Hermione?” I asked, to complete the picture. “Do you think that they can make a go of things? They seem to be trying to.”

“Ron and Hermione? Well, they’re good friends, roight enough, but I wouldn’t reckon much on their chances of any more than tha’. They fight like cats and dogs. Or more like a cat and a rat, where those two are concerned.” Hagrid chuckled, pleased with his own clever analogy. “They moight patch up their differences fer a while, but they’ll always come back again in the end, yeh see if they don’. No, those two are jus’ an accident waitin’ ter happen.”

I was surprised to hear such words of wisdom coming out of Hagrid’s mouth. Maybe I had misjudged him for all of these years. “You know Hagrid,” I said, trying not to sound too patronizing, “I think that you can be quite perceptive at times.”

“Well, jus’ ‘cos I look like a blundering oaf and got expelled from Hogwarts, don’t mean I’m stupid yeh know,” said Hagrid emphatically. Unfortunately, he followed this statement with an anguished cry and a wild kick of his right leg, as the fire crackled loudly and a large burning ember was thrown out, landing on Hagrid’s moleskin trousers. For a few seconds he teetered, balanced on one leg of his stool, before finally toppling over and landing with a loud crash, flat on his back in a cloud of dust with hot tea flying everywhere.

After I had helped Hagrid to his feet and brushed him down as best as I could, I took my leave and started on my way back to the castle. I had only gone a few paces when I noticed the familiar black-haired figure of Cho Chang coming across from the direction of the owlery and also heading towards the castle. I had always liked Cho. Although not from my own house, she was a bright and able student and a good Quidditch player. Everyone at the school had also been moved by her evident distress after the very unfortunate death of Cedric Diggory. As I watched her hurrying along, I remembered that she had briefly dated Harry Potter and the opportunity to seek further information seemed too good to pass up.

“Miss Chang,” I called, waving to attract her attention.

She stopped, recognition slowly dawning.

“Professor! What a surprise. I thought that you had left us.” She smiled and changed course, coming towards me.

“No, not yet dear. Soon,” I said, feeling obliged to make at least a token attempt at small talk, although I was itching to cross-examine her. “So, what are you still doing at Hogwarts? I thought that you had completed your studies.”

“Oh, I’m staying on for another year, as a teaching assistant,” she answered cheerfully. “I quite fancy the idea of teaching, if I turn out to have an aptitude for it.”

“Well, teaching can be a very satisfying profession,” I responded, suddenly seeing an opportunity to further my investigation. “Sometimes, you get to teach young wizards or witches who go on to accomplish great things. For example, I will always be able to claim that I taught transfiguration to the great Harry Potter.”

Miss Chang blushed as soon as I mentioned Harry’s name and so I continued, rather dishonestly, in a concerned tone, “I’m sorry dear. I shouldn’t have mentioned that. I had completely forgotten that you went out with Harry Potter at one time. Didn’t you?”

The girl nodded, unable to meet my eye and I waited for a few moments in silence before innocently asking, “And do you still see anything of Mr. Potter?”

“What and run the risk of antagonizing the Weaslette?” she replied crossly, looking up directly at me.

“The..what dear?” I responded, not sure that I had heard her correctly.

“Oh, that’s just a nickname that some of us have given to Ginny Weasley, since she became so high and mighty. I mean, she hits people with a Bat Bogey hex just because they annoy her slightly. Just imagine what she might do to any girl foolish enough to try to talk to her precious Harry Potter.”

“Do I sense that you think that Miss Weasley might be a little bit jealous, dear?” I asked slightly scornfully.

“Jealous? You’ve got to be kidding! Even in the battle for Hogwarts, when we were all fighting for our lives, she couldn’t hide it.” Miss Chang sounded really angry now. “Harry was desperate to find Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost diadem and I offered to show him the way to the Ravenclaw common room so that he could see what it looked like on her statue. That bitch Ginny got all defensive and insisted that Luna Lovegood should take him instead. I mean, what was she thinking? That I would drag him off into a cupboard en route and have my wicked way with him, when we all might get killed at any minute. How pathetic is that?”

She calmed down and a strange look, almost of satisfaction, spread across her pretty, young face, as if she held some secret, significant knowledge. “You know what a weasel is, don’t you Professor,” she said with considerable malice. “It’s a small, red-haired carnivore that kills its unsuspecting prey by sinking its sharp little teeth into the neck and then clinging on until it has drained all of the life from it.” She smiled smuggly, convinced that she had made her point.

In response, I just raised my eyebrows in a gesture that I hoped seemed supportive but could also be construed as non-committal. I found that I had no desire to get on the wrong side of the “Weaslette” either, particularly after such a graphic and disturbing description of her possible reaction. I had no doubt that Cho Chang’s obvious dislike of Ginny Weasley was colouring her judgment, somewhat. Nevertheless, the picture that she was painting was not entirely inconsistent with the impression of Ginny that Hermione Granger had unintentionally conveyed to me.

We chatted for a few moments more and then I excused myself, promising Miss Chang that I would come and see her if I returned to Hogwarts, and headed back in the direction of the castle. I felt fairly satisfied with my afternoon’s work but unfortunately, I had only reinforced my initial feeling that Harry and Hermione could be making a grave error and I wondered if there was anything that I could, and indeed should, do about it.

4. Harry's Visit

Stranger Than Fiction

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Author’s note: Thanks to everyone who has bothered to review. I have to admit I’m a bit nervous about posting this chapter, after the excellent reviews of the last one, as it is fairly low key. However, it’s important to move the story along.

For those of you who have asked, I am the same person who posts over at HF. In fact, the inspiration for this story came from an essay I posted over there, but as I continued writing, the story took on a life of its own and headed in a slightly different direction.

Part 4. Harry’s Visit

A couple of days after my conversations with Hagrid and Cho, I had still not decided what to do about Hermione; if indeed there was anything that I could do. The beautiful weather that had accompanied my visit to Hogwarts was to continue for the remainder of the week. It seemed that we were having what I believe the Americans call an Indian summer, although what the weather has to do with Indians I have never been quite sure. In any event, by midday an intense yellow sun was blazing down on the rooftops of Hogsmeade, dividing the streets into alternating bands of brightness and shade and the temperature in my small house was rising alarmingly.

I had gone out into my front garden to escape the stuffy confines of the sitting room, and I was just using my wand to guide the few stray yellow leaves, that had already contaminated my lawn, into an open sack, when I noticed a person dressed in baggy clothing crossing the street in the distance and heading in my direction. As the figure got closer, I became aware of the sunlight glinting off of familiar round spectacles and I could make out an unruly mop of black hair that stuck out at unexpected angles, as if styled by an over enthusiastic purveyor of Muggle hair gel. These two observations, when combined, could only mean one thing. It appeared that I was about to receive a visit from Harry Potter.

I have to confess that I have always had a bit of a soft spot for Mr. Potter. Not only because he was a passably good student and the best Quidditch seeker that I have ever seen, but also because he had a remarkable talent for cultivating trouble that was somehow endearing. He and I also shared a mutual distrust of Severus Snape, the Potions Master at Hogwarts, although later events demonstrated that we were both entirely wrong on that count.

“Hello Professor,” he called as he drew level with the flaking, white wooden palisade fence that marked the boundary of my property.

“Harry Potter,” I exclaimed. “And what brings you here? Have you moved back to Hogwarts as well? Hermione popped in to see me the other day. She tells me that she is back at the school, trying to make up for a bit of lost time.”

Harry smiled. “Yes, I know about Hermione, but I’m only paying a flying visit. I’m staying at the Burrow with Ron at the moment. We can’t really decide what we want to do. It seemed too soon to come back here and we probably don’t really need to, although I must say I was tempted. Ginny came back when term started. After all, she only has one more year to go.” He paused, wearing a somewhat self satisfied expression, presumably dwelling on pleasant thoughts concerning the charms of Miss Weasley. “Ron told me that Hermione had been to see you and I thought that I would kill two birds with one stone; a visit to my girlfriend and a visit to the teacher that had the most significant impact on my whole education; the one who gave me my first break at Quidditch.”

Stupidly, I found myself blushing. “Well, I can’t take too much credit for that,” I stammered. “Anyone could see that you were an exceptional flyer. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“That’s as may be,” Harry grinned, “but I won’t ever forget it.”

“Would you like to come inside, having come all of this way?” I motioned vaguely in the direction of the front door, which was standing slightly ajar.

“No. It’s too nice to sit inside. Why don’t we pay a visit to the garden at the Three Broomsticks?” he proposed. “We can have a butterbeer or just a coffee, if you prefer. My treat.”

“That sounds lovely, dear,” I replied enthusiastically.

As the weather was so warm and there was no sign to suggest rain later in the day, I did not bother to get my cloak and hat. I just tied up the sack with one wave of my wand, closed and locked the front door with another and then Harry and I set off along the road that led into the centre of Hogsmeade. We chatted easily as we walked over the uneven cobbles of the path, basking in the warm sunshine, while laughing about Harry’s early escapades at school and arguing over the value of the different subjects that he had been taught.

“Well,” I said, as we completed a particularly heated exchange about the value of Herbology, “all of those plant names may have been complicated, but it is a good way to develop your memory. A good memory is essential if you are to have instant access to the widest possible repertoire of spells.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Harry finally conceded, “but it still used to make my head hurt. We had far too many other things to remember. Just keeping track of the password to get into the Gryffindor common room was hard enough for me. I can’t tell you how much time I wasted hanging around outside waiting for someone else to come along and let me in.”

“That is because you never paid attention. You were always too busy interfering in matters that were rightly no concern of yours,” I scolded.

Harry clearly wasn’t in the mood to agree. “No, it’s because they were always stupid. I liked Dumbledore’s approach. The password for his office always seemed to be linked to one of his favourite sweets. Now, that’s how passwords should be thought up.”

I sniffed, unconvinced. However, I couldn’t help noticing how much more confident and self assured Harry seemed than when I had last seen him. Clearly, his newly won freedom and peace of mind were having a positive effect. While we talked, I thought back to my conversations with Hermione, Hagrid and Cho and planned my strategy for quizzing Harry about the matters that were now troubling me such a great deal.

Once we got to the Three Broomsticks, I took my place at one of the rustic, wooden bench tables that were dotted around the garden and Harry went inside to get two butterbeers. The garden of the Three Broomsticks was a charming place, with a neatly trimmed stretch of grass, dappled with wild flowers and with sufficient heavily-branched deciduous trees established amongst the tables to provide natural shade in the summer. A number of colourful hanging baskets, still festooned with blossoms of pink, red and white, decorated the facings of the building, completing an idyllic country scene. Only the traditional village pond, complete with obligatory ducks, was missing.

Once Harry had returned and had vaulted into the seat opposite me, thankfully after first putting the foaming mugs of butterbeer carefully down on the table, I prepared to turn our conversation to more pressing affairs.

“So, you are not sure what you are going to do now, Harry?” I asked as my opening gambit.

Harry leaned back, letting the sun play across his face, looking more relaxed and contented than I think that I had ever seen him. “No, but one thing’s for sure. I just want a quiet life, at least for a while. I think that I have had enough excitement, stress and hassle to last me a lifetime. Two lifetimes actually, since strictly speaking I’ve been killed once already.”

“Yes, I’m not at all surprised, dear. I’m sure that you just want to spend time with your friends. Speaking of which, do you see much of Ronald and Hermione these days?” I enquired innocently.

“Well, as I said, I’ve been staying with Ron at the Burrow for a while, but I haven’t seen Hermione for some time; not since she came back up here at least,” Harry replied truthfully, disarmed by the subtlety of my approach.

“And will you be seeing her while you’re up here?” I continued doggedly.

“I doubt it. I’ve really come mainly to see Ginny,” he answered, beginning to look slightly uncomfortable with my questions. “Now that they’re dating, Ron gets a bit nervous if Hermione and I spend too much time alone together. Ginny isn’t too keen on it either,” he laughed uneasily.

“Oh, that’s a pity. Hermione was only saying the other day that she was sorry that she didn’t see so much of you now. And I always thought that the two of you were such good friends.” I dangled my bait in front of him.

“Well, we are,” he replied defensively. “Hermione will always be special to me. We’ve been through a lot together and I don’t think that I could have managed without her. She was the only person who never really doubted me, even though she had ample reason to.” A look of contrition suddenly appeared on his face and he hurriedly continued, “No offense, Professor. I never had any doubts about you either.”

“I never thought for one moment that you did dear,” I said, smiling. “And what about Ginny Weasley? Is she special too?”

Harry became flustered. “Of course she is, but…there really isn’t any comparison. The truth is that I think of Ginny and Hermione entirely differently. Ginny is my girlfriend and Hermione…well, Hermione is…” Harry paused, thoughtfully, as he tried to find the right words.

