That Old House

A/N: This is posted on FF.net. It's not yet completed, but as I'm working on `Rhythms' (and I have very little time to do so, at the moment), I decided to post it here. Bear in mind that this is one of my earlier works; hopefully it's not too old, you never know. I hope you enjoy!

Harry strode through the partially melted snow, hands tucked in his sweater pockets and nose hidden behind his old Gryffindor scarf. The lane was quiet and serene; the quaint old fences showing a dark brown against the muddy, snowy landscape. The only sounds at the moment were the sounds of Harry's quick breathing and measured footsteps.

His thin shoulders were lighter than they had been of late, although there were dark circles under his eyes and his hair looked as though he had tried to cut it himself, leaving him with a shaggy cut of black hair. His green eyes remained fixed ahead of him, though they seemed to look at something beyond this lane and the old house that he had made his destination.

Hermione had been the one to find it, actually. He smiled as he remembered her look of pure delight, remembered her running her hands up and down the old banisters and examining the dusty paintings moldering on the wall.

“Do you realize what a piece of history this is?” she had asked excitedly, “This could be-- this house could be centuries old! Imagine it, Harry, an old stone house like this lasting this long! Without magic or attendance!”

Of course, then she had raced off to find records of who had occupied the house centuries ago. Harry had watched her go, his heart brimming over with affection for his best friend. This is what he had stuck it out for. Her happiness, Ron's happiness, everyone's happiness.

But it would be a long time before everyone would be happy. So many people were mourning those they had lost....

Harry had reached the doorstep of the old house. He examined the old, faded sign that hung on the door hand: For Sale by Owner.

He sighed and pushed his scarf down off his nose, revealing a frown of concentration. He was not concentrating on the sign, however, but on a bank vault, far away from here, filled with wizard gold.

It could be the stupidest idea he had ever had, which, if you looked at it in context of his life, was saying something. But she had seemed so excited about it... and who said it couldn't be restored? It couldn't take that much, could it, especially with magic?

But this wasn't about the money. This was about thanking someone who meant more to him than almost anyone in the world; this was about giving something back.

She was worth it: all of it.

Moments later, the house was alone again, as it had been for the past four hundred years.

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Chapter One

“Come on, Hermione--” Ron coaxed, hands on Hermione's shoulders. “Let's go-- there's no use staying here any longer--”

“I'm not leaving him alone.” Hermione spoke deliberately, in a dangerously quiet voice. “We'll be along in a moment.”

“What's wrong?”

Ron sighed and motioned helplessly around at the ruins of the small little cottage. Harry's eyes roved around the scene, finally landing on Hermione, who was kneeling beside the small, horribly discolored figure of an eight year old boy, whom she had covered in her cloak.

“Hermione--”

“Look at him, Harry.” Hermione whispered, cutting him off. She lifted her shivering hand, which had long ago been taken from her gloves, and ran it through the dirty, stringy blond hair that covered the boy's head. “He's alive, I know it. He just has to be.”

Harry glanced at Ron, who spread his arms wide in a sign of resignation. He knelt beside Hermione in the snow, staining his jeans and soaking his kneecaps in icy, muddy puddles.

“How'd you find him?” he asked, as Hermione pushed the hair out of the the boy's eyes. “How did he get like this?”

“I was trying to find anyone in this area who had seen those Death-Eaters. The ones that escaped after Voldemort fell.” Hermione explained, “They came this way, I'm sure of it. And... I think those are his parents and grandparents, over there--”

She pointed, where four bodies lay buried under rubble.

“He's alive, but Ron--” she sent Ron a resentful glance, “Ron thinks he's dead.”

“What-- what makes you so sure?” Harry questioned tentatively. “Hermione, he's been here for hours, at least....”

“I just-- I just know.” she said pleadingly, “We've just got to get him somewhere that they can help him. He's an orphan now, Harry, if we don't take him, he'll die.”

She turned her eyes to him, searching his face entreatingly.

“All right, Hermione.” Harry said finally, quite gently. “But there's a chance he might not survive.”

“I know.” Hermione said eagerly, hope shining in her brown eyes. “I know that.”

“All right, then. Let's take him with us.” Harry squeezed an arm around her shoulder. “Can we Apparate with him, do you think?”

Hermione shook her head. “We can't risk it. Come on, let's walk.”

Harry looked at Ron, who sighed and shrugged.

“I'll walk with you lot, I guess.” he said, resignedly. Harry nodded, then swept the boy up into his arms, surprised at how light he felt in his arms. Hermione fussed for a moment, tucking her cloak around him and casting a slight warming spell around him. Then, they set off, Ron and Harry alternating turns carrying them for the next four miles to the Burrow.

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Chapter Two

“Who is he?”

“I dunno.” Harry lay the boy down on the couch in front of the fire. Ginny abandoned her game of Solitaire and crouched beside him. “I guess we'll find out when he gets up.”

“If he gets up, that is.” Ginny said dubiously, obviously noticing the boy's less-than-normal complexion. “Look at the color of him.”

“He'll get up.” Hermione assured her, her lips pursed and eyes dark with determination. “I'll make sure of that. Watch him while I run upstairs and get Molly, would you, Harry?”

“Yeah, but what I am I supposed to do if he--” but Hermione had rushed passed Harry, who stared at the boy draped across the couch with a look of mixed puzzlement and fear. “...if he wakes up?”

He sighed and knelt beside Ginny, examining the boy who he had just carried four miles. He looked to be about eight, maybe nine, and somewhat weedy. He had a narrow nose, dirty hair, and his thin hands were calloused and bruised, as if he had worked very hard at something that was sharp and heavy. His clothes were much too thin for the weather, and they were singed.

“He doesn't seem like he was very well taken care of.” Ginny commented in a low voice, as if the boy were on his deathbed. Which, Harry thought sadly, he could be. “Poor thing.”

“Yeah.” Harry muttered, and more to feel as though he were helping than anything, he lifted a hand and adjusted the cloak around the boy's skinny frame. To his alarm, the boy stirred and croaked desperately, “Dad.”

And the bruised, purpled hand grasped Harry's wrist with a grip so strong that his cracked, dirty fingernails dug into Harry's skin.

With wide eyes, Harry turned his face to Ginny helplessly. She stared back at him in shock.

“What was the green light, Dad?” the boy's voice was fevered and reedy. “Where's Mum? Where is she?”

“Hermione!” Ginny was up and running toward the stairs.

“Stop them, Dad!” the boy screamed, clawing at Harry's hands. His eyes were open now, bright blue and wildly roving everywhere, “Don't let them!”

Desperately, Harry closed his hands around the boy's bony hands, stilling them.

“Calm down!” he pleaded hoarsely, “Please calm down!”

The boy shrieked, his thin body shuddering with sobs.

“Let me go, let me go! Why won't you help her, Dad, I thought you loved her! Don't-- fire... light-- Dad!” he screamed in a tone so shrill and so terrified, Harry shuddered.

“I don't know what to do, I'm sorry, I'm Harry, not your dad, I--” he yelled over the boy's fevered cries, “I'm only a kid, too, I--”

He felt Hermione fall on her knees beside him.