“Look…” he started again unconvincingly, “…I once told Ron that I thought of Hermione like a sister and that’s exactly…” he paused again and a slightly bemused expression spread across his face. “Well, that’s not entirely true, if I’m honest. I mainly said that to appease Ron. I just couldn’t take any more agro, particularly when I had more pressing matters that I needed to focus on, like how to deal with Voldemort. In any case,” he wondered aloud, “I’ve never had a sister, so how would I know?” He shrugged, but then suddenly seemed to snap back to reality. “Anyway, that really isn’t the point. What you have to realize is that Ron always fancied Hermione. It seemed obvious to me from very early on, even when he wasn’t really aware of it himself. So, things are a bit complicated. And Hermione clearly likes Ron, so that’s the end of the story. I never was one for playing gooseberry and I don’t need to when I can spend my time with Ginny without any fuss and everybody’s happy.”

“Well…” I began carefully, realizing the significance of my next words, “…in that case, I must have gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick. You see, I could have sworn that Miss Granger thinks just as much of you as she does of Mr. Weasley. Probably more, in fact.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. He frowned and simply stared at me, unblinking behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. For a few moments he became as animated as a realistically painted statue.

“Harry, dear…” I began again, worried that I might have gone too far, but my interjection seemed to galvanize him back into action.

“It’s not like that Professor,” he insisted with a shake of his head, clearly agitated. “Look, I know that you mean well, but you just don’t understand how things are.”

“Well, perhaps you’re right and I should mind my own business. Is that what you’re trying to tell me dear?” I attempted to sound mildly offended, calculating how to draw the truth out of him.

“No, I didn’t mean that,” he replied in an exasperated tone. “The thing is, Professor, Hermione knows that if she ever needs me, I’ll always be there for her.”

“Are you sure about that, Harry?” I questioned. “If that really is the case then, given my recent conversation with her, I think that Hermione needs you now. She needs to know that you still care about her and want her to remain part of your life.”

Harry sighed, seemingly concerned, but gave no indication that he accepted my suggestion.

“At least promise me that you will go and talk to her while you’re here, Harry,” I pressed.

Harry looked away, suddenly intent on his surroundings. However, finding no salvation there, he finally turned back to face me. “OK, Professor,” he reluctantly agreed.

“No, Harry, that’s not good enough,” I persisted. “You must give me your promise that you will see her.”

“All right! All right, Professor. I promise that I will go and see her. Are you satisfied now?” Harry acquiesced with an angry frown.

I was actually very satisfied and I smiled accordingly.

With that, Harry tried to steer the conversation into safer waters about my plans and what was going to happen to Hogwarts and I was content to let him, believing that I had done all that I could. You see in my misguided view, everything seemed simple now. Harry and Hermione would meet, realize their undoubted feelings for each other, give up their relationships with the Weasleys and then live happily ever after. Subsequent events were to prove that I was a very poor judge of the interpersonal dynamics within their little group, but in my defense, I really had no way of knowing this at the time. As far as I was concerned, I had worked my magic and I had done as much as I could for Harry and Hermione. I therefore decided that it was time for me to move on and get my own life in order. With this in mind, a few days later, I gave notice on my rental in the village and, after a further four weeks, I left Hogsmeade and Hogwarts for good.

Given this contented outlook, you can therefore imagine my surprise, if not horror, when about twelve months later I picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet and saw the announcement of the impending marriage of Miss Ginerva Weasley to Mr. Harold Potter. I felt physically sick as I read the details of the arrangements and I couldn’t quite understand what could possibly have gone wrong.

After I had moved away from Hogsmead, I had lived in London for a short period and I had then decided that I would indulge myself with a leisurely world tour before settling down in some quiet, undemanding place. Thankfully, my tour was still in progress, although nearing its end, and I was going to be in Australia at the time that the wedding was to take place. This gave me a good excuse to avoid attending the ceremony, although, obviously, I could have easily gotten there if I had so desired. However, I couldn’t face trying to pretend that I was happy about the union and I found that I could also not bear the thought of seeing Hermione at such a time, as I was sure that she must be upset. As a result, I sent a special long distance owl with a hollow message of congratulations and with my insincere apologies for my absence and I also forwarded the obligatory useful gift, destined to end up stored away at the back of a cupboard somewhere with other similar unwanted items.

After this unexpected shock, I was less traumatized by the further announcement, some two months after Harry and Ginny’s wedding, of the upcoming marriage of Miss Hermione Granger and Mr. Ronald Weasley. Although I was now back in England, I again found that I didn’t have the stomach to attend and sent a message of apology, citing incapacity due to illness. To be honest, although the announcements of these marriages upset me for a short while, when I thought things over, I was not too concerned. I was so certain that these two couples were unsuited that I thought, in my ignorance, that their marriages would be short lived. Although I felt sympathy over the anguish that these four young people would undoubtedly endure, I was confident that all would work out well in the end.

But, the recent revelations from Melissa meant that I now had to seriously question my judgment. Could I really have been so wrong?

5. Letters and Lettings

Stranger Than Fiction

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Author’s note: Thanks again for the reviews and also to those who pointed out minor continuity errors. I will go back and correct these once the story is finished.

Part 5. Letters and Lettings

So, that’s all that I can remember about those meetings with Hermione and Harry, Hagrid and Cho; and I have to say that, as I have reviewed my memories, I still can’t really detect any flaws in my reasoning. It seems to me that Harry and Hermione’s relationship, to that point, had been one long comedy of errors, with the Weasleys as the main beneficiaries. In my view, it was quite clear that both Harry and Hermione had strong feelings for the other. However, Harry, faced with the choice between the uncertainty and potential difficulties of a relationship with Hermione and the clarity and simplicity of a relationship with Ginny Weasley, had, for once in his life, decided to take the easy option. His decision had left Hermione with few choices of her own. But, I still could not understand how my carefully laid plan to bring the two of them together had failed or how these two seemingly unsuitable partnerships had supposedly flourished. Of course, that was the point - I couldn’t be certain whether they had actually flourished or not. The only evidence that I had to go on was a second hand description from a work of Muggle fiction; even though the relative accuracy of other events recounted by Melissa gave me no adequate grounds to doubt the veracity of the state of affairs outlined.

But, as the days passed, it became clear to me that I couldn’t let the matter rest. The whole business had unsettled me and I needed to seek some form of resolution. I wanted to meet with Hermione and find out what was really going on. But where to start? The truth is that I had neither seen nor heard anything about Hermione since the announcement of her wedding. She seemed to have disappeared completely from the mainstream of wizarding life. I found this extremely surprising, given her obvious talents and her notoriety after Voldemort’s demise. So, if a meeting with Hermione was currently out of the question, the obvious next best alternative was the Weasleys - but I really had no great desire to get in contact with them again. I knew that Arthur had done very well in the new, more enlightened administration at the Ministry of Magic and that Molly Weasley had enjoyed major celebrity status as the witch who disposed of Bellatrix Lestrange. The social standing of the Weasleys had therefore risen remarkably in the intervening years and they now moved in the very highest circles of wizarding society. Hardly my cup of tea, you will surely agree. So, if I ruled out Arthur and Molly, this really only left me with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley as my potential starting points.

Both of these two had made their careers in the Ministry and had featured heavily in the magical media over the last twenty or so years. Harry, I knew, had finally and inevitably been elected as Minister of Magic, to great popular acclaim, after a very successful time working as the head of the newly created Department for the Control and Eradication of the Dark Arts. From what I could gather, he had accepted the position rather reluctantly but was really given little choice. There would have been a public outcry if he had refused. Ronald Weasley, on the other hand, seemed to be totally suited to his position as head of the Department for Magical Games and Sports and could often be seen in the pages of the Daily Prophet visiting some sporting event or officiating at an opening ceremony; generally, with a broad, satisfied smile on his face. A trip to the Ministry of Magic, therefore, seemed the obvious place to start my search.

However, it was then that I remembered that Harry had written to me soon after Hermione’s wedding to tell me how sorry he was that I hadn’t been able to attend and to wish me a speedy recovery from my feigned illness. I had felt terribly guilty when I received the letter and hadn’t dared to reply, realising that I would only expand the web of deceit that I had started to spin. I tend to horde old correspondence, particularly when it is unanswered, and sure enough I found the, by now, yellowing piece of parchment tucked away at the back of a cupboard in my spare bedroom, towards the bottom of a stack of assorted letters and messages stored in a battered cardboard box. The address, beautifully printed at the top of the parchment in black ink, written in Harry’s careful hand, was 14, Flamel Mews, London. I immediately recognized this address. It was a street in a small wizarding enclave in the London Borough of Hammersmith - one of the many such communities that existed in the city. This particular street was well known to me since it had been home to many high ranking Ministry officials in previous administrations, including one Minister of Magical Education, and I had actually visited it on a number of occasions. Thinking that I was more likely to get to the bottom of things by visiting Harry at home rather than at work, I decided that a visit to Flamel Mews was in order. I reasoned that if neither Ginny nor Harry was at home, I could always return later, once I had checked on the location. Impatient to get started, I rushed down the stairs, grabbed my cloak and hat and, still clutching the parchment in one hand, I concentrated hard on the address, turned around slowly and was suddenly thrust into complete darkness, my body pressurised from all sides, as I apparated to my intended destination.

As my senses cleared, I found myself in a narrow cobbled street, enclosed by high, stone buildings on either side and decorated with black-painted, ornate iron street lamps of an ancient vintage. The cobbles were damp and slippery under foot. It had clearly rained earlier and the sky overhead was a threatening gray, although the air was still and fairly warm. Each building had some type of shop in residence on the ground floor, with elaborate gold-plate lettering announcing the names of the owners on black wooden boards positioned above the leaded-glass windows. There was a general store, a jeweler, a woman’s outfitter, a bookshop, a confectioner, a florist, a branch of Gringotts and an estate agent. I remembered that the road that I was looking for ran parallel to this main street, connected by a short dark alleyway. I quickly traversed this passage and entered Flamel Mews, checking a few door numbers as I did so to ensure that I was heading in the right direction. As I approached number 14, I noted that the windows were dark and bare and I realized that there was a notice board attached to a white, wooden stake, fixed to the wrought iron railings outside. The wording on the notice announced “For Sale or To Let. All enquiries should be directed to Brewett and Sons Estate Agent.” There was an address printed below, but I had already recognized the name as that on one of the shops that I had just seen in the main street. It seemed that I had come too late.

I wearily retraced my steps to the estate agent, which indeed turned out to be Brewett and Sons. Entering, I was greeted by a very pleasant young wizard, who introduced himself as Angus Brewett. He was notable mainly because of a tumble of vivid blond hair that hung untidily over his ears and forehead and a pair of brilliant blue eyes that peered out from under heavy lids. I informed him that I had just seen that number 14 Flamel Mews was up for sale and that I was interested in a viewing. He was munching his way through a large sandwich at the time - his lunch for the day - and was only too happy to hand me the keys, inviting me to have a look around. He said that he would join me in a short while and warned that the keys were charmed to return to him within half an hour, expressing his hope that this would not cause me any inconvenience. In answer to my enquiries, he told me that the previous occupants, none other than the famous Harry Potter and his family, had only vacated the premises a few days ago but had already moved out all of their belongings, so that the house was quite empty. Unfortunately, he had no idea where they had moved to, since they had left no forwarding address. He speculated that, given Mr. Potter’s position and magical ability, a redirection charm had doubtless been placed on the house so that any owls approaching would receive appropriate information as to where the family could now be found. Mr. Potter had informed Mr. Brewitt personally that he would be in touch periodically to monitor the situation, although if Mr. Brewitt needed to make urgent contact, he should leave a message at the Ministry.

The house itself was situated in a terrace of similar properties and was rather narrow in width, boasting a black painted front door with elaborate stonework surrounds. Although unimposing on the outside, the property seemed spacious and airy inside. All of the furnishings had been removed and my footsteps echoed on bare wooden floorboards as I wandered from room to room. The walls were decorated in light pastel shades and all of the doors, ceilings and other woodwork were freshly painted in a brilliant white. As a teacher of many years standing, who has worked with devious young wizards and witches, such as the Weasley twins, one gets almost a sixth sense for detecting magical concealment and, as soon as I entered the house, I had the distinct impression that something was hidden there. I stopped in the doorway of each room, calling “Idem Cognito,” the most powerful revealing spell that I know, as I moved my wand slowly from one side of the empty space to the other. But in every case, I found nothing. Finally, having exhausted my search of all of the rooms, I found myself standing in the upstairs hallway wondering if there was any point in trying to gain access to the roof space. I discovered that the attic was reached by a pull-down wooden ladder that descended from a narrow ceiling hatch. Assuming that my intuition had let me down for once, I held out little hope of success as I twitched my wand to activate the creaking mechanism. Once the ladder was in place, I slowly and carefully climbed the rather rickety steps until I stood just inside of the attic.

“Lumos,” I muttered and the dim light from my wand tip revealed a dusty empty area with rough wooden boards nailed over the rafters. Sloping beams angled up from the eaves of the house to the ridge with dark brown, stained and marked roofing felt lining the gaps in between. A red brick chimney breast with uneven, carelessly finished mortar stuck up through the centre of the roof space. “Idem Cognito,” I called again, waving my wand across the void. Nothing. I sighed, my spirits sagging. “Just one more try,” I thought unhopefully and moved my wand slowly the other way, again chanting the revealing spell. As my wand reached the end of its travel, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a small glint of silver embedded in the mortar of the chimney breast.

I moved noisily across the squeaking floorboards towards the red brick structure, keeping my eyes fixed on the shining silver speck. Pointing my wand directly at the tiny irregularity, I shouted, “Engorgio!” and took a small step backwards as the silver dot began to glow brightly and then slowly increase in size. Fragments of mortar crumbled and dropped to the floor with a loud clatter as the object expanded from its position of concealment and I quickly conjured a levitation charm, as it started to fall, and lowered it gently to the floor. The object was clearly cubic in shape and shimmered with a grayish-silver haze as it continued to grow. Finally, all movement ceased and a totally unmarked cube of what looked like polished steel, measuring approximately three feet in each direction, sat solidly at my feet.

I judged that this cube was some form of storage vessel and its burnished appearance suggested that it had only recently been placed here. In addition, the manner of its concealment, although a powerful piece of magic, indicated that it had probably been hidden in a hurry, by someone intending to come back to retrieve it in a short while. I knew from experience that such a container could generally be opened only by uttering a password that had been utilized in the spell that had created it and so the chances of anyone, other than the originator, being able to gain access were exceedingly slim. The recent concealment, coupled with the departure of the Potters only a few days ago, meant that there was a good chance that this object had been hidden by either Harry or Ginny. Although a powerful witch, Ginny had, to my knowledge, generally been more concerned with, what I would term, active magic and I suspected that this degree of subtlety would be beyond her. I considered, therefore, that Harry Potter was the most likely creator of the vessel.

So, what password might he have used? What word would have particular significance to Harry Potter? “Firebolt!” I found myself shouting involuntarily, as the make of the broom that Sirius had given to Harry flashed into my mind. The cube remained unmoved.

Inwardly cursing my rashness, I forced myself to try to be more selective and cautious. Witches and wizards often used the names of famous people or people who had meant a lot to them as passwords. James and Lily were too short and too common to be useful and Sirius also seemed to be too directly linked to Harry to make it a feasible password. “Dumbledore!” I cried, waving my wand over the recalcitrant object. Still nothing.

I don’t know if it was the mention of Dumbledore’s name or not, but suddenly I could hear in my mind a conversation that I once had with Harry Potter as we walked along the path from my rental in Hogsmeade towards the Three Broomsticks. His voice was as clear to me as if he was whispering in my ear. “I liked Dumbledore’s approach. The password for his office always seemed to be linked to one of his favourite sweets. Now, that’s how passwords should be thought up.”

Could that be it? Had Harry remained true to his word and to his undoubted respect for Albus Dumbledore?

“Chocolate Frog!” I guessed in another moment of rashness. Once again, the cube didn’t budge or change in any way. I berated myself again for my stupidity. This type of charm generally gave you three attempts before locking up completely if you had a further failure. One more incorrect guess and I would probably have lost any opportunity of discovering what it was that Harry had been so keen to conceal. I was sure that I was on the right track now, but how did you choose from the many different types of sweet that were available?

“Sherbert Lemon!” I recalled in a moment of inspiration. To my great relief, there was a sudden grinding sound and a dark, square outline, marking the presence of a door, gradually appeared on one face of the cube. Once the door was fully formed, it swung soundlessly open and I peered breathlessly inside.

The interior of the cube was as seamless and shiny as the outside and was empty save for a shallow stone basin, decorated with familiar runes and symbols. A silvery light was emanating from the top of the basin and reflecting off the polished walls. Moving closer, I could see a bright, whitish silver liquid filling the basin; the surface moving and swirling ceaselessly. The object was undoubtedly a Pensieve.

6. Echoes from the Past

Stranger Than Fiction

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Part 6. Echoes from the Past

Pensieves are very rare and only the most high ranking of wizards generally have access to one. I assumed that this pensieve must belong to Harry, but why he was trying to hide some of his memories in this way and who he was trying to hide them from was not immediately apparent. I battled with my conscience, concerning the morality of delving into another person’s private and apparently secret memories, for at least two seconds, before prodding the shimmering silver surface with my wand. The contents of the basin began to swirl very rapidly and gradually became transparent.

I was looking down into a brightly lit, large room with a fake, wood-effect linoleum floor and formica topped tables, arranged in rows down its length. Each table was surrounded by four uncomfortable-looking chairs with red plastic seats attached to silver metal, tubular frames. A girl with bushy brown hair, hanging loosely over her shoulders and down her back, sat at one of the center tables, idly stirring a cup of coffee that was standing on the surface in front of her. Apart from this lone occupant, the room appeared to be deserted. I was certain, even from this aerial view, that the girl was Hermione.

Without hesitation, I plunged my face into the substance contained in the basin. The floor beneath my feet gave a lurch and I felt as if I was being tipped headfirst, spinning through total blackness, into the scene below.

I landed with a jolt, just in time to see Harry Potter - looking exactly as I remembered him - pushing open the swinging glass door that provided a more conventional entrance into the room. I could now see that the vast, sparsely-furnished space was surrounded on three sides by walls composed almost entirely of large, metal-framed panes of glass that looked out onto a dark, floodlit scene, consisting of a six lane highway with a central metal divide. Occasionally, pinpoints of light suddenly appeared in the distance, grew briefly, as they approached, and then faded swiftly as they disappeared in the opposite direction. On the side of the room where Harry had just entered, a large, untended counter, crowned with artificially-lit, clear glass cabinets, ran for almost the entire length of the room, ending at a small empty desk with - what I believed to be - a Muggle cash register sitting on the top. A sign on the wall directly in front of me read, “Welcome to Newport Pagnell Motorway Services.”

Harry moved over towards Hermione’s table and stood looking down at her, his hands pressed deeply inside the pockets of his jacket. “Hello Hermione. Thanks for coming,” he said as he studied the girl. “What’s up, you look really miserable? Don’t you ever smile anymore?”

Hermione didn’t bother to look up, clearly recognizing Harry’s voice. “Oh, I’m OK. Nice place for a meeting, by the way. Very classy.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking lately.” She paused, as if trying to decide whether she should continue or not. “Harry…wouldn’t you ever like to go back?”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?” Harry frowned, perplexed.

“To just being a Muggle?” she said with sudden enthusiasm. “You know, I was over the moon when I got my letter from Hogwarts and it was all really exciting at first. Then the struggle with Voldemort just took over everything and I really had no time to think about much else. But now that it’s over, things just feel empty. And I look around at this world and it just seems to be so filled with injustice, and wickedness, and complacency, and conceit.” Hermione looked directly at Harry, as if daring him to contradict her. “That’s what really gets me; the absolute disdain that most wizards have for Muggles. They treat them like they’re an inferior species, but that just can’t be the case. Why else can some wizard children be born without magical powers, while some Muggle children, like me and your mother, are born with them? It’s just common sense, but you wouldn’t think that there was any connection between us to hear some wizards talk.” She shook her head in apparent frustration. “Even those who are supposedly sympathetic, like Arthur Weasley, don’t really understand. Don’t you think that it is just a little strange that after all of these years of supposed “study” he still can’t pronounce the name of any Muggle invention correctly? That really gets on my nerves. And look at what Voldemort did to Muggles; and who really cared?” she continued angrily. “Don’t you realize, I had to modify the memory of my own parents to protect them. How do you think that made me feel? They didn’t even recognize me as their daughter.” Hermione slumped down in her chair, her tirade weakening. “You know, sometimes I can understand your Uncle Vernon. Why shouldn’t Muggles be afraid when they know that a wizard can do virtually any thing that he likes and they are powerless to respond?”

Harry thought for a few moments, his frown deepening. “Well, I think that you’re exaggerating a little bit Hermione… and finding out that I was really a wizard was the best thing that ever happened to me. So, no - I never do think that I would like to go back. Anyway, I was always a wizard. I was never a Muggle. I just didn’t realize it.”

Hermione went back to studying her coffee; she didn’t seem to have the energy to argue. Harry sat down opposite her, seemingly nervous. “Look, Hermione,” he started suddenly, “this is all off the point. I asked to meet you here because I wanted to talk to you about us; about our relationship.”

“Oh, that should be a short conversation then,” Hermione replied bitterly.

Harry just blew out his cheeks, looking miserable, as if he had expected this response.

“The thing is Hermione… Ginny and I are going to get married - ” he blurted out before continuing hurriedly, “- it’s all she thinks about and Ron keeps dropping gigantic hints. You know that he does. I really don’t think that I can put it off any longer.” He paused and looked guiltily at the girl sitting across the table. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you myself in private, before you hear it from Ron.”

Hermione still didn’t look up but finally placed her spoon back in its saucer with a resigned sigh. “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised,” she said in a barely audible voice. “I always knew that this would happen one day. It was just a matter of time.” She sat quietly for a few moments and then asked, “So, where does that leave us then? You know what Ginny is like.”

“Yes, I know what Ginny is like,” Harry repeated, parrot fashion. “I also know what Ron is like. So, I think that you know where that leaves us! Look Hermione, we’ve been through all of this before – that time when I came to see you up at Hogwarts.” He hesitated. “If you’d been there when Ron came back and rescued me after the horcrux tried to drown me in that pool in the forest, then perhaps you’d understand. Ron was devastated when he was confronted by that vision of us together. He just couldn’t have coped with it. That’s how Voldemort works - he turns friends against each other by playing on their weaknesses - and I want an end to it,” he finished with sudden vehemence. “Look, you know that I needed Ron’s help then and I still need it now. In fact, I need all of the Weasleys and any other loyal pureblood families that I can muster, if we’re going to wipe out all traces of Voldemort’s evil.”

“I know that’s what you think, Harry, but…” Hermione’s voice trailed away and she sat for a few minutes staring at Harry pleadingly, tears welling in her eyes. Then suddenly, she jumped up and rushed towards the door.

“Hermione…” Harry called desperately after her retreating form, rising from his seat; but she had already vanished.

As I continued to watch, the image of the room began to fade and the tables and chairs became a hazy, swirling dark mist, like smoke, eventually coalescing into complete darkness. Within the ensuing void a small point of light appeared and gradually enlarged, opening a window onto another scene from Harry’s hidden memories.

I was now standing in a large white canvas marquee; well tended grass beneath my feet. Two lines of wooden, trestle tables covered with white linen tablecloths ran down the centre of the temporary enclosure. The tables were loaded with dishes and plates stacked with food, together with bottles and jugs full of various drinks. Piles of paper plates, colourful napkins and plastic knives, forks and spoons sat on the tables placed at each end of both rows. On the far wall of the marquee, a shiny gold paper streamer announced “Happy Birthday Arthur” in gaudy red lettering.

Harry was wearing a light coloured suit with an open-neck blue shirt in honour of the occasion and his hair was much shorter than previously; its unruly nature seeming almost intentional. I noticed Hermione standing at the far end of the nearest table, unenthusiastically placing a small triangular sandwich on to a paper plate that she held in her other hand. She too was dressed smartly, but in an unflattering, baggy, floral-print blouse, that hung over loose-fitting brown trousers. She seemed plumper than I remembered, particularly around her middle, and I realised with a shock that she must be in the early stages of pregnancy.

Harry approached her; a broad grin on his face.

“It’s starting to show,” he said by way of introduction.

“Oh, hello Harry.” Hermione seemed weary and only glanced up at him briefly before continuing to inspect the sandwiches on the table.

Harry moved closer, also appearing to study the food with his head turned slightly away from her, and continued in a quiet voice so that only Hermione could hear.

“So, what made you change your mind?”

“Well, it’s your fault really,” Hermione answered irritably. “What chance did I have once you got Ginny pregnant for a second time? Molly has been unbearable and I couldn’t stand Ron’s whining any more. Anyway, you know I’ve always wanted children; just not necessarily like this.”

She glanced up at Harry and gave a weak smile. “And, what about you? How does it feel now that you’re going to be a daddy again? You have been a busy boy, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, Ginny always did know how to push all of the right buttons,” Harry said, looking thoughtful. “Sorry, that sounded disgusting, didn’t it?” he apologised hurriedly, reddening slightly.

Hermione smiled properly now. “Oh! I didn’t know that you had buttons. You’ll have to show me some time.”

“Now Hermione, you know that’s not allowed,” Harry replied, raising his eyebrows, but he held Hermione’s gaze, becoming more serious. “Speaking about children, I’ve actually been thinking a lot about what you said to me once about the way that wizards don’t really understand Muggles. It seems to me that it’s important for any child of mine to know where I came from and to be aware of how the Muggle world works. I suggested to Ginny that perhaps we should have the children partially educated as Muggles, but she won’t hear of it. I’m not sure that this home education up to the age of eleven is such a good thing. It wouldn’t do them any harm to mix with Muggle kids for a while; they could learn some of the things that you and I did.”

“So, what are you two up to then?” Ron had suddenly appeared at Hermione’s shoulder. He had hardly changed at all, although, following his father’s example, there were now slight signs that his hair was starting to thin.