“Hold his mouth open, Harry!” cried Hermione, and Harry reached out and clutched at the boy's pale jaw. Hermione reached out and poured a liquid into his mouth; the boy choked but some must have reached his throat, for he fell still and silent, face glistening with sweat and tears.

Shaken, Harry let out a breath and swayed on his knees, feeling nauseated. As if sensing his feelings, Hermione whispered, “You can lean on me, Harry; it's okay.”

Harry stared mutely at his scratched hands. Some of the cuts were long and bloody, but he couldn't feel them.

“Let me go, let me go!”

He shuddered, and Hermione's hands cradled his own gently.

“Here.” and she lifted her wand and mended each scratch. He felt tears form at the corners of his eyes. He lowered his gaze, avoiding her warm, understanding look.

Her hand descended on his cheek, a cool, light touch.

“It's not over.” Harry managed, in a twisted, tight voice he barely recognized. “It's not over...”

“No.” she said simply, her eyes glistening with sorrowful tears. “I'm sorry.”

Her other hand cupped his other cheek.

“But it can be, for you.” she said quietly, her eyes boring into his. Her lips were trembling, but her voice was steady. “You've spent your whole life fighting, Harry. This is my battle, really. You don't have to involve yourself. If anyone deserves peace, it's you.”

The offer was so tantalizing, so real, so kind... Harry's lips opened, ready to blurt out his immediate answer. He wanted peace; he craved it. And here she was, simply offering it to him His eyes traveled over her face, and locked on the tears clinging to her eyelashes, preparing to rush down her pale cheeks. Her teeth, gently biting into her trembling lips...

“Why won't you help her, Dad? I thought you loved her!”

Then he heard himself breathe out a shaky answer.

“No.”

She let out a breath, a sob of relief. She buried her eyes in his neck, the tears he had seen quivering in her eyes now trickling into the neck of his sweater.

“What am I supposed to do, Hermione?” he whispered, “Let you fight a battle alone when you spent your entire life fighting mine?”

She curled up against him, arms wrapped tightly around his torso, and sobbed unashamedly into his sweater.

It was here that Harry allowed himself-- just this once-- to stroke her hair.

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Chapter Three

Harry had never realized how long an entire night could be.

Hermione hovered over the boy all night, with Molly on her left and Harry on her right. The moon had neglected to come out that night, so they worked mainly under candlelight. What exactly they did, Harry never quite understood.

All he knew was how tired Hermione looked. Her eyes were red-rimmed and could barely stay open, her face was rather ashen and her hands trembled as she administered yet another potion to the boy's gaping mouth. Was this how it had felt, Harry wondered, to watch him struggle? Had Hermione felt it, too, the desperate need to do something for the other, if just to see her peaceful and content?

He tried to talk to her sometimes, but many times, Hermione merely brushed him off with a weary, “Not now, Harry.”

Every time she did so, Harry couldn't help but feel rather hurt. Rarely came the times when Hermione didn't have time for him. Even when she had been studying, she would still pause and look at him, offer a satisfactory, if not slightly impatient, answer.

So Harry gave himself up to staring at the candles and casting his best friend furtive, worried glances. The two women would murmur to each other occasionally, mostly Molly pleading with Hermione to rest, but Hermione always refused. Harry would nod at these occasions, sending Hermione a pleading look, but she would merely purse her lips and turn away.

The candles burned lower, and Harry's vision blurred as the house moved more and more into darkness... he felt his eyes drop shut and he fought to keep them open... just as they shut, he heard Hermione whisper something, perhaps his name... he wasn't sure.

Then, what seemed only moments later, two gentle hands were taking him by the arms and pulling him out of the chair. His eyes opened to see a burnt stub where the candle had previously burned, and he realized that even though his eyes were open, it was almost as dark as it had been with them closed.

“Come on, Harry-- bed.”

“No.” he slurred, “I's okay...”

“It's all right... come on--”

He squinted sleepily into the dark where the voice and the hands were coming from, and then he saw, dimly, Hermione's familiar face.

“I can stay, Hermione, really, I'm okay...” he protested hoarsely, but Hermione shook her head firmly, a small smile on her face.

“You need rest, Harry, you can barely keep your eyes open.” she said, pulling him up the stairs. Harry felt himself being lead into a room... Ron's room... and being gently pushed into bed.

The covers were pulled back and tucked over him, the pillow carefully placed under his head, and then a pair of soft lips softly brushed his cheek.

“Good night, Harry.”

The door shut, and only then did Harry realize that not only was he alone, but that his fingers were pressed to his cheek where her lips had previously rested.

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Chapter Four

He found her by the boy's side the next morning. She was curled up inside a thick wool blanket, with the rug for a mattress. He glanced around the room, seeing in the early morning light the extremely short candles and empty potion bottles scattered around the room in an unusually messy manner.

But most of all he noticed the look on her face.

A smile, but such a smile! He doubted very much that anyone had seen one like it before, so full of peace and hope it was. He moved toward the couch, looking down at the boy that had caused the mess and, he suspected with a twinge of jealousy, the smile.

He wished, rather childishly, that he had been the one to put it there.

It was then that he remembered the house.

All trace of sleepiness gone, Harry abandoned the living room, pounding up the stairs with little regard for the fact that the entire house was still asleep. He threw himself into Ron's room, madly undressing and dressing again, haphazardly pulling on a sweater (Ron's sweater, judging by the length, but he didn't care).

“I hope no one's taken it yet.” he muttered fervently, as he dashed out the door and flung himself down the stairs. There was an explosion of noise as he crashed into Bill at the foot of the stairs, who had promptly dropped the box of wine glasses he was holding.

“Good Merlin, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw!” Bill panted, looking winded as Harry scrambled to his feet. “What's gotten into you, man?”

“Nothing-sorry-see-you-later-Bill!”

“Sorry? I didn't catch that! You don't seem to care, though!” Bill bellowed through the wildly swinging, open door, after Harry's rapidly vanishing figure. “Right, you go. I'll just fix these wine glasses and--”

“For Godric's sake, SHUT UP!” growled a disheveled -looking Ginny, who stormed down the stairs and promptly dealt Bill a punch to the arm. “Wake up the whole world, why don't you?”

“In a bad mood, sister dear?” Bill inquired while he cringed and nursed his arm.

“If you keep this up, I WILL BE!” she thundered, making Bill recoil. “No, scratch that, it's too late!”

She smacked his arm and stalked away.

Bill stared after his sister ruefully, and then commented to the rest of his very irritated family, “You know, I never saw the resemblance between her and Mum before now.”

“Didn't you?” Ron said sarcastically, glaring murderously at him, “You're about to see the resemblance between you and a bucket of pounded Gurdyroots!”

“Great to see you, too, Ron-- George-- Percy--” Bill chuckled nervously, backing away from his furious brothers.

“Is something wrong?”

“Hermione!” Bill said with relief, sending her an imploring glance, “Finally, someone sane!”

Hermione glanced from Bill to the Weasleys, looking extremely sympathetic, at least Bill hoped she was feeling sympathetic. If not, he was going to end up at St. Mungo's until next Christmas.

She opened her mouth and said, quite helpfully:

“So where's Harry?”

The next thing Hermione knew, the whole of the Weasley clan was streaking down the lane, howling with rage (or, in Bill's case, with fear) in their mismatched night gear.