“We’re planning to run off together,” Hermione replied sarcastically.

“Don’t take any notice of her mate. She’s just trying to wind you up,” Harry interjected quickly.

“Now, Hermione, there’s no need to take that attitude. It was a perfectly civil question.” Ron sounded offended.

“Well, you know how you are Ron. Sometimes it feels like I’ve just been let out on parole,” his wife answered with a sigh.

Ron turned around briefly to put his empty glass down on a nearby table, apparently fairly indifferent to what appeared to be a regular source of disagreement, and I noticed that Ginny was now approaching from the opposite side of Harry. She was clearly several months ahead of Hermione in the pregnancy stakes, although, even allowing for this, she appeared to have put on a lot of weight, in comparison to the petite young girl that I remembered. Her silky hair was still a beautiful flaming red, but her face seemed a little rounder and her bare arms were shapeless and undefined. I have often found that it is the prettiest young girls who take less good care of themselves as they get older; presumably because beauty has come so effortlessly to them in their youth. For Ginny, the physical resemblance to Molly was now quite striking.

“What a surprise; here’s the other one,” Hermione muttered, so that only Harry could hear.

Harry, who obviously understood Hermione’s frustration at the apparent jealousy manifested by the two Weasleys, couldn’t stop himself from grinning openly.

“What’s so funny?” Ginny asked taking his arm.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking of something that Neville said earlier.”

“Look Harry, I really think that we need to be going now. We have to get little James home for his bath.” Ginny glanced at the watch clasped tightly around her slightly chubby wrist.

“Yeah, OK,” Harry sighed, “I’ll go and get his carry cot. Take care of yourself Hermione. Hopefully, we will see the two of you before the happy event.”

“Honestly Harry,” Ginny scolded, “you can be so thoughtless at times. Hermione is going to have loads to do just to get ready. Having your first child isn’t easy you know. She isn’t going to have much opportunity for socialising.”

Harry shrugged and with a brief wave started to move away but turned, continuing to walk backwards, and made telephoning gestures to Ron and Hermione behind Ginny’s back. Ron looked bewildered, but Hermione grinned.

As Harry made his way towards the far end of the marquee, the rest of the scene remained frozen in front of me for a few brief moments, before gradually dissolving again into complete, cold, empty darkness.

But my journey through Harry’s memories wasn’t over yet and I soon found myself in a cosy front room that I recognised. I had seen this room as an empty shell during my visit to 14 Flamel Mews. A slightly older Hermione was sitting on a functional brown leather two-seat sofa positioned in front of a blazing fire; her back to me. Harry - also showing the signs of aging, with a few silver strands in his otherwise jet black hair - was coming in through the doorway with two bedewed glasses of white wine in his hands. On the mantelpiece, above the fireplace, I saw a gold framed photograph of a plump, red-haired witch with her arms draped around the shoulders of three smiling children - two boys and a younger girl - squeezing tightly together.

“So where is Ginny tonight?” Hermione asked, as Harry passed one of the glasses to her.

“Off at her witches’ bridge club,” he replied cheerfully. “She goes every Thursday. Actually, it’s a relief to have the house to myself for a change, with the children all away at school. If I’m honest, we’ve been arguing quite a lot lately. I thought that Ginny would be satisfied now that I’m going to be Minister for Magic. She was really keen for me to accept the offer. But now, evidently, I don’t take her with me to enough functions. It seems that I can’t win.”

“Oh, poor Harry,” Hermione whined patronisingly, “doesn’t Ginny “push your buttons” any more?”

Harry shook his head dismissively. “That remark is beneath you, Hermione. And how come you could make it tonight then? Ron not as protective any more? Perhaps he’s got his eye on someone younger?”

“Shut up Harry,” Hermione replied scornfully, “Ron happens to be attending a major Wizard’s Chess conference in Croatia. He’ll be away until the weekend. In any case, you know Ron; he’s always had his eye on someone younger or more attractive. He can’t help it. That’s just the way he is; but it never comes to anything. At least, I don’t think that it does.”

“Well, I’m glad that you could make it,” Harry confessed. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately and I wanted to chat to you about an idea that I keep coming back to. I know that it’s going to sound crazy, but you’re the only one that I thought might understand.”

“Hm, that sounds intriguing Harry. Tell me what’s on your mind. I promise that I won’t laugh.” Hermione unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smile.

“Are you up there?” A deep, male voice was calling from somewhere behind me. I was puzzled for a moment and then I realised with horror that it must be Mr. Brewett. He was downstairs; in the house! I reluctantly pulled myself away from the scene unfolding in front of me and raised my wand above my head, so that the tip would fracture the outline of the memory. I felt myself gradually being pulled from the room and floating upwards through icy darkness. Then suddenly, with a lurching feeling in my stomach, as if I had turned head over heels, my feet staggered back onto the uneven, wooden floor of the attic. I was barely in time. I had just closed the cube and shrunk it back to an unobtrusive size, when Mr. Brewett’s head appeared through the hatch.

“Are you all right up there?” he asked smiling broadly. “I thought for a moment that I had lost you.”

“Yes. Yes, of course I’m all right” I replied hurriedly, dusting myself down and trying to regain my composure. “I like to be thorough when I am viewing a house. You never know whether there might be leaks in the roof, do you?”

“Well, I can assure you that this house is as sound as a bell, but you’re quite welcome to commission your own magical survey,” remarked Mr. Brewitt, at his most helpful.

“No, I’m sure that won’t be necessary, although I may come back for another inspection in a few days time,” I answered in what I hoped was a business like tone. With that, I ushered the confused Mr. Brewett hurriedly back down the wooden steps, before making my escape as quickly as I could.

7. A Visit to the Ministry

Stranger Than Fiction

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Author’s note: Once again thanks for the reviews, they really help to keep me writing. I hope that in this part I have calculated a reasonable timeline for the events previously described, as I have never actually read the epilogue. I am sure that someone will let me know if I haven’t.

Part 7. A Visit to the Ministry

Harry’s memories had given me my first real clue that things might not be quite as straight forward as Melissa had seemed to think. I couldn’t help but notice that, although Harry had attempted to distance himself from Hermione in the early years after Voldemort’s defeat - for his own fairly expedient and irrational reasons, it seemed to me - the last partial memory that I had seen suggested that their rapport was still as strong as ever. I always thought that Harry greatly over estimated the importance of the Weasleys, since none of them could hold a candle to Hermione in either magical ability or loyalty. I also considered that Harry underestimated his own abilities somewhat. He had shown a great deal of promise in his early years at Hogwarts with his skill at flying and at defense against the dark arts. Harry was the first student in his year to produce a fully fledged patronus and I believe that he also demonstrated a quite remarkable ability to resist the Imperius curse. However, he then made little magical progress in his fifth and sixth years, presumably because of the pressures resulting from the return of Voldemort, but possibly also as a result of his preoccupation with first Cho Chang and then Ginny Weasley. Hormones can unfortunately have a devastating effect, even in young wizards and witches.

The memories, which I had observed, were presumably the last ones that Harry had himself reviewed, since they were each separated by a considerable number of years. The first scene, in the motorway service station, had clearly taken place only a few months after I had last met with Harry and Hermione up in Hogsmeade. Since Hermione was only just pregnant at the time of the second memory and, according to Melissa, her first child was starting at Hogwarts nineteen years after Hermione had herself turned eighteen, the scene at Arthur Weasley’s birthday party must have occurred around eight years later. The final scene was fairly recent and would, therefore, seem to have happened soon after the events depicted in the epilogue – originally described to me by Melissa - were meant to have taken place.

Hermione’s demeanor in the first of the memories was troubling. While she was always a fairly high-strung and emotional girl, I remembered thinking that her behavior in her sixth year at school had become slightly erratic, but I had put this down to her harrowing experience at the Ministry of Magic the previous year. However, it appeared that I had misjudged the amount of strain that she was really under. She also seemed slightly depressed in the second of the memories, although Harry appeared to be able to cheer her up. By the third memory, her attitude was more relaxed and self-confident, which was altogether more encouraging. The behavior that I had observed from Ronald and Ginny Weasley in the second memory seemed to tie in well with the opinions expressed to me, all those years ago, by Hagrid and Cho Chang and their unease over the relationship between Harry and Hermione was almost palpable. This was all very interesting, but I was still no nearer to tracking down Hermione or to discovering why Muggles were being enthralled by a series of books about Harry Potter, relating the momentous events that had shaken the wizarding world in the fairly recent past. I felt that I had made little real progress in pursuing my main objectives.

I went back to 14, Flamel Mews the next day and I managed to persuade Mr. Brewett to return to his shop - to pick up some documentation on charm defenses - while we were in the middle of a second viewing of the property. This gave me the opportunity to retrace my steps to the attic, but unfortunately I could find no evidence of the hidden pensieve. It appeared that Harry, or someone else, must have returned to the house in secret and removed it. If this was the case, then Harry was probably already aware that his memories had been tampered with and was, I should imagine, not best pleased. However, with the avenue of investigation provided by the pensieve now closed, I had to return to my original plan of a visit to the Ministry of Magic, regardless of the consequences.

I still had my security clearance at the Ministry, albeit at a low level, and so a short time later I found myself walking across the highly polished, dark wood floor of the atrium, towards a rather bored looking young witch seated behind a desk at the far end. I was pleased to see that this level of the building had been restored to its former splendor and that the Fountain of Magical Brethren, albeit in a modified and less controversial form, had been reinstated. The tinkling sound of the fountain had always provided a soothing counterpoint to the frenetic activity that generally characterized the Ministry and, at the present time, it also helped to soften the rather harsh and intrusive sound of my footsteps on the hard wooden floor.

“I would like to see Harry Potter, please,” I said imperiously to the young witch at the desk. I have always found that taking a high-handed manner with administrative staff is the best way to avoid too many awkward questions.

“Sorry, that’s not possible,” was the sullen and immediate reply.

“But, you don’t understand, dear,” I informed the young lady in as commanding a tone as I could muster, “I am an old friend of Mr. Potter’s and I have some very urgent business with him.”

“No, you don’t understand, missus. He’s not here. He’s on sabbatical.”

I noticed that the girl had trouble pronouncing the last word; clearly the standard of staff at the Ministry wasn’t improving. However, this information was most unwelcome and didn’t help my plans in the slightest.

“Well, when will he return?” I asked patiently.

“Don’t know, missus. It’s what’s called open-ended.” The girl appeared to be enjoying her success in frustrating me.

“In that case,” I tried to regain the initiative, “I will need to contact Mr. Potter at home. Could you give me his address please?”

“Sorry, missus. I can’t do that. That information is confidential. Man in Mr. Potter’s position - I’m sure you can understand.”

“But, look,” I pleaded, dropping all pretense of superiority, “I’m Minerva McGonagall. I taught Harry Potter at Hogwarts. He would want you to give me his address.”

“Don’t care if you’re Merlin himself, missus. More than my job’s worth to give out that information to anyone. Anyway, I’m not cleared to access it.”

I decided to change tack. “In that case, could I speak to Mr. Ronald Weasley, please?”

“Oh dear, isn’t your day is it? Mr. Weasley is away on business. He won’t be back until next month,” the girl replied, with what I thought was an unnecessarily cheerful smile.

“Where’s he gone?” I asked, suspecting the answer as I spoke.

“Sorry, that’s classified information. I can’t tell you.”

I sighed. “And, I don’t suppose that you can tell me where he lives either?” I suggested and the girl shook her head in confirmation.

I was at a loss. I was out of touch with the mainstream now, but surely there must be someone that I knew in the Ministry who could help me? I was aware that Arthur Weasley had retired a number of years ago, so that was no use and I felt uneasy about broaching the subject with Arthur in any case. And then I remembered Jennifer Wood, Oliver’s older sister. She had been two years ahead of Oliver at Hogwarts but had also been in Gryffindor, so I knew her well. She had gone to work in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes straight from school.

“What about Jennifer Wood?” I asked desperately. “Does she still work here?”

“Finally, you’re in luck,” said the girl, with a chuckle. “I’ll ask if she can see you. What did you say your name was again?”

Once the receptionist had made contact, Jennifer said that she would be delighted to see me and so, after reluctantly handing in my wand to security and with my silver visitor’s badge pinned to my lapel, I rode one of the numerous, clanking elevators up to Level Three. Unfortunately, Jennifer was unable to help with either Harry’s current address or his whereabouts. However, my visit to her had managed to get me out of the reception area and through security and she was able to confirm the number of Harry’s office, which, as I suspected, was situated in the rarified atmosphere of Level One. I also obtained the location of Ronald Weasley’s office, in case I should need it. He was based down on Level Seven, quite some distance from Harry, but I hoped that a visit to his office would prove unnecessary. After thanking Jennifer, and without much hope but with a display of bravado that I certainly didn’t feel, I marched purposefully back to the elevators and ascended two more floors to Level One.

I exited onto a quiet corridor, fitted with deep-pile mauve carpeting and with dark stained wood paneling on the walls. Checking in both directions, to make sure that nobody was about, I moved furtively away from the elevators, examining the brass numbers fixed to the heavy oak doors that occasionally interrupted the paneling to make sure that I was heading in the right direction. Harry’s office was situated around a corner at the very end of the corridor, at the rear of a large open-plan area in which a bored-looking, very attractive, young witch was sitting behind an uncluttered, shiny, dark wooden desk. The girl was idly shuffling a few memos with her wand as she surreptitiously checked the time on a wall clock placed opposite her. I assumed that she must be Harry’s personal assistant, with little to occupy her in his absence. Fortunately, I was out of her direct line of sight as I peered around the corner and she therefore wasn’t aware of my presence. I hurriedly retraced my steps back towards the elevators, trying to decide what I should do next. As luck would have it, as I approached, there was a loud clanging sound and one of the elevators stopped at this level. The doors slid open and one of the small paper aeroplanes, used to carry internal memos around the building, darted out at eye level and headed in my direction.

I managed to grab the speeding messenger by its wing as it went by. It struggled briefly, like a parakeet being pushed back into its cage, before I was able to immobilize it with a “parchment paralysis” charm. I then performed a fairly simple piece of wandless magic to erase the current message and replace it with the words, “All senior personal assistants should report immediately to Room 713. Please bring your Quick-Quotes Quills with you;” this last part was designed to add an air of authenticity to the instruction and I was quite proud of it. I refolded the aeroplane and pointed it in the direction of Harry’s office. I waited a few moments and then started to walk in the opposite direction away from the elevators. Sure enough, I heard soft footsteps coming down the corridor behind me and Harry’s personal assistant entered an elevator and descended without paying any attention to my retreating form. I knew that it wouldn’t take her long to discover my subterfuge and so I hurried back along the corridor and was soon standing outside of the splendid, paneled oak door to Harry’s office, complete with the engraved brass plaque bearing the title, “Mr. H. Potter, Minister for Magic.” I tried the door handle and not surprisingly found that it was locked. Without my wand, it seemed highly unlikely that I would be able to gain access to Harry’s office in the short time that I probably had available.

Fearing that I had drawn another blank, I frantically surveyed the work area of the personal assistant. The young witch was clearly very well organized and most things had been tidied away. In despair, I pulled on the brass handle fixed to the top drawer of her desk but to no avail. She was obviously also highly security conscious and all of the drawers and cupboards appeared to be locked. I contemplated forcing one of them open, but I couldn’t be sure if anyone was in earshot and would hear the resulting commotion. The only things that didn’t appear to be locked away were a few harmless inter-departmental memos - the very ones that the girl had been toying with - some typical office ornaments, a few quills, an appointments book - that had been charmed so that nothing in it was visible unless you knew the counter-charm - and a row of books of various types and sizes, arranged haphazardly on a wooden shelf behind her desk. I quickly looked along the spines of these books to see if there was anything of interest there. They were mainly books concerned with wizarding law, magical creatures and various items of office practice. However, amongst them was a rather old Muggle atlas of Great Britain. This seemed slightly incongruous, although clearly Harry retained an interest in Muggle affairs and needed to keep abreast of them in his job.

Out of curiosity, I pulled the book from the shelf, taking care not to disturb its neighbors. As I held it loosely in my hands, the book seemed to open, very slightly, at a particular page. Examining this page closely, I could see that the corner of it had been folded down at some stage and that this very minor blemish detracted from the evenness of the other pages, drawing attention to the place. This seemed like something that Harry might do. Any pureblood wizard, wanting to mark their position in a book, would do so with a simple “bookmark” charm. Harry, however, had never completely rid himself of some of his Muggle habits and presumably this was one of them. Wondering if Harry’s interest in this page might be significant, I carefully tore it out along the spine and then pushed the atlas back into its place amongst the other books on the shelf. Folding the page into quarters and concealing it beneath my robes, I hurried back to the elevators and pressed the downward button. Fortunately, an elevator arrived in seconds and as the doors closed behind me, I heard the unmistakable sound of another elevator stopping at the First Level, possibly marking the return of Harry’s, presumably irate, assistant; but by then I had already started my descent. Retrieving my wand from security and handing in my badge, I left the Ministry in as nonchalant a fashion as I could manage, with my knees still shaking, giving the receptionist a careless wave as I passed by.

I apparated home straight away and unfolded the stolen page; laying it out flat on my kitchen table. Nothing on it seemed particularly significant to me, although I have to confess that I am no expert in Muggle geography. I am also not particularly skilled in the art of potion making, but nevertheless I dragged my fairly battered old cauldron from its resting place in the cupboard under the kitchen sink and used it to prepare a revealing potion that I hoped might be of some use. This potion, which I had frequently relied upon to detect cheating in homework assignments given to my students at Hogwarts, could be utilized to indicate the handling of parchment, turning a different color for each separate person involved, and I hoped that it would also work on Muggle paper. I set the strength of the potion to indicate handling within the previous month and then painted the clear liquid over the side of the page on which the fold was present. Sure enough, after a few minutes the potion indicated a series of pale green fingerprints around the edges of the page and a curved stripe of the same color moving from the bottom edge towards the centre, as if someone had drawn their finger tip across the page. This stripe ended right on a tiny black circle with black lettering by its side, marking the position of a small Muggle village to the north of London.

I was immensely grateful that the atlas had been in Harry’s possession. This was just the type of careless, rash mistake that he had always been prone to make. I was certain that someone like Hermione would have been much more cautious about covering their tracks. So, why had Harry been looking at this page and specifically at that location? Could the village be where he was taking his sabbatical? Or could someone he knew be staying there? Had I finally located Hermione? Of course, the most likely answer was that the village had something to do with Harry’s work and represented nothing at all for me to get excited about.

One thing was for certain; there was only one way that I was going to find out.

8. Hermione's Tale

Stranger Than Fiction

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Part 8. Hermione’s Tale

The name of the village on the torn out page of the atlas meant nothing to me and so I took myself off to my nearest Muggle library - the very same one in which the book club that started this whole affair met - to scan through some Muggle reference books. Finally, after a highly confusing search, I had a few scraps of information, although these still provided no real clues as to what significance the site might have for Harry. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The village was a tiny place with no buildings or monuments of historical interest and, by all accounts, very few inhabitants. I can’t give any more details about the village here, unfortunately, because… well, you will see for yourself later on.

As the village was so small and I had so little information about it, determining a focus for apparation was difficult. For this reason, I apparated to a larger town nearby and got on a Muggle bus to travel the rest of the way. I keep a small amount of Muggle money that I acquired by selling a few unwanted possessions in - what I believe is called - a pawn shop. This small store of funds helps me to conduct my research. The bus journey was extremely comfortable and relaxed, not a bit like a broom or the Knight Bus or some of the various other means of transport that I am used to. The bus was fitted with doors that opened by folding inward with a loud hissing sound whenever it stopped, as if propelled by magic. I wasn’t able to ascertain exactly how this worked and I made a mental note to ask Harry about it, if I located him. The ingenuity of Muggles never ceases to amaze me and I think that we could possibly learn a great deal from them.

I was the only passenger to alight in the small village, when we eventually reached it down a decaying asphalt lane, hemmed in by thick trees and bushes on each side. The village itself didn’t disappoint. It really was as miniscule as I had expected, consisting of only about two dozen houses dotted along one side of the lane. Narrow pavements, made up of two rows of concrete paving slabs, ran along each side and opposite from the houses was a small, slow-moving stream, lined with overgrown grass banks. In an area where the stream bent slightly away from the lane, sat two slightly larger, white-rendered buildings; a general store and a public house - the latter bearing the evocative name of the Dog and Ferret. Just along from these two buildings was an old, cracked and worn wooden bench, with a rusting, green-painted litter bin positioned to one side. As the lane was deserted, I crossed over to the bench and sat down, trying to decide what to do next. The weather was mild and I was wearing my tartan cloak, so I was perfectly comfortable.

I had no idea if Harry was interested in the village overall, in one particular house or, indeed, in one of the two small enterprises on this side of the lane. As there were so few properties in the village, my best course of action seemed to be to go from door to door and hope that something would turn up. The thought was not an enthralling one, as I had no clear idea what I was looking for or what I would say to the occupants.

As I sat there, pondering my next move, the door to the general store opened, with the tinkling of an attached bell that attracted my attention. A woman exited, carrying a brown paper bag, looked briefly up and down the lane and trotted across to the other side, before using a key to enter one of the larger houses, through a shiny, dark green, wooden front door. The woman looked to be middle-aged, but was slim and casually dressed, with thick brown hair, lightened with blond streaks, cut fairly short, just over her ears at the side, and brushed back from her forehead. She was hardly recognizable but, with her build and the way that she held herself, I was almost certain that it was Hermione.

I remained sitting on the bench for a long time, staring across at the green front door. Now that I was so close to my goal, I seemed reluctant to take the final step. Instead, I thought back over my reasons for being here and why I had become so emotionally attached to two of my former students.

I remembered a young girl quite obviously lying to me about an incident with a troll on Halloween, to protect a new found friend; I also remembered that same girl cheering ecstatically when her friend caught the Snitch and won the house Quidditch championship for Gryffindor for the first time in many years; and I recalled Mr. Filch bringing the pair of them to me after he had caught them coming down from the Astronomy Tower together, where they had been helping to dispose of that unfortunate dragon that Hagrid had so foolishly thought that he could rear. I remembered Harry’s ashen face when I took him to see Hermione lying petrified in the hospital wing at Hogwarts and his clear relief when Hermione rushed towards him in the Great Hall after she was finally revived. I remembered Hermione pleading with me to allow Harry to go to Hogsmeade, although I had to disappoint her, just as I had also disappointed Harry when he came to ask exactly the same thing; and I remembered seeing Hermione walking from the hospital wing, her eyes red from crying after Harry took a serious tumble from his broom during an important Quidditch match; I also recalled Albus Dumbledore telling me how Hermione had used the Time-Turner, that I had lent to her, to help Harry rescue Sirius in that same year. I remembered how Hermione alone had stuck by Harry when the whole school seemed to turn against him during the lead up to the first task in the Triwizard Tournament and even Ronald Weasley was refraining from speaking to him for some reason; and how she had joyfully given her full attention to Harry after his success in the second task, much to the displeasure of a certain Viktor Krum; I further recalled seeing the incredulous look on Harry’s face when he noticed a virtually unrecognizable and very presentable Hermione joining with the rest of the champions to enter the Yule Ball – that look had been priceless and had stayed etched in my memory. Finally, I remembered how the two of them had been the instigators of Dumbledore’s Army, something Albus and I knew about right from the beginning, and had worked tirelessly to oppose Dolores Umbridge during her brief and unhappy reign as the head of Hogwarts; and I couldn’t forget the sight of the two of them emerging scratched and bedraggled from the Forbidden Forest after some joint escapade, while Ron was being feted by the rest of Gryffindor house for his part in a famous Quidditch victory. So you see, to me it had always been Harry and Hermione. They seemed destined to be together.

But now I had to face the probability that I had been wrong all of the time and, as I cared about both of them, I found this fact strangely upsetting. However, I told myself that I hadn’t come all of this way for nothing and I needed to find out the truth. And so, with this new found resolve and a heavy heart, I pushed myself up from the bench and walked slowly over to the green front door.

My knock on the door was initially greeted with silence, but then I heard movement as someone opened a door inside and muffled footsteps approached. The door was suddenly pulled open and the woman who I had seen jog across the lane stood in front of me with a questioning expression on her face. The change in her hair style had a quite dramatic effect on her appearance and there were a few small aging lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, but it was undoubtedly Hermione; but a Hermione who seemed completely at odds with the slightly neurotic young girl that I had known. Some women, who were not considered to be conventionally pretty in their youth, seem to have a predisposition to age well. If this is combined with a desire to make the best of their appearance and to remain fit and healthy, these women gradually stand out from their peers in later life and suddenly seem self-confident and very attractive. Hermione appeared to be just such a woman and, although completely free from any make-up, as far as I could judge, and dressed in a loose sweatshirt and jeans, she would now have turned heads in any crowd. She looked at me quizzically for a few moments, as I stood tongue-tied on the door step, before sudden recognition dawned on her face.

“Professor! Professor McGonagall. What on earth are you doing here? Come in…come in.” She moved aside to let me enter and we both stood for a moment in the hallway, breathless and unsure of what we should say.

I finally broke the ice. “You are looking wonderful dear. I am so glad that I have found you at last!”

“Found me?” Hermione looked puzzled. “You’ve been looking for me? But why?” She frowned but then hurried on, “Look, let’s not talk standing in the hallway. Come into the front room.”

With that, she indicated a door standing ajar on her right hand side and then followed me as I went through.

“Take your cloak off and sit down,” she suggested indicating an armchair. “Why don’t I make us some tea and then we can have a chat.”

“That would be lovely dear,” I replied, slipping my cloak from my shoulders and passing it into Hermione’s outstretched hand.

“It will take a few moments. I do things the Muggle way here, so that I don’t attract any unwanted attention.” Hermione went back out into the hallway, leaving me alone, and I soon heard bangs and rattles coming from further back in the house.