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Chapter Five

Bill threw a terrified glance over his shoulder.

Merlin, he'd never have guessed his mother could run so fast, and with only a pair of slippers on, too.

If he could just get away before they caught up with him--

Of course then he just had to collide with Harry, who unfortunately had been running just as quickly as Bill had been.

“Is this a new tradition of ours?” Harry drawled sarcastically, rubbing his back and standing up. “Somehow I was under the impression that running into each other was a figure of speech. Silly me.”

“Sorry-see-you-later-bye!” Bill streaked off past him.

“Huh.” Harry muttered, puzzled. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Odd.”

He glanced down at the deed to the house in his hand, then stuck it into his pocket and began strolling down the lane, whistling merrily as he went.

The not-so-merry Weasleys hurtled past him in a manner of minutes, followed in a few minutes by an amused and dressed Hermione Granger.

“Good morning.” he said brightly, and she returned the greeting just as cheerfully. “How's your patient?”

Her eyes lit up.

“He's still sleeping, but oh, Harry, he looks so much better!” she said, beaming. “I really think he's going to make it!”

“That's great.” Harry said distractedly, his mind now on the deed burning a hole in his pocket. “Erm, Hermione.”

She paused in turning to return to the house.

“I-- have something for you.”

He reached out and took her hand, positioning it palm up and resting it on his own.

Then, his other hand flitted into his sweater pocket, then placed the yellowed paper into Hermione's waiting hand.

A small gasp escaped Hermione's parted lips as she glanced in disbelief up into his face.

“Harry--- you didn't!”

He felt his stomach turn.

“You... don't like it?” he questioned miserably, swallowing.

The next thing he knew, Hermione's arms were around his neck, and she was laughing and kissing his cheek, and crying a bit too, by the sound of her voice.

“You silly, wonderful man, of course I-- I just can't believe you'd--”

A stupid grin had made its way onto Harry's blushing face, and his arms found their way around her narrow waist. Then they were both laughing, regardless of the snow that had begun falling again.

“Thank you.” Hermione said breathlessly, when they had calmed down a bit. “Thank you so much for-- for everything!”

“Don't thank me, or I'll have to go buy you another house.” Harry quipped, making her laugh again. He decided he liked making her breathless with laughter; in fact, he could probably spend his whole life trying to bring that wonderful sound out of her and never get tired of hearing it.

“Hey, you two--”

Their faces whipped around. Bill was waving them over to the side of the lane, where he was cowering behind a bush.

“Have you seen them come back yet?” he whispered, glancing around nervously.

Harry stifled another laugh.

“No.” he assured him. “But you'd best scamper or they'll have your head for dinner tonight.”

The sounds of the Weasleys's howls reached their ears again; Bill groaned and got to his feet. “Distract them a bit, will you?”

And he charged off. Hermione glanced at Harry with a smirk, and he grinned, winking.

Harry slipped an arm around her waist, and she leaned into his shoulder, and they walked back to the house.

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Chapter Six

He watched her quietly from the corner of the room, absentmindedly picking at the threads of his sweater, rubbing the strands between his fingers. She was curled up against the couch again, reading an old copy of Jane Eyre by the light of the dimly glowing fire. Her knees were tucked under the tartan wool blanket; her hand rested lightly on Crookshanks's back, absently stroking.

“You don't have to stay up, you know.” she said suddenly, breaking the sleepy silence.

He looked up, taken aback.

“I know.” he said after a pause, “I want to.”

The fire cast a rather golden-orange glow on her face, illuminating the familiar smile dimpling her cheeks. “If you're sure.”

“Yeah.”

She paused, took a deep breath, and said, almost timidly, “You don't have to stay all the way over there, if you don't want to. It's warmer over here.”

“I know.” he said, though he could not stop his eyes from flicking over to the pale figure lying on the couch behind her. “I know I don't.”

Feeling rather obligated, he stood and came to settle beside her. She eyed him uncertainly, and then glanced down at her book.

“Harry, I--” she said, giving up on the book and putting it aside. She lowered her gaze and went on, eyes fixed on the carpet. “I realize you think what I'm doing is pointless.”

“What? Of course I--” he began, but she waved a hand.

“Let me finish.” she said, cutting him off. Then as if to soften her words, she lowered her hand over his. She shifted so that she could peer up into his face, the firelight reflected off her brown eyes. “I just-- I know that everyone thinks that I'm putting way too much into this and I can see why.”

“Hermione--”

“Harry, please.” He felt a light pressure on his hand. “I can see it in your faces whenever I talk about it. It's this-- this pity, as if you think that I'm just headed for... for pain and-- as if I'm fighting a lost cause.”

He wanted so badly to interrupt, to assure her that he hadn't given up on her yet, but she went on, “I wanted you to know... at least you-- just you...” she trailed off, unaware of the pleasant feeling that the words `just you' had sent rushing through his body, “I want you to know that I... that if it really doesn't-- work-- I would rather it happen when... when you believe that it could happen, too. Not that I'd want you to be hurt more... but I just don't want--”

“I understand.” Harry said quickly, seeing the flustered expression on her face. She looked away.

“I'm sorry.” she said after another pause, clearing her throat and turning away, staring determinedly at the fire.

A hard lump had formed in Harry's gut, as he stared at the side of her face. She was gazing unseeing at the fire, a flush covering her cheek as she curled her arms around her knees.

“Hermione, I'm sorry.” What else was he supposed to say? He couldn't lie to her, not about something that was obviously so important to her.

She dropped her chin on her knees.

“It's okay.” she said quietly, without looking at him. “I didn't really expect...”

Hermione could feel the corners of her eyes burning rather fiercely. She let her voice trail off. What had she expected? This was Harry, after all. She couldn't honestly expect him to express complete faith in her; in something that everyone seemed to think was doomed for failure.

The sad part was, that was what Hermione had expected. Harry was her best friend, her supporter-- the one who had bought her the house sitting at the end of the lane.

She wanted his trust. The trust that she had lost in her horrible sixth year.

“You should expect it.” he spoke from behind her, in a rather miserable voice. “I'm your best friend; I'm supposed to--”

“I'd rather you do something because you want to, for once.” she spoke, and then snapped her mouth shut, realizing how harsh the words sounded out in the open.

“I'm sorry.” Even to her own ears, the words sounded hollow from overuse. She heard Harry let out a breath. She ventured a glance at him and felt her heart lurch.

His face was tight, though his jaw was working rather hard under his skin.

“It's okay.” he said finally, in a voice of deliberate calm. “You didn't mean it.”

She lowered her eyelids slightly, causing a warm darkness to fall over her. She let her arms drop to the carpet, leaning her back against the couch.

The unresolved tension nearly killed her. She was used to it with Ron, but she had always felt infinitely unsettled when she and Harry argued, especially silently, like this. She never knew what was left or right in the arguments when they didn't talk, which were seldom.

“I think I'm going to get a drink.” Harry said abruptly. “Can I get you anything?”

She opened her eyes then, and she stood up with him, eyes trained on his thin face.

“I'll come with you.”

Harry tensed, sensing the challenge. She stuck out her chin stubbornly, her eyes fixed challengingly on his own. I'm not going to let this go until we figure it out.

“All right, then.” he said, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “If you're sure he's not going to need you.”

He saw her flinch as he brushed passed her to tread into the kitchen. He reached into the cupboard, quite slowly and deliberately.

“Harry!” she said sharply, her voice slicing through the heavy atmosphere like a well-sharpened knife. “Is that what this is about?”

“Is that what what's about?” he said, instantly on his guard.

“You know what I'm talking about.” she said fiercely, and Harry suddenly found himself face to face with her. She had stood firmly in front of the tap, arms crossed over her chest and chin still firmly jutting out.

He tightened his hold around the glass.

“No, Hermione.” he said, very slowly, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You're a horrible liar.” she said angrily, eyes flashing. “You're afraid that I'm going to stop spending time with you, is that it?”

“No!” he insisted, feeling himself turn very red.

Idiot, a very irritated voice inside his head spat, you'll only make it worse.

She grasped his shoulders in her small hands and glared at him. He flinched and looked away.

“Harry,” she said, softly but quite sternly. “You look at me, directly in the face, and tell me that I'm wrong.”

He lowered his head, avoiding her gaze, and refused to speak.

He felt two fingers push insistently at his chin, and he looked up. His eyes landed on hers as she let out a deep breath and bit her lip.

“Harry.” she said levelly, “You know I'd never let anything get in between us.”

She dropped her hands from his shoulders and pressed a light kiss to his forehead.

“Why don't you go lie down?” she suggested quietly, pushing him toward the stairs. “You've had a long night.”

He nodded mutely, put the glass down on the counter, and shuffled up the stairs.

Hermione watched him go with a mixture of confusion and sympathy.

“Well,” she muttered to herself in a very dry tone, “I suppose you could say that went well.”

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Chapter Seven

In the warm, glowy haze, he could see the shadowy form of a girl. His eyes felt as though they'd been shut for a very long time, and it took a great deal of strength for him to drag his eyes open. He felt a warm blanket around him, and the softest cushion he'd ever felt cushioning his back. He tried to stir but found that his legs were dreadfully weak.

His eyes almost hurt from trying to keep them open, but he didn't dare to shut them, and allow the darkness of his dreams to overwhelm him again. So he struggled with the eternal heaviness pulling at his eyelids, watching the Someone kneel before the source of the glow. He heard a girl's voice murmuring quietly, and he wondered why she'd talk to the fire-- but then he saw something in her hand, and his heart jumped to his throat.

He let out a cry of fear, at least he tried, but all that came out was a strangled gasp. Instantly the girl whipped around, still holding the weapon (for that was all he could think that it was, unless his grandfather had been right) aloft. He struggled, kicking his legs and fighting to get away; she must be one of them. One of those!

His vision cleared and then blurred, and he knew he was crying, but he couldn't get the sobs out properly, nor the angry yells he was dying to unleash. He felt a soft hand brush up against his hot cheek, cool and gentle, and he hated it when he realized that all his strength had left him, and that he couldn't fight it anymore.

“Shh...”

A slender finger swept across his cheekbone, catching his tears.

“It's all right.” assured a gentle, soothing voice, “You're safe.”

“You're one of them.” he managed to choke, “You hurt her, you hurt her--”

“No.” said the voice, and he opened his eyes again, squinting at the face that belonged to the voice. The girl's face was rather small, and she had soft brown eyes that glowed warmly as he looked up. Almost instantly, something came over him, something that soothed him. She smiled kindly, then ran a hand through his hair.

“You're all right now.” she said again, and she lifted a cupful of something to his lips. “Here, drink this.”

He parted his lips and allowed the liquid to pass his mouth. He coughed at the sharp, bitter taste, wondering for a wild moment if she'd tried to poison him, but as soon as it hit his gut some energy entered his limbs, and he struggled upright.

She was kneeling beside the couch he was sitting on, the firelight casting a slight glow on her face. She had rather curly brown hair, and he noticed now that it was night. Again she smiled-- a rather nice smile, he thought.

“I'm glad you're awake.” she spoke again, in a warm voice that he now realized was how she spoke normally. “I was worried.”

This reminded him immediately of his mother, and he looked at her mutely, unable to speak. She seemed to understand his look, however, and she pressed a hand to his cheek.

“They're gone, aren't they.” he managed to whisper flatly. To his ears the words sounded hollow, harsh... too real. She lowered her eyes, a look of sadness shadowing her face.

`I'm sorry.”

He clutched at the blanket's edge and looked down. Two dark red spots appeared on the blanket as his tears dropped onto its threads.

“But you weren't one of the ones who came, were you?”

“No.” she said, quite firmly. “I wasn't.”

He shuddered.

“I was afraid you were.” he said at last, or rather croaked. Again her hand slipped through his hair, in a soft, gentle gesture that somehow calmed him.

“That's understandable.”

He fixed his eyes on her face, his eyes scanning her every detail, and he found himself thinking that she was sort of lovely. Not that he fancied her, of course. Girls were simply too different. But he rather liked the way she smiled, the way she spoke. It made him feel a bit more secure, like his mother-- like she used to.

“Why don't you get a little more rest?” she suggested, and at this he felt a wave of panic rush over him.

“No! I don't-- I mean, I can't--”

She placed a hand on his cheek and gave a slight, warm pressure.

“I'll be right here.” she promised reassuringly. “Nothing's going to happen to you.”

He felt a lump in his throat; a weight of about a million pounds had settled in his stomach. She didn't understand that he dreamed-- and that resting hurt him more than being awake..

“Oh...” she sighed, and before he knew what was happening, she had lifted him into her arms and cradled him against her. “I'm so sorry.”

He leaned back, letting his head press against her shoulder. She leaned back, arms wrapped around him.

“What's your name?” he asked suddenly. The name came near to his ear.

“Hermione. And yours?”

He opened his eyes, turning his neck so that he could look at her.

“My name's Adrian.”

She smiled.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Adrian.”

He merely turned his head back and rested his head back against her shoulder. He could feel her chin rest in his hair.

“Sweet dreams, Adrian.”

“G'night.”

He closed his eyes, cautiously allowing her to rock him back and forth in her arms. He could hear the steady, muted sound of her heartbeat. Sleep threatened to take him again, and he yawned despite himself. He felt her slim fingers smooth over his bangs, and just as he drifted off to sleep, his ears caught snatches at what sounded like his mother's voice humming a familiar lullaby.

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Chapter Eight

Harry's eyes eased softly open in the faint morning light. He could feel a gentle chill slipping through the blankets now slipping off of him. He stretched beneath the covers, yawned, and reached absently for his glasses.

He breathed out, staring contentedly up at the ceiling. A few moments passed before he felt the urge to take a jog. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

He changed into his worn old jeans, now carefully mended by Hermione's hand. He cast his gaze around and picked up a rumpled T-Shirt lying on the floor. As he slipped it on, his mind woke up enough to retrace the events of last night.

He stepped into his tennis shoes and slipped out of the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.

When he reached the living room door, he paused. Cautiously, he poked his head around the doorframe, catching a glimpse of Hermione's sleeping form on the couch. She'd gathered the boy in her arms, and he too seemed to be fast asleep. Harry took a careful step into the room, and as he passed the couch, he bent and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. She shifted with a soft murmur, a dreamy smile sneaking to the corners of her mouth.