I looked around. The room was decorated in a very sparse, modern fashion. Polished, light wood boards had been laid over the floor and the armchair in which I was seated, together with another matching one and a three-seat sofa were covered in cream leather. The walls, adorned with various simple prints, were painted also in cream, with the remainder of the paintwork being a brilliant white. The fireplace had been blocked off and a display of dried grasses and flowers now stood on the tiled hearth in front of the chimney breast. By turning in my chair, I was able to see a large, framed photograph of Hermione, Ron and two children, a boy and a girl, placed on a low light-colored wood storage unit positioned against a side wall of the room. It seemed to be the only magical item present, as the occupants moved and waved as they posed for the camera. All four of them had beaming smiles on their faces; the archetypal, conventional happy family. It regrettably seemed that I had clearly been mistaken after all.

Hermione called out, asking if I took milk and sugar, and I am sure that I must have answered her, although my thoughts were running in an entirely different direction. She returned after about five minutes with two steaming mugs of orange-brown liquid and passed one carefully to me, ensuring that I could grasp it by the handle.

“Well, I’m delighted to see you Professor, but what has suddenly brought you here after all of this time?” Hermione asked, peering over her mug as she sipped her tea.

“Well, it’s a long story dear, but Harry’s name came up recently from a rather unexpected source and I realized how long it had been since I saw any of you,” I improvised hesitantly. “Particularly in your case Hermione; I have no idea what you have been up to since we last met.”

Hermione didn’t show any signs of volunteering the information that I was seeking and so I pressed on. “So, what have you been doing with yourself? I expected great things from you, but while I have heard plenty about Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley and even Neville Longbottom, there has been no word about you whatsoever.”

Hermione leaned forward to place her mug gently on a low table in front of her, which matched the storage unit behind me and was obviously part of a set. She took her time before answering; seemingly selecting her words carefully.

“That’s because I didn’t do much at all for a long time. To be honest, I felt a bit disillusioned with the whole wizarding world after the battle with Voldemort. I got married and started a family and it was only after I had my second child, Hugo, that I suddenly realised that if things were wrong, then I owed it to my children to try and help put them right. So, I applied for a research job at St. Mungo’s Hospital and I’ve been working there ever since.” She looked up at me and smiled, as if about to impart some pleasant news. “You’ll be pleased to hear that my main research interest is the principles underlying magic.”

“But that’s extraordinary dear!” I exclaimed. “I have been doing some private research in the same sort of area, although I’ve never come across your name or seen any of your work.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed what you’re doing,” Hermione said, chuckling at my rather uncharacteristically excitable response, “but we’re really taking different approaches to the same sort of problem. Let’s say that while you concentrate more on “nurture” with regard to the development of magical abilities, I’m more interested in “nature”; where it all comes from in the first place.” She paused, before continuing in a more serious tone. “The reason that you haven’t heard about me is that my group largely keeps out of the public eye because what we’re doing is so sensitive and I always publish under a pseudonym. Have you ever seen any work by Harriet Puckle?” she enquired. “Puckle was my mother’s maiden name and Harriet … is just another girl’s name that began with the letter “H” that came into my head one day,” she finished rather lamely.

“Yes dear,” I replied scornfully, knowing full well why the name Harriet might have appealed to Hermione Granger. I allowed myself a smug smile. Clearly, even after all of these years, she still had Harry Potter on her mind, regardless of her marital status.

“I had to keep my identity fairly well hidden because many pureblood families still don’t really approve of the sort of work that I do and I couldn’t afford to embarrass Ron, with his position at the Ministry,” she continued. “Thankfully, I have some very discrete colleagues. Most of them have to do something similar. Anyway, now that Harry is Minister for Magic things are starting to change and we’ll all soon be able to be much more open about our involvement. Harry is going to change a lot of things for the better, I’m certain.”

I couldn’t help noticing the slight softening of her expression and the tone of her voice as she talked about Harry. “Oh, that’s excellent news Hermione. I’m so pleased that you are doing something so worthwhile. But why did it take you so long to get started?”

Again, Hermione thought carefully before answering.

“I don’t know; something seemed to happen to me after my fifth year at Hogwarts. I think that it was Sirius’ death that affected me.” Her forehead creased as if agitated by the recall of unpleasant memories. “I really felt that I had let Harry down and it seemed to me that I wasn’t going to be able to help him much any more. Self confidence never was my strong suit and it must have hit rock bottom at that point. Suddenly, I found that I was turning into the type of girl that I had always despised; the type who needs a relationship with a boy just to boost her self esteem and prove her worth.” She gave a self deprecating laugh. “I hated myself for it, but I didn’t seem to be able to stop. I was emotional and childish and, at the same time, I was irrationally angry with Harry because he seemed to be ignoring any advice that I tried to give him. After that, I just got really depressed and went around in a sort of daze. I was a real mess for a while and Ron was the only one who attempted to comfort me and help me through it.” She smiled in recollection. “He actually tried to change himself for me, even though he was never all that successful. I think that’s why we ended up getting married, even though most people thought that we weren’t really suited.”

“But, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing tucked away here, in this tiny Muggle village?” I interrupted, anxious to bring Hermione back to the present.

“This place? Oh, this was a little country retreat close to the city that my parents have owned for ages. They used to rent it out, but now they’re letting us use it. You see Professor, I’ve lived for a long time in the wizarding world with Ron and the children, but you have to remember that all of the members of my family are Muggles. There’s my mum and dad and I’ve got aunts and uncles and cousins. Everyone seems to think that I never had a family life of my own before I came to Hogwarts.” Her voice became more assertive as she warmed to her theme. “Rose and Hugo have two sets of grandparents, you know. My mum and dad deserve to spend some time with their grandchildren too. With us staying here for a while, they are able to see more of them and it lets Rose and Hugo get a better understanding about the world and my view of it. It’s easy enough for us to get back and forth, just not so convenient with no Floo network to help.” She took a pause for breath, but still clearly had more that she wanted to say on the subject. “To those of us, like me and Dean Thomas and even Harry, who were brought up as Muggles, some magical folk, particularly pureblood families like the Weasleys, can seem a little bit eccentric to say the least. Spending time in this place helps to keep Rose and Hugo grounded.”

I had to admit that this sounded reasonable and I also have to confess that I class myself as one of those who were guilty of viewing Hermione as virtually an orphan, before her “adoption” by the Weasleys. Thoughts of the Weasleys made me wonder how Ron was taking to this change in circumstances.

“I understand that Ron is away for a while on business,” I volunteered to broach the subject. “I asked after him at the Ministry but they wouldn’t tell me where he was.”

“Oh, that! It’s just a fact finding tour to decide the whereabouts for the next Quidditch World Cup; all very hush-hush at the moment,” Hermione answered casually.

“But doesn’t Ron find it a bit strange living here?” I pressed. “He never seemed the type to adapt readily to the Muggle world.”

Hermione gasped and looked stricken for a few moments, while her hand went up to her mouth in an almost involuntary gesture of surprise.

“Oh, Merlin! What with you having tracked me down here, I just assumed that you knew! You think that Ron and I are still married, don’t you?” she blurted out in an astonished voice.

Now it was my turn to be surprised. The happy family photograph; the way that she had talked fondly about her marriage; the references to “us” – presumably actually only meaning her and the children; I couldn’t equate any of this with what she was now implying.

“Well, yes dear,” I managed to croak. “Do you mean that you’re not?”

Hermione shook her head in amazement. “No, that was all over some time ago. I am so sorry; I really thought that you must have heard.”

She looked thoughtful and then clearly decided that some further explanation was called for. “Ron and I were always very different really; and when I took the job at St. Mungo’s those differences just seemed to intensify. He wouldn’t admit it, but I think that Ron really wanted a home-maker as a wife; someone like his mother. Ron was always fairly conservative in his views. It was just part of his upbringing. Not like me at all.” She sighed. “Anyway, to cut a very long story short, after a great deal of soul searching, we both agreed to call it a day, while we could still remain friends. It’s really the best thing for both of us; and for the children. There’s no great animosity between us. The official view is that we have irreconcilable differences, but as far as we’re both concerned, we just got fed up with arguing all of the time.”

I couldn’t quite grasp the ramifications of what she was saying. Even though I had always thought that Hermione and Ron were unsuited, this sudden turn of events had an unnatural quality about it.

“But what about Harry and Ginny? Are they still married?” I asked desperately trying to hang on to at least part of the reality that I had begun to accept.

At that precise moment, I heard the sound of someone fumbling to insert a key into the front door lock, followed by a creak of rusting hinges as the door was pushed open from the outside.

“It seems that you’re in luck,” Hermione said with a mischievous grin. “Why don’t you ask Harry for yourself?”

9. Harry's Tale

Stranger Than Fiction

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Part 9. Harry’s Tale

“Hermione … are you here?” Harry’s voice called from the hallway.

“Yes, Harry. I’m in the front room. Prepare for a surprise. I’ve got a visitor,” Hermione answered, a broad smile on her face.

Harry came into the room, wearing a puzzled frown. He looked very much as I remembered him, although the silver strands in his hair, particularly around the temples, were even more pronounced than in the last memory that I had viewed in his pensieve. The glasses he wore weren’t round any more and were hardly noticeable; they were rectangular and very thin. He was dressed in a fairly smart light-weight jacket, over blue denims and a casual light blue shirt. Not quite the type of apparel worn by Cornelius Fudge when he was Minister for Magic! I couldn’t help thinking that Harry and Hermione fitted in to this Muggle setting much better than most witches and wizards would.

“Who ..?” he began as he scanned the room and then his eyes fixed on me and I was pleased to see that he didn’t appear to be disappointed. “Professor! What on earth are you doing here?” he exclaimed.

“Oh, I’m just visiting,” I replied defensively, “I was telling Hermione …”

“Well actually, you never did really tell me,” Hermione interrupted. “You said something vague about Harry’s name coming up, but that’s really as far as you got. So, what’s the real reason for this visit?”

I realized that she wasn’t going to let the matter rest and so, while Harry perched himself in the centre of the leather sofa, seeming quite comfortable with his surroundings, I confessed all about the book club and the Harry Potter story, only omitting the part about my disbelief over the Epilogue, which was really too embarrassing to relate.

“Oh!” said Harry and Hermione in unison when I had finished.

“I just couldn’t understand where this woman has obtained all of her information from,” I continued, oblivious to the signs of discomfort that the two of them were now exhibiting. “It sounds fairly accurate, if perhaps a little melodramatic. How on earth do you think that all of those details could get into Muggle hands?”

Harry and Hermione both looked sheepish and glanced repeatedly at each other, appearing to maintain a silent dialogue through facial expressions alone.

“Well, I had something to do with it;” Harry finally admitted with a grimace. “Quite a lot, actually. But in truth, I think that it’s really Uncle Vernon who’s to blame.”

Harry got up and began pacing the room, clearly uncomfortable about what he was going to tell me. “I never had many possessions as a child, but one thing that I prized most was a little portable tape recorder.” He noted my puzzled expression and explained, “It’s a Muggle device that records your voice; sort of like a pensieve but without the visuals. Anyway, I found it on a bus one day – someone must have dropped it – and, rather dishonestly, I kept it. You have to understand that I never had much in the way of possessions. Well, each summer, when I got back to Privet Drive, I would record the events of my year at school on this tape recorder. I can’t think why I started now, but I suspect that after my first year, when things had been so exciting and different for me, I just couldn’t stop thinking about them during the boredom of the summer holidays and felt the need to capture it all while it was fresh in my mind. Once I did it the first year, it became a bit of a ritual for me after that.”

He moved over to stand in front of the window, looking out over the lane outside, and continued talking with his back towards me, as if he didn’t want to see my reaction to what was coming next. “When my Aunt Petunia died, about ten years ago, I had to go back to Privet Drive for a couple of days to sort out a few things. Aunt Petunia left me a letter of apology and a few mementoes of Lily. She also left me details of some money that had been held in trust for me that Vernon had tried to keep secret.”

Harry rubbed his forehead in an agitated manner, as if he was annoyed at his own mental frailty. “I had been doing a bit of editing of the tapes and so, stupidly, I had them with me. Well, when I got back to my room one day, I could have sworn that my bag had been tampered with, but everything was still there and when I questioned Vernon and Dudley they both denied it.”

He turned around and walked back to the sofa, his shoulders hunched; gingerly retaking his seat next to Hermione and looking towards her for reassurance. She reached over and squeezed his hand, in a rather touching display of support.

“I think that Vernon must have found the tapes and made copies; probably hoping that he might be able to use them against me in some way. He was pretty unhappy that Petunia had blabbed about the trust fund in her Will. So I suppose that it was his idea of revenge to pass the story on to someone. According to Dudley, it was the product of a chance meeting with some woman who he sat next to on a train from Edinburgh to London, after he’d had a bit too much to drink in the station bar. Whether he got any financial reward for it, I don’t know, but I suspect that he probably did. Not enough it seems, judging by how successful I understand the series has become. Anyway, soon after that, the first of the books was published and they have been coming out regularly ever since.”