A small grin pulled at the right corner of Harry's mouth as he slipped out the door and jogged down the lane. That smile would, in all likelihood, stay with him forever.

He paused by the side of the lane, surveying the patches of snow and brown grass behind the fence as he reflected.

When did I go from watching her smile to cherishing it?

He grinned again, gazing at the mound of snow at his feet. What did it matter, when it happened?

Time wasn't rushing him anymore. Death wasn't constantly changing the time of their meeting.

There wasn't any need to rush this, either, Harry reasoned, closing his eyes and tilting back his chin. He took in a deep breath and let it out.

He opened his eyes just in time to catch the sun's first full rays of the day.

Whatever he felt for her, whatever this was… he'd let his heart get used to it without a time limit.

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Chapter Nine

When Harry entered the house, he could hear the usual buzz of activity coming from the kitchen. Owls hooting, bacon frying, pans clanging…

He stamped the mud off his trainers on the doormat before heading to the kitchen.

“Oh, good morning, Harry!” Mrs. Weasley said distractedly, ducking an over-excited Pig and nearly smacking Ginny in the nose with the hand flourishing her wand. “Oh, I'm sorry, Ginny, dear—Ron, come and take care of Pig!”

Harry swerved to the right as Ron snatched his owl out from beside his ear.

“Morning, mate,” he said through his teeth, currently clamped around a piece of bacon. “Up early, aren't you?”

“Took a jog.” Harry said casually, stepping over Crookshanks. “Nice morning out.”

“It is that.” Mr. Weasley agreed mildly, rustling the newspaper. “See that, Harry? We've caught another Death Eater.”

“That's great.” Harry said rather automatically.

“Help yourself, mate.” Bill pushed a plate of toast towards him. “It's hard to think without filling the face.”

Harry pulled up a chair and snagged a piece of the toast from the plate. “Thanks.”

“Good morning!” Before Harry could turn, Hermione had bent, placed a kiss on his cheek, hands on his shoulders. He caught a faint scent of vanilla as silky brown hair swept across his cheek. “Sleep well? Oh, Molly, can I make up a tray for Adrian? He's just woken up.”

“Who?” Ron said rather lamely.

“Adrian.” Hermione repeated evenly, though there was no masking her excitement. “He's woken up.”

Her eyes moved to Harry's. He felt a prickle of shame at the back of his neck, but then she offered a smile. He smiled back as she took the tray Mrs.Weasley offered her, and made her way to the living room.

“You know, she's gone.”

Harry jumped. Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Good Merlin, I must have been blind.” she said, sounding amused all the same. “Did you ogle at me like that? Oh, stop it, Ron. I'm sure Harry has perfectly decent intentions.”

Harry felt his cheeks burn as Ron spluttered into his orange juice. He merely shrugged and walked rather quickly out of the room, still holding his toast.

“… how long was I— asleep?”

Harry cautiously walked toward the couch, where he could see the back of Adrian's head.

He wasn't quite sure how to announce his presence, but Hermione looked up just as he made his way to her side. The boy's pale blue eyes fixed on him rather warily.

“This is Adrian, Harry.”

Adrian had a glass of juice in his bony hand, and Harry mustered up a smile.

“Nice to meet you. I'm Harry.”

Adrian nodded.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Nice to meet you.”

There was a long silence. Adrian studied Harry carefully, then spoke.

“It was you, then, that kissed Hermione this morning?”

Hermione started, and Harry felt his face grow quite warm.

“Er—well… yeah, that was me,” he said, trying his level best to maintain a look of nonchalance under Hermione's surprised gaze. “I didn't know you were awake.”

Adrian looked at Hermione, then said curiously, “Are you… married?”

“No.” Hermione said, turning rather pink. “We're not. He's my best friend.”

Adrian shrugged and took a sip of his juice. After a pause, Harry cleared his throat and noticed he was still holding a piece of toast in his hand. More for lack of anything to do than hunger, he finished off the last of it.

He heard Hermione take a deep breath and let it out.

“All right, then,” she said cheerfully. “Harry, do you think Adrian could borrow some of your clothes?”

“I don't want to be any trouble.” Adrian said quickly, but Hermione shook her head.

“Sure.” Harry said, frowning. “But I reckon they're a bit big…”

She smiled.

“I'll just shrink them,” she explained, chuckling. “You still think like a Muggle, Harry.”

“What's a Muggle? And… and what are you?”

They fell silent, staring at Adrian for a moment.

“Well, I'm… I'm a wizard.” Harry said after a long pause. “And Hermione—“

“… is she a—a `Squib'?”

Startled, Harry glanced at Hermione, who looked just as surprised.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Grandfather.” Adrian looked rather shaken. “He'd always go on about how mistreated they were, but my parents always said it was—they thought he'd just gone a bit funny in the head. He'd tell Ben and I all about wizards at night when my parents were asleep—“

“Ben?” Hermione interrupted, her eyes suddenly brightening. “Who is he?”

Adrian froze.

“My brother. Didn't you see him?”

Harry shook his head. “Only your parents and grandparents…”

Adrian sat up straight, his eyes narrowing intently. “You didn't see him… dead?”

Harry shook his head again. “He could be—“

“Alive.” Hermione finished softly, biting her lip thoughtfully, her eyes dancing with excitement. “Adrian, exactly how old is your brother?”

“He's ten.” Adrian said eagerly, and he was now gripping his glass so tightly that his knuckles were white. “Can you find him? With a sort of—spell, or something?”

Hermione chewed on her lip silently for a moment.

“I'm afraid it's not quite that simple,” she said at last, letting out a breath. “But I'll do everything I can.”

Adrian nodded. After a pause, he said abruptly, “I'm not very hungry anymore, thanks.”

Hermione reached out and took the glass from his hand.

“We'll leave you to your thoughts, then,” she murmured gently, taking Harry's hand and tugging him out of the living room.

As soon as they'd entered the hallway, she turned to face him. Her eyes flickered over his face, then with a soft smile, she said, “Well, now you've met him.”

“Yeah.” Harry said, uncertain of what he was to say. “He's—nice.”

She smiled, and turned down the hallway, heading for the kitchen. Just as she left, Harry caught her startling remark.

“He reminds me of you.”

-->

A/N: I'm afraid this is another chapter that focuses on plot. The good news is that after this chapter, we can finally get to that house.

Chapter Ten

“Hermione, an owl came in for you this morning.” Ginny crossed the kitchen, holding out a letter in her hand. “It's from Hogwarts.”

Hermione frowned, taking the letter from Ginny and noticing the telltale Hogwarts seal. “Thanks, Ginny.”

“Don't mention it.” Ginny said, moving around her and casually bumping Hermione's shoulder. As she passed, she leaned in and murmured into her ear, “Harry was staring.”

Hermione's brow creased, and she opened her mouth, unable to say a word. With a smirk, Ginny strode out of the kitchen, hop-skipping over a somewhat grumpy-looking Crookshanks.

Hermione stared after Ginny, her mind going back to the conversation she and Harry had with Adrian earlier this morning.

“It was you, then, that kissed Hermione this morning?”

And he'd said yes. Hermione felt herself blush pleasantly, an embarrassingly giddy smile threatening to fix itself firmly upon her lips.

“Aren't you going to read it?” Ron broke Hermione's reverie. She started, then said, in a rather flustered tone, “Oh—yes, of course!”

She looked down and broke the seal, pulling out a piece of parchment covered in an unfamiliar, spindly handwriting.

She scanned the letter, her eyebrows shooting upwards on her forehead.

Dear Miss Granger,

You will be interested to know that I have recommended you for training as a Healer at Saint Mungo's. It is no secret that your grades in both Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts were exceptional, and you have had an unusual amount of experience in the use of both fields in the past conflicts. You may wonder at this decision, considering you have not taken your N.E.W.Ts, but all things considered, all of your professors at Hogwarts consider you advanced enough to take on the enormous responsibility that being a Healer entails. If you would like to take this training, please meet Healer Pruitt in the lobby at St. Mungo's at five o'clock this Thursday.

With best wishes,

Madame Poppy Pomfrey

“Well?”

Hermione jumped as Harry's voice came close to her ear. He straightened, though he didn't quite look at her properly. He cleared his throat and took a step back.

Hermione felt her heart flutter oddly at the strange look on his face. He had a sort of strained smile on his face, but his jaw was tense, and everything in his green eyes told her exactly what he wanted her to do.

“What do you think?” he said, with a forced cheerfulness. Hermione's eyes were rather wide, as though she couldn't quite take it in.

Neither could he.

He knew Hermione deserved this; Merlin knows she was the best witch he knew… of course she'd get a job like this, the sort of job that saved lives, that required the best of wizardkind…

But something in him wanted to beg her not to do it. It was stupid, really, but somehow he knew that taking a course like this would severely limit the time he would have to spend with her.

But she deserved this. She wanted this, he could tell. And he would encourage her to take it for that reason.

“I'm—not sure,” she said faintly, staring blankly ahead. “It's such a huge responsibility, and I'm not… I'm not sure I'm good enough to be a Healer.”

“Hermione,” Harry said with difficulty, forcing a laugh. “You're the brightest witch of your age. I know you could do it if you wanted to.”

He put his hand on her shoulder, his voice softening.

“Hermione, if you want this, you'll be the best Healer in history.”

She turned suddenly, looking rather frightened.

“But what if I'm not?” she whispered, so softly only Harry could hear it. “What if I can't?”

“Then Gryffindor will still win the Cup, Ron will still beat me in every chess game, Ginny will still spend hours in Madame Malkin's, and Neville will always bring some absurd plant to family dinners.” He smiled sincerely, wanting to reassure her. It was what he did. “And I'll always be here.”

Her uncertainty faded, and a brilliant smile appeared on her face.

“I know you will,” she said softly, sliding her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. “Will you come with me?”

“Anywhere,” he promised quietly, feeling a tingle of warmth travel through his body.

“Shut your mouth.” Ginny muttered to Ron, whose jaw had dropped in mid-chew. “That's disgusting. And don't you dare say a word, Ronald Weasley, or we'll see who was exaggerating about the power of my Bat-Bogey hex.”

She glanced with a slight smile at Harry and Hermione, who were still holding each other in the middle of the kitchen.

“It's only a matter of time now,” she murmured with a wistful sort of satisfaction. “They've finally noticed something.”

“You know what? I think you just like this sort of stuff,” Ron said rather resignedly. “I'll never understand it.”

“There's a lot of things you'll never understand, Ron—and that—“ she lowered her voice and jerked her head toward Harry and Hermione, who had finally let go of one another, “is one of them.”

-->

A/N: Apologies, again, for the long wait. I hope it's worth the wait!

Chapter Eleven

The lobby of St. Mungo's was abuzz with activity by the time they arrived at five o'clock. Hermione had dressed in wizard's robes for the occasion, although Harry knew she much preferred Muggle clothing. He smiled at her as they stepped out of the fireplace, brushing ash away and blinking at the clean white floors and walls of the hospital. Hermione took a deep breath, let it out, and looked to her right.

“Ready, Adrian?”

The boy nodded quietly, holding her hand obediently. “Sure.”

Hermione had decided that it might be possible to find records of Adrian's family through his grandfather. They might, she had told Harry hopefully, have even found his brother. After hearing that, Adrian had insisted on coming, with the most force Harry had seen in him before.

Hermione straightened her shoulders, causing her blue cloak to ripple, and started off through the lobby with a brisk stride that belied her nervousness. Harry followed, avoiding the wizards and witches coming in for a variety of strange treatments. Meanwhile, a horde of Ministry officials dragged a scruffy man with a large sore on his head through the lobby. A terribly foul smell hit Harry's nose as he passed, presumably from the slime oozing from the sore.

“…wasn't me, I tell you!” shouted the man, who sounded quite out of his mind, “The cat sprouted wings of his own accord! Do you think I wanted that thing flying around my house?”

Suddenly, a surprising sound made its way to Harry's ears. Hermione's gaze whipped around, then brightened softly.

Adrian was laughing.

“Do you think it did, Hermione?” he asked in a whisper, making her smile warmly. She leaned down, all nervousness gone, and whispered back, “I don't think it did. Did you see that nasty blister on his head? It looks to me like someone was experimenting with a crossbreeding potion.”

“An excellent deduction, Miss Granger,” said someone briskly. Hermione stood up quickly, looking rather pink. A tall man with grey hair and pointed spectacles stood examining her shrewdly. “And what would you do, if you were attempting to discover which potion he was using?”

“Now, Gordon, I hardly think it fair—“ said Madame Pomfrey from behind the man, but he cut her off.

“Let the girl answer.”

Hermione swallowed, wetting her lips and shifting on her feet nervously before stammering, “I—I would test a sample of the pus with the Treltington potion, sir.”

His face didn't change.

“And why is that?”

“Because the Treltington potion is the neutralizer of the most well-known breeding potion, sir. If—if he had been using it, the pus would return to a clear, natural fluid.” Hermione said, glancing nervously at Madame Pomfrey and swallowing again.

The man's weathered face softened slightly, and he offered a small smile. “That's exactly what I would do, Miss Granger. Well-spoken.”

Hermione let out a breath.

“Thank you, sir.”

“She's a polite one,” commented the Healer, clearing his throat and looking at Madame Pomfrey. “Rather pretty, as well.”

Hermione flushed.

“And you must be…” the man stopped short, then his eyes widened. “Merlin's beard, you must be Harry Potter.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.” Harry said politely.

“I don't believe he's introduced himself.” Madame Pomfrey said rather exasperatedly. “This, Harry, Hermione, is Gordon Pruitt. He would train you personally, Hermione.”

“It would certainly be an honor, sir.” Hermione said, sounding rather flattered.

“The honor, Miss Granger, would be all mine. I have heard Poppy speak of your adventures with this young man, and I must say I was thoroughly impressed.” Pruitt shook his head. “And I've also heard rumors that you were brewing Polyjuice Potion in your second year, is that right?”

“Sir—“

He raised a hand, chuckling at Hermione's alarmed look.

“The situation called for action, and goodness knows we adults weren't doing much—not that they were not trying,” he said graciously, “It does help to be on speaking terms with certain ghosts at Hogwarts.”

Hermione blushed.

“You do realize that the Polyjuice potion is considered to be at the level of a fully-trained Healer, do you not?”

“I—didn't realize that at the time, sir.” Hermione said, sounding rather taken aback.