“But what about the Epilogue,” I interrupted.

“Epilogue?” Harry replied quizzically. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s at the end of the final book,” I said irritably. “It shows you and Ginny sending Albus off to Hogwarts for the first time.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Harry answered, “but Uncle Vernon knows about my marriage and kids - Ron and Hermione’s too for that matter - as they all came to Petunia’s funeral to give me a bit of moral support. Look, I’m really sorry Professor. I should never have been so careless.”

To be honest, I was relieved. I had been imagining a far more damaging situation.

“Oh, it’s quite all right dear, there’s no harm done,” I replied magnanimously – secretly glad that I appeared to have been right in my assumptions about the Epilogue. “Although I must admit that I was a little bit annoyed about my characterization. Quite inaccurate, I thought. I hope that wasn’t down to you, Harry. Anyway, I am sure that you can understand why I was so desperate to make contact with either of you to find out what was going on,” I continued, trying to put forward a reasonable rationale for my sudden appearance, while disguising my true motives.

Unfortunately, as is often the case when you are not being entirely truthful, I felt compelled to elaborate further. “But I didn’t really know where to start,” I rambled on unnecessarily. “I have been racking my brains. I even dug out a letter that Harry had sent to me soon after Hermione got married, and I found …” I stopped myself just in time, remembering my meddling with Harry’s pensieve, but it was too late and the damage was done.

“My address? So…” Harry started accusingly.

“…you’re the one who has been delving into Harry’s pensieve,” Hermione continued, completing Harry’s thought.

Hermione exhaled deeply in apparent disbelief, while Harry just glared at me. “Um….,” was all the sound that I could muster, as I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

“I think that I’ll go and make some more tea,” Hermione said diplomatically.

She gathered the mugs and went out into the hallway, pausing as she moved by me to whisper, “You’ll have to let me know what memories he keeps in there. He won’t tell me.”

Harry, who, I am sure, had heard exactly what Hermione had said, continued to stare at me in silence, an angry expression on his face.

“Harry… What can I say? What I did was despicable I know but…” I began anxiously.

Harry shook his head and surprisingly began to chuckle. “I suppose that I should be really mad at you,” he began. “Professor Snape certainly was when I looked in his pensieve. Actually, I’ve done exactly what you did - look into another person’s pensieve without their permission - twice, as far as I can remember. So, I suppose I can’t be too high and mighty about it, now that the boot is on the other foot.”

I felt a wave of immense relief wash over me and I smiled weakly back at Harry. “I know that it’s really none of my business Harry, but those memories …” I began tentatively.

“Well, you’ve certainly got a nerve,” Harry interrupted, but he was still smiling tolerantly, as if dealing with a precocious child. “They’re my memories of Hermione. Ginny always was slightly paranoid about my relationship with Hermione, so I thought that it was best to put my memories in there; just in case I ever blurted anything out, perhaps while I was sleeping or something.”

“And did it work? Are you and Ginny still happy together?” I just couldn’t seem to stop myself from prying further.

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He looked down, frowning and his previously cheerful mood seemed to slowly drain away. “She’s left me,” he eventually replied with a resigned shrug. “Gone home to mother. Well, not strictly home in this case, since Molly and Arthur are staying in Romania at the moment; but you get the idea. She’s asked for a divorce and I’ve agreed. She doesn’t have any grounds, so we’ll just have to let things take their course.”

“Oh, I am sorry dear,” I consoled, somewhat hypocritically.

Harry sighed deeply, a rueful look on his face. “Things had been rough for some time and then, when Hermione and Ron split up, they just became even more difficult. Ginny wanted me to take sides and I refused. I wasn’t going to abandon Hermione after all that we’ve been through together. I know that Ron didn’t expect me to.” He shook his head again. “It’s so hard for other people, even someone who has been as close to us as Ginny, to really understand the bond that there is between Hermione, Ron and me. We were together through it all; right from the beginning and I don’t think that any of us would ever willingly desert the others. You could see it in the way that Ron always came back, even when he thought that I had let him down. It’s the same with Ron and Hermione. They might not be able to stand living together any more, but they’ll never stop caring about each other.”

Harry sat back in his chair, looking very weary. “Then, a few weeks ago, Ginny finally gave me an ultimatum to cut my ties with Hermione or else; and when I refused, she packed up her things and left. We’d already decided that we were going to put the house on the market and, as we moved out, we headed in different directions. But with Ginny in such a delicate state, I didn’t dare move the pensieve while she was around. I thought that it was safe enough for the moment. Obviously, I was mistaken!”

“And isn’t there any hope of a reconciliation?” I asked, quickly changing the subject - my fingers secretly crossed.

“No, I don’t think so. Things have gone too far. Anyway, Ginny isn’t the type to go for too long without male company and she still has plenty of admirers. She might not have the same slim figure that she had when she was younger, but she’s always had a way of getting what she wants.” He looked at me and gave a helpless shrug, “Not very good for the Minister for Magic, is it? That’s why I’m officially on sabbatical; until this all calms down a little.”

“So, are you living here as well, dear?” I probed, my curiosity finally getting the better of me.

“No, I’m just visiting.” He caught my doubtful glance at the door key that he had dropped on the low table in front of him. “That’s just a spare. Hermione lent it to me in case she wasn’t here when I arrived this afternoon. I’m thinking of buying a house that’s up for sale just outside the village and I’ve been to see it. I’d talked to Hermione before about buying a Muggle place – in fact, she originally put the idea into my head – but she thought that Ginny would never put up with it and so I never did. That’s not really a consideration any more and so the time seems right. I’ve changed some of my galleons into Muggle money at Gringotts, so I can easily afford it and I think that this house will be perfect for me. It’s private and well away from prying eyes and Hermione will be just down the road. It will be like being back in the Gryffindor Common Room,” he finished with a chuckle; his air of melancholy seeming to evaporate as quickly as it had descended.

“And, what about Hermione?” I asked, gesturing with my head in what I hoped was the direction of the kitchen. “How does she feel about all of this?”

“She’s been very supportive; but then she always was,” he replied, smiling fondly. “I remember trying to describe my relationship with Hermione to you once before. I couldn’t do it then and I probably still can’t do it now.” He paused and I think that he was trying to decide whether he could trust me or not. Thankfully, he must have decided that he could as he soon continued, “I’ve never told anyone this before, but when I was going off to face Voldemort that last time and I believed that I was going to die, I thought about the people who I would miss the most. And the first person that came into my mind wasn’t Ginny and it wasn’t Ron or Hagrid. It was Hermione. I think that explains everything. She’s simply my best friend and the person who means more to me than anyone else. I should never have tried to give her up, but I thought at the time that I was doing the right thing for everyone. That’s what I always seem to have been trying to do; until now that is. Hermione says that I should stick to what I believe in and not worry so much about what other people think. She’s convinced that she had so many problems back at the end of our school years because she lost courage in her convictions, due to the fact that she was surrounded by people who made fun of them – particularly Ron.”

Harry became somber again. “As much as I tried to make my marriage work, I just couldn’t ignore my relationship with Hermione. She always knew what I was thinking, almost before I did. So we didn’t really even need to talk to each other. We might be in a group - with Ron and Ginny both there - something would happen, and I’d look at Hermione and I could tell from her expression that she was thinking exactly the same as me. I think that Ginny could always sense that closeness between us.” He shrugged. “I’ve made a real mess of things haven’t I?”

Before I had a chance to answer, Hermione returned from the kitchen; managing to carry three mugs of tea in her hands at one time. After setting one mug down in front of Harry and giving another to me, she placed her own mug on the low table and squeezed into the space next to Harry on the sofa. The physical intimacy involved seemed to come perfectly naturally to both of them, but then I suppose that it should as they had spent a great deal of time during their teenage years clinging to one another in various perilous situations. I wondered what chance any other relationship really ever had where these two were concerned.

“What have I missed?” Hermione asked innocently.

“Oh, not much. I’ve just been telling the professor about the challenges of being Minister for Magic,” Harry lied -quite convincingly I thought - glancing sideways to look at her. “There’s an awful lot of work for me to do and I’ve only scratched the surface so far,” he continued seamlessly, turning back to face me and taking up the theme that he had just confessed to have been following all along. “I want to change the way that we wizards and witches view other magical folk, like elves and centaurs. We really need to treat them as equals and to stop being so patronizing. Then we should extend the same consideration to Muggles and become much more integrated into their world. It’s important morally, but it’s practical as well. If Dark Magic ever starts to take a hold again it’s likely that the first signs will be seen outside of mainstream wizarding society. And, what better way of getting wizards and witches to accept that more integration is essential, than to see their Minister for Magic living as a Muggle; at least for part of the time. That’s why buying a house in this village is such a good idea.”

Harry was clearly getting into his stride and I could see how important these ideas were to him. From the smile on Hermione’s face, it seemed that she was in agreement.

“It’s got to start with the way that we educate young wizards and witches,” he went on. “We need to make sure that they’re more aware of the responsibilities that go along with their powers. I’m going to do away with sorting at Hogwarts as well. What a person has in their head should stay there, not be used to label them. It’s all nonsense anyway. Take Hermione and Luna Lovegood, for instance. Hermione is perfectly clever enough to have been sorted into Ravenclaw and if you don’t think that Luna is brave, then you just don’t know her well enough. No, it was just a bit of an ego trip for the four founders and for some reason nobody ever had the guts to challenge it.”

Harry stopped and looked directly at me; his expression uncompromising.

“Well…” I began uneasily, hoping that I wasn’t the target for his sudden outburst.

“Don’t worry Professor; I know that you couldn’t do anything about it,” he thankfully reassured me. “But I do need support if I’m going to make this work. Taking on Voldemort was the biggest challenge of my life and, although a lot of people helped, I could never have gotten through it all without Hermione. Reforming the Ministry is my second biggest challenge and I couldn’t do that without Hermione’s help either.”

Hermione blushed - most endearingly I thought.

“Well we tend to believe in the same things,” she said quietly in response. “I think that we always have.”

I saw Harry look at Hermione and I couldn’t quite read his expression. Was it admiration? Respect? Or was it something more?

“Don’t let your tea get cold, Professor,” Harry said suddenly; startling me as I realized that I must have been staring at him.”

“No, I won’t; thank you Harry,” I replied. “It doesn’t do to leave things for too long, does it, dear?” I added, fairly cryptically, although I am sure, from his expression, that Harry understood me perfectly.

We talked for a long time – the three of us – about Harry’s plans and Hermione’s research and they both seemed very interested in my work amongst the Muggles and particularly about the book club. Eventually, it was time for me to go. Harry told me that he had hired a car and they were intending to drive down to see Hermione’s parents that evening. Evidently, Harry and Hermoine are both qualified to drive on Muggle roads – a rare accomplishment amongst those in the magical community!

They seemed relaxed and happy; and that is how I left them - two best friends finally back together again and appearing to be enjoying every minute. Whether their friendship will ever develop into anything more, I can’t be sure - although all of the signs seem to indicate that it will. It might already have done so, as who knows what young people get up to these days, and I promised myself that I would go back and check in a few months time.

I am certain that Hermione is in love with Harry and probably has been for a very long time. And Harry? Well, what do men know about real love anyway? They are such one dimensional creatures after all! However, I can’t help remembering that he had such a penchant for the prettiest young girls when he was at school. Now, it appears that he may finally have developed a similar attraction for beautiful, highly intelligent, mature women, who can offer him deep friendship as well as the more physical side of a relationship.

And no, before you ask, I wasn’t thinking of myself!

10. Epilogue

Stranger Than Fiction

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is a work of imagination and is directed solely at readers of this website. No infringement of any rights is intended and no criticism of J.K. Rowling or her work should be considered to be stated or implied.

Author’s Note: I had intended to make Part 9 the last part of this story. However, I had so many requests for a further update that I decided to add an Epilogue. Not sure where that idea came from!

Part 10. Epilogue

Unfortunately, I didn’t get to go back and see Harry and Hermione in a few months as I had promised myself. I received an interesting communication from a colleague about a village in Romania which had an extremely high number of Muggle children who had demonstrated magical abilities during the past five years. Keen to further my research, I packed up a few things and left immediately. I had intended to make a relatively short visit, but tracing the family histories involved and following up on distant relatives kept me busy for almost nine months. I must admit that I didn’t rush myself and took some time exploring the countryside and local magical communities while I was there.

While visiting a small wizarding village near Bucharest, I also had a rather surprising and disturbing encounter. I was sitting down enjoying a cool drink at a pavement café; basking in the warm sunshine that was radiating down from a clear blue sky, with hardly a breath of wind to disturb the surrounding, rather withered, trees. As I sipped my drink, I heard a familiar, uncompromising female voice berating one of the waiters and demanding a table with a view of the street.

“Molly?” I questioned, turning to look over my shoulder at the interior of the café. Sure enough, a rotund, elderly witch with frizzy grey hair and rosy cheeks, carrying an enormous, well worn, brown leather handbag was pushing her way clumsily between tables, leaving a trail of devastation in her wake.