“Well.” Pruitt turned to Madame Pomfrey. “I'll take her under my instruction if she likes, under one condition, Miss Granger.”

“What's—what's that, sir?”

He chuckled again. “Stop calling me `sir'. It makes me feel old. No, don't say anything. Cheeky one, is she? Good day. Please do let me know by this September.”

And with that, he strode off, whistling.

“He's really quite serious about his work.” Madame Pomfrey said fondly. “Really, Miss Granger—Polyjuce Potion and the Treltington potion! I had no idea you were so advanced, even then.”

Hermione blushed.

“And who is this young man?”

“Adrian.” Adrian held out his hand. Surprised, the healer shook and smiled.

“And what can I help you with today, young man?”

“You can help me find my brother,” he said quickly. “His name's Ben; he looks like me.”

Madame Pomfrey stood up and looked at Hermione curiously.

“What have you two gotten yourself into this time?” she said dryly, “Hermione?”

“Isn't there records…?” Hermione began, but Madame Pomfrey shook her head, smiling with affectionate exasperation.

“Come with me, you three,” she motioned towards them.

They followed her out of the lobby toward the first floor hallway, past the bored, gum-snapping attendant at the counter. Madame Pomfrey continued questioning Hermione shrewdly.

“And tell me, Miss Granger, should we be unable to find his relatives, are you aware of what will happen then?”

Hermione bit her lip, dodging a frazzled Healer rushing a cart of sloshing potions hurriedly down the corridor.

“I… I suppose he'd come with me.” Hermione said at last, looking at Adrian. Adrian had gone very quiet at the suggestion of the possibility that they might not find his brother. “But then, I suppose both of them would have to come with me. Ben's not much older.”

Madame Pomfrey took a deep breath and let it out.

“Well, I hope you know what you're getting into.'

“If we knew what we were getting into for everything in life, I don't think much would get done.” Hermione said lightly, as Madame Pomfrey pointed her towards a door just to Harry's right.

“Talk with Healer Smitt,” she suggested at last, “she may be able to help you.” Harry turned to Hermione, who nodded.

“Go on, Harry. We may as well try.”

He nodded, turned, and grasped the cold, tarnished doorknob, pushing the door open with a quick shove. Virtually no noise greeted him; he blinked several times and peered cautiously into the room.

Five somewhat haphazardly dressed children, most of which seemed to be about Adrian's age, were lounging about the room, some on the beds lining the walls, others half-heartedly scanning the rather sparsely furnished bookshelf on the opposite wall. All seemed to wear the same bored, somewhat miserable expression on their faces.

“Hullo,” said one at last, staring at Adrian with idle interest. He was, like most of them, rather stringy and pale, and looked to be about eight or nine. His thick brown hair hung over his eyes as he crossed his arms. “Found another one, have you?”

“Er…” Harry took a step forward into the room, nearly tripping on a teddy bear. A little girl with braided blond hair scurried up, snatching the teddy bear away and staring up at him reproachfully as she nursed the bear's injuries. “Sorry—erm…”

Her dark blue eyes were so irritated it unsettled him. Feeling guilty, he bent and said, feeling Hermione watching him closely, “What's your bear's name? I'd like to say sorry, if that's okay.”

Suddenly, her eyes brightened.

“His name's Oats,” she said shyly, extending the amber-brown bear towards Harry. She giggled softly when he shook the bear's paw. “He says that you didn't really hurt him, mister.”

“And… what's your name?” Harry said, smiling at her. She rocked back and forth on her heels nervously.

“My name's Jackie. What's yours?”

“Harry,” he said, as Hermione came up beside him. “This is Hermione.”

Jackie smiled and looked away as Hermione smiled.

“Hello, Jackie.” Hermione said gently, “Can you tell us where a Healer Smitt is?”

When Jackie said nothing, an older girl of about seven years came up and whispered into Jackie's ears. Her blue eyes lit up again.

“Mittens went to get us lunch.” Jackie pointed toward the door, her teddy bear dangling from her small hand as she did. “At the kitchen.”

Suddenly looking bashful, Jackie hid behind the older girl, who looked rather nervous as well.

“Did you bring him to stay?” She motioned to Adrian. Hermione frowned.

“What's this?”

“To stay.” The boy who had spoken to Harry first repeated, as though this should clear everything up. “Like all of us.”

“We're looking for my brother.” Adrian said quickly, coming forward and looking around anxiously. “He looks like me—he's ten—“

“There's been a lot of kids coming in and out,” said the other boy, casually resting his head against the wall behind the headboard of the bed. “We might have seen him. What d'you reckon, Dusty?”

“Might have seen him,” echoed another boy on the bed next to him. He was regarding Adrian with a bit more interest than he had displayed before. “Blond hair?”

“Yes!” Adrian said eagerly, “And eyes like mine?”

“I don't pay much attention to eyes,” said the first boy, shrugging and pushing his bangs aside, revealing startlingly clear gray eyes. “There's been a lot of blond-haired boys through here, mate, but… think the new kid looks like this one, Dusty?”

`Dusty' curled his knees up to his chest, examining Adrian closely. “Bit. His nose is a lot bigger, though.”

“No, it isn't,” piped up one of the two girls by the bookshelf. She turned around, brushing aside wisps of straight black hair and studying him closely with keen, dark eyes. “This one is just smaller, that's all. What's your name?”

“Adrian.”

The girl looked around at her companion, who was looking up from the beaten bookshelf and examining Adrian as well.

“I'm Yasmine,” she said kindly, “How old are you?”

“Eight.” Adrian said rather shortly. She smiled.

“So am I. You said your brother was bigger—ten, right?”

“Yes, that's right.” Adrian sounded resigned. “What are you all doing here, anyway?”

Yasmine looked at him in surprise. “Don't you know?”

“Well, no, not really—“

“But you know, don't you?” Yasmine looked at Harry and Hermione. Hermione shook her head. She sighed and twirled a curl of her hair around her finger.

“We're waiting to be claimed,” she said at last, looking around at the others. “Some of us have been here since we were born.”

“Claimed?” Hermione repeated. There was an undercurrent of disbelief in her voice as she stepped forward, past Harry and coming to stand in front of Yasmine. “What do you mean?”

Yasmine gazed back at Hermione, a rather sober look coming over her face.

“You know,” she said after a pause. She swallowed, a strangely defiant look overtaking her features. “Adopted.”

This caused an explosion of noise in the room.

“You don't know that I'm an orphan, Yazzy!' Dusty cried indignantly, “You don't know anything about any of us! Someone might come for me. A great-aunt or something…”

“But honestly, Dustin!” Yasmine said with a forced sort of logic. “If they wanted me, they would have come much earlier… for all of us.”

Hermione's eyes were glistening with tears as she looked around at all of them. She licked her lips and whispered into the silence that followed, “You mean… that this is where you live… permanently?”

Yasmine's lip was trembling, but she raised her chin and looked up into Hermione's face. “Yes. The five of us; we've all been here for as long as we can remember.”

“Not long, for Jackie here,” said the first boy nonchalantly. “Come off it, Yaz. No one here expects to be claimed, not really. At least we've got food and clothes, right?”

“You might not care, Jack.” Yasmine whirled around, her eyes flashing. “But some of us do. You don't care about anything!”