“Minerva?” the woman squeaked, shading her eyes from the bright sunlight and noticing me for the first time. She turned to the waiters following her - attempting to calm the other disgruntled customers who had been disturbed by her progress – and imperiously informed them, “You needn’t bother. I’ve seen someone that I know. I’ll sit with her.”

Molly Weasley turned back towards me, casually sending another empty chair clattering to the floor with her handbag, and made her way breathlessly over to my table. “Honestly, these people are quite hopeless,” she told me. “I don’t know how Charlie can stand it, I really don’t.”

She pulled out the chair opposite me, dropping her handbag onto one of the other vacant seats, and flopping down with an exhausted sigh. “Bring me the same as she is having,” she instructed a waiter who was hovering nervously, close by. “Why they can’t understand English I just don’t know. I have to keep using translation charms and that really makes my throat sore by the end of the day,” she continued, before suddenly seeming to realise that she had not been expecting to see me in this remote setting.

“What on earth are you doing here, Minerva?” she asked.

I told her about my research and the reason for my visit, but I couldn’t help noticing that her attention began to wander after the first few sentences, as she looked around to see what had happened to her drink.

Once the waiter had finally placed a glass of the refreshing liquid in front of her, I decided to broach the subject that I thought would have caused Molly considerable anguish. “I was so sorry to hear about Ron and Hermione,” I offered in what I hoped was a consoling tone.

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” Molly replied irritably. “It was the best thing for my Ron. That woman never was right for him. She was always far too neurotic and unreliable. I remember in their fourth year at Hogwarts when there were those reports in the Daily Prophet about Hermione trifling with Harry Potter’s affections with that Viktor Krum. Well, I suspected at the time that there was no smoke without fire and I was obviously right. The only difference now is that she has been doing the same thing with Ron, and Harry Potter happens to be the “other man” on this occasion.”

“Oh Molly,” I tried to respond, “I don’t think that is entirely fair …”

Molly snorted in disgust. “Well, she has bargained without Ginny this time. My daughter doesn’t give up that easily.”

I was very surprised at this sudden revelation; my understanding, after my recent meeting with Harry, was that Ginny and he were getting a divorce.

“I thought that was all over as well,” I challenged Molly.

“I expect that’s what Hermione thinks,” Molly replied gruffly, “but I wouldn’t be so sure.”

She refused to elaborate further and answered all of my additional questions simply with a knowing nod of her head and an infuriating, “You’ll see!”

***

My encounter with Molly took place only a couple of months after my arrival in Romania and, as I became engrossed in my research, I put the matter to the back of my mind. When I was nearing the end of my time in the country, I discovered that there was a branch of one of the families that I had been investigating who had migrated to London some 10 years previously. For this reason, rather than returning straight home upon my departure from Romania, I spent a couple of days making contact with the family in London. Unfortunately, I drew a blank. I could discern no trace of any magical ability in any of the family members that I met and there was no evidence that any had ever been demonstrated. Although it was disappointing to have made a wasted journey, one of the distant relatives lived out to the north of London and my proximity to their village, made me think about Harry and Hermione again. I therefore determined to pay my promised visit to them.

Now that I knew the layout of the village, I was able to apparate fairly close to Hermione’s house this time. When I came back to my senses, after the disconcerting feeling of compression caused by apparition, I found myself in a small clump of bushes just behind the general store and on the very edge of the stream. Disentangling myself, in a fairly undignified manner, and pulling a stray twig out of my mouth, I stumbled out on to the grassy bank, brushing loose leaves and assorted debris from my cloak. Looking across the lane, I could see the familiar green painted door. However, I experienced a feeling of déjà vu as I studied it because positioned in the front garden was a rectangular board fixed to a white wooden stake, much like the one that I had seen in Flamel Mews. Glancing both ways to ensure that no traffic was approaching, I crossed the lane and walked towards the house. The lettering on the board simply said “Available for Rent” and gave the details of a firm of estate agents in the nearby town that I had caught the bus from on my previous visit. Curtains were still hanging in the windows but everything about the property was still and quiet. I knocked on the door several times but there was no reply.

Wondering about this turn of events, I walked along the lane in the direction in which I knew Harry’s proposed property was located. The weather was unseasonably warm and in my thick cloak I was soon feeling hot and uncomfortable. However, I had no choice but to press on and about half a mile out of the village I came across a gap in the hedge that constituted the entrance to the driveway of a fairly large and untidy detached house that sat back from the road, offering exactly the type of privacy that Harry had described. I walked up to the front door, my feet crunching on the loose gravel of the drive, and pulled on a hanging cord that activated a bell somewhere in the interior. After a number attempts, I had to conclude that the house seemed to be empty, although once again the presence of curtains in the windows and the well kept nature of the lawns and flowerbeds, which lined the drive and surrounded the house, suggested that someone had recently been in residence.

Disappointed again, I retraced my steps back to the village and entered the general store feeling exceedingly hot and bothered but hoping to obtain some information on the whereabouts of my two former students. The Muggle standing behind the counter was a kindly old man with a thick thatch of grey-white hair and bushy eyebrows that peaked like tiny wigwams over his eyes. He wore a perpetual smile and was happy to chat to me, even though I made no purchases. I am sure that running a general store in a sleepy Muggle village must get fairly tedious and so any unusual intervention is probably welcome. This particular elderly gentleman seemed to regard me as a most interesting diversion. Unfortunately, he gave me some rather disturbing news. Evidently, Hermione had not been in her parents’ property for a couple of weeks and the sign advertising that the house was again available for rent had been erected a few days ago. Worse still, however, was the fact that a plumpish woman with long, flaming red hair had come into the store the previous week asking about “that nice Mr. Potter who bought the old Farley place some months ago.” Moreover, it transpired that later on the same day, the old man had been standing in the shop doorway and had seen “Mr. Potter and that woman” walking by, deep in animated conversation, and heading into the “Dog and Ferret.” He hadn’t seen them emerge but there had been no sight or sound of “Mr. Potter” since, which the storekeeper deemed to be very odd as he normally came into the store at least twice a week.

From this unwelcome revelation, it seemed clear to me that Molly Weasley’s words had not been idle bluster. Harry and Ginny must have been reconciled and were now back together again. I could only imagine the devastating effect that this would have on Hermione. She must be heart broken and would have fled the village in despair. I felt totally distraught that matters should have come to this once more and chastised myself for chasing off around Eastern Europe when I might have been able to do something, if I had not been so complacent. I considered that it was imperative that I found Hermione again to console her, before she did something stupid. Feeling in a thoroughly bad humour, I decided that I would return home to regroup and decide how to accomplish this task.

***

Apparition is not a pleasant feeling at the best of times, but in my current dismal mood I felt distinctly woozy as I steadied myself after re-appearing in my familiar front garden. I had sent my luggage on ahead some time before and I was pleased to see it sitting there waiting for me on the front doorstep. However, perched on top of the largest case, apparently sound asleep, was a bedraggled looking old tawny owl that I didn’t recognize. This was somewhat surprising as I was not expecting to hear from anyone at present and my thoughts immediately turned to the possibility of bad news, as normally tends to be the case when an unexpected messenger turns up. The owl’s head was hunched down and its feathers were ruffled, as if expecting cold weather, but I could just make out the end of a pristine piece of parchment attached to its right leg. I grabbed the slumbering owl - who hooted angrily at being disturbed and flapped its wings ineffectually – then hastily untied the parchment with trembling fingers and opened it up.

The message inside was set out in a very formal manner, written in beautiful black lettering. In fact, it was an invitation. “Hermione Granger and Harry Potter have the pleasure to invite you to attend their wedding, which will be held at…” The rest of the message swam in front of my eyes as a blur. I was stunned and my hands were shaking as I held the parchment. I had been expecting some distressing news and I had given up hope that Harry and Hermione were ever destined to be together. To suddenly receive this unexpected and very welcome invitation had sent my heart rate up alarmingly and my emotions were racing. I couldn’t believe what I had just read and, rather foolishly, I turned the parchment over to check that there was no message on the back indicating that this was all a joke, in extremely bad taste. Time seemed to be suspended for me and I must have stood on my front doorstep holding the piece of parchment in my hands for at least ten minutes, while the owl waited impatiently to see if I had any response to give, shifting from foot to foot and hooting quietly. Eventually, I came back to my senses. “Of course I’ll go. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said distractedly, looking down at the owl, which blinked back at me uncomprehendingly.

***

The wedding, a Muggle ceremony, took place a few weeks later at a small church in a village close to Hermione’s family home. Most of the guests seemed to be Hermione’s relatives and the Weasleys were conspicuous by their absence, although I did notice that Ron was present. He sat towards the back of the congregation next to a very attractive young witch who I presumed, from her jet black hair, was not his daughter, although she certainly could have been given the apparent age difference. Neville Longbottom was also there, as was Luna Lovegood and a few other former students of Hogwarts that I recognized. I also suspected that a number of the other guests were wizards and witches from their fairly outlandish dress and I assumed that these were some of Harry and Hermione’s colleagues from the Ministry and St. Mungo’s. Why magical folk can’t blend in to Muggle society more effectively is beyond me. It really isn’t so difficult. I, for example, was wearing another bright tartan outfit which fitted in perfectly and drew many admiring glances.

I thought that Hermione looked particularly beautiful and happier than I had ever seen her. Unfortunately, she was surrounded by various relatives for most of the time and I only had the chance for the briefest of words with her at the reception that followed the service. Harry was his normal self; still managing to look untidy in even the smartest of Muggle suits because of his unruly hair, but I did find myself seated next to him for a short time before he and Hermione left on something that various Muggles referred to as their “honeymoon”, which I gather is some type of romantic vacation.

“You’ve made an old woman very happy,” I told him, getting caught up in the emotion of the moment and dabbing at my eye with the corner of a paper napkin. “I was beginning to think that I would never see this day.”

“Well, it’s entirely my fault that it took so long. I really can’t believe that I could have been so stupid,” Harry answered with an air or self deprecation. “The silly thing is that all of those years ago, when Hermione and I went back to Godric’s Hollow, we pretended to be man and wife and it just seemed so natural. You would have thought that I could have taken it as a sign, but I didn’t. People think that intelligent individuals, like Hermione and me, should always be able to work out their problems. In fact, the opposite is often true. You tend to “over think” things and end up getting it all wrong. I was so certain that Hermione loved Ron that I never really challenged her over it and she mistook that for indifference on my part. Then once the kids came along, it just seemed too late. Still…” he said, brightening, “…all’s well that ends well, I suppose.”

“I went back to your village the other week,” I confided. “I saw that the Granger house was for rent and your house was empty and I feared the worst. I thought that you had gone back to Ginny.”

“No, there was never any chance of that,” Harry answered, dismissively. “There just didn’t seem any point in keeping two houses in the village any more. Hermione really hasn’t been using the Granger’s place for quite some time now and I’ve got enough bedrooms for everyone, even though Lily and Rose and Albus and Hugo have to share if all of them descend on us at once. They all get on very well together, so nobody seems to mind.”

“But I know that Ginny came to see you and I heard that you left together,” I pressed, seemingly unwilling to totally abandon my doubts.

“We didn’t leave together,” Harry responded sharply. “I don’t know who gave you that impression and Ginny was only there because I was trying to convince her to come today; although as you can see I wasn’t very successful. She thought that the whole thing would be too embarrassing for her.”

“And what about Molly,” I asked, “she must be livid.”

“She isn’t very pleased, shall we say,” Harry chuckled. “But I think that she’ll get over it, in time. She won’t want to upset her grandchildren too much, after all. Still, I don’t think that we’re ever going to be one big happy Weasley family, if that’s what you mean.”

At that point, there was a commotion over by the door and it appeared that Harry and Hermione’s taxi had arrived to take them away. Reluctantly, I had to say goodbye to them both but as I hugged Hermione she whispered, “See Professor, you were right all of the time,” which left me with a smug smile on my face and a tear in my eye.

***

After the wedding, I had a few months with little to do and so I made the effort to read through the whole series of the Harry Potter books. They were surprisingly good, although I found the last two fairly tiresome. At the next meeting of the book club, which I still attended whenever I could, I made the effort to engage Melissa in conversation about them. She was no longer the breathless, over enthusiastic girl that had started this whole affair, but had matured into a studious young woman who had left children’s books far behind and now concentrated on “more serious” literature.

“You know Melissa,” I began provocatively, “I enjoyed the books but didn’t you feel that the relationships were a little unrealistic. I mean, Hermione and Harry seemed ideally suited for each other to me.”

“Oh no…” she replied, unable to resist my bait “… they were totally wrong together. It was clear right from the start that the author intended Ron and Hermione to be the typical quarreling couple; opposites attract, you know, and all that sort of thing. And Harry and Ginny were just like a fairytale, where the princess waits at home for the brave knight to return. Very romantic, don’t you think?”

“Well, it all seems a bit corny to me,” I teased. “You may be right, but I will always hold on to the belief that Harry and Hermione would end up together. After all, stranger things do happen in real life, don’t they my dear?”