“Oh, stop it.” Jack snapped angrily, “I care about you lot, don't I? Who managed to get Healer Smitt to give Jackie her bear? Was it you?”

“Just because she has your name…”

“Oh, so you're playing the favorites card now, are you?” Jack said rather bitingly. “What, jealous?”

“Stop it!” The girl next to Yasmine suddenly stopped the argument in its tracks with a shrill whistle. “Would you just grow up, all of you? We shouldn't be arguing in front of them. It's not polite.”

“Oh, you're one for manners,” muttered Jack rather snidely. “Just because you're a year old than me, Katy…”

“Who's playing cards now, Jack?” said Yasmine snappishly. Katy shot her a warning glance.

“Give it a rest, Yaz,” she said firmly. She looked over at Harry and Hermione with apologetic blue-green eyes, swinging her auburn braids back over her shoulders in a nervous jerk. “Sorry. We're all rather tired.”

Hermione was looking around at the room with dismay and indignation, and looked as though she were about to say something, but then a kindly, rather wide woman with rather stiff, curly hair came bustling in with a large cart of plastic trays of food.

“Come along, loves. Eat up!”

“Are you Healer Smitt?” There was an oddly purposeful look in Hermione's eyes as she strode past the children crowding around the trays. “Hermione Granger.”

“Oh, yes, Gordon's trainee.” Healer Smitt smiled warmly at Hermione. “What can I do for you?”

“We're looking for this boy's brother.” Hermione began, but as she did, Adrian suddenly barreled past her, yelling shrilly.

“Ben! Ben! It's me!”

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A/N: Stylistically, I'm trying to keep with what I wrote previously. I hope it doesn't come across as too rushed; I was very much trying to move the plot along.

On a side note, please use my new website (http://vanillaparchment.webs.com/) to your advantage. This has a page for all WIP like this one, and potential upcoming projects that I am considering writing. Sign the guestbook and leave a comment! And enjoy this next chapter!

Chapter Twelve

“Adrian!”

Hermione whirled around; as she did, she caught Harry's arm.

Adrian was holding on tightly to a boy who, if it wasn't for the height and age difference, might have been his twin. Both boys were holding each other tightly; Adrian was sobbing and Ben's eyes seemed rather wet as he blinked quite quickly and patted his brother's back.

“Adrian, how'd you find me?” he said, in a surprisingly deep, husky voice, “I thought—I thought they gotten you!”

“Grandfather was right, Ben.” Adrian said, scrubbing his face and beaming so brightly, it was hard to recognize him. He pointed at Harry and Hermione, “They're wizards!”

Ben's blue eyes landed on Harry first. Harry looked back steadily, feeling slightly uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Then who are they?”

Adrian pulled his brother eagerly toward them. “This is Hermione, Ben—you'll like her—and this is Harry. They rescued me.”

“Well,” Ben said after a pause, “I'm Ben.”

“Nice to meet you.” Hermione held out a hand, and they shook. Harry did the same, surprised at how firm the boy's grip was.

“Thank you for helping my brother find me, Miss Hermione.” Ben said politely, looking at his brother. “I don't know what I would've done if I couldn't find him.”

“Haven't you any other relatives?”

Ben shook his head. “No. Not that our mum or dad—“

But then he fell silent, his face darkening.

Harry was suddenly conscious of the eyes watching them intently. Katy and Yasmine were standing close together, looking wistful as Jackie hid behind Healer Smitt. Dusty and Jack were merely watching, obviously trying to look bored. He felt his stomach churn as he remembered watching other families at the park when he was younger, wishing he were a part of them.

Hermione's thoughts seemed to follow Harry's as she turned to Healer Smitt. “Would you mind telling me how this system is run?”

“Well,” Healer Smitt said, looking cautious, “it's not for me to say, truly, Miss Granger, but the truth of it is, this system was run down fairly quickly after the first war. Most of these children were brought in here when they were but wee ones, still feeding from bottles and such. Since wizard families are so interconnected—all those relatives, you know—and Muggles have their own systems, the need for this sort of thing was very rare.”

“Well, Muggle systems aren't all that fantastic, either.” Harry said darkly, thinking of the orphanage Tom Riddle had been placed in. His stomach turned at this thought, and he questioned hastily, “Haven't you any place for them to go? Families that could take them in?”

Healer Smitt looked at him sadly.

“Oh, I'm sure there are some, but there isn't any way to find them. Goodness knows, many families have enough children to cope with, and this poor dears have fallen somewhat by the wayside.”

“What about a foster care system?” Hermione said, looking just as indignant as Harry felt. “Or at least a home for all of you!”

“This is all we can afford to fund at the moment,” Healer Smitt said, looking rather alarmed, “What with our entire world being rebuilt—“

“But they're a part of that!” Harry and Hermione said simultaneously.

Harry looked at her; her eyes were very bright and her cheeks were flushed—he felt a sudden burst of pride and fierce determination rush over him at the sight of her. He stared around the room, his throat rather tight as they gazed back at him.

He could have been one of them. He was one of them. And he wouldn't wish his early days on anyone, much less kids like these.

“I know what it's like not to have a family.” Harry said, “And I'm not about to let it happen again. Voldemort himself had no family, and it was the orphanage that gave him the place to start.”

“Not that you're doing badly, Healer Smitt, as I'm sure you do all you can,” Hermione said quickly, “But Harry's right; they need a proper home.”

Her eyes narrowed in thought as the kids began to whisper among themselves; the girls' eyes were wide, and even Jack was beginning to look interested.

Harry knew only one solution to the present problem, though the idea seemed so utterly ridiculous that he spent a good minute casting about wildly for ideas. The whispers had grown to hissed conversations around them:

“They really want us out of here, don't they?”

“Apparently, but I don't fancy us five being split up—“

“D'you reckon they'd split us up? We've been together forever; as long as I can remember!”

“They can come home with me!”

The room snapped into stunned silence.

Harry whipped around to look at Hermione, restraining himself from gaping at her.

Her eyes glimmered with resolve, and she lifted her chin, as if daring him to challenge her. Harry felt a stab of foreboding; it was not often that Hermione did something just as impulsive as he was known to do.

“Hermione,” he said cautiously, “don't you think…?”

“I can keep them until someone comes to adopt them,” Hermione said, sounding much more certain than Harry felt, “at least then they'll have a proper home—“

“Hermione, you live in a flat in Diagon Alley.” Harry pointed out, “How would they fit?”

“You bought me a house, didn't you?” Hermione shot back, “I'll find a way to get it repaired, and then I'll move. And don't you dare tell me not to do it, Harry James Potter—I'm the cautious one, and when I finally get the nerve to do something impulsive, you're not going to stop me!”

There was a silence in which she glared at him, looking defiant. There was a pause, and then Harry felt a grin spread across his face.

Slowly, her glare disappeared in one sheepish smile.

“I know better than to try.” Harry said, reaching up and gently brushing a curl of hair away from her flushed face. “But you can't stop me from helping you.”

She reached up and caught his hand, grinning back.

“I'm not going to try.”

Harry found himself gazing at her rosy cheeks, her dancing brown eyes, her familiar grin—his stomach flipped pleasantly as her fingers closed tightly around his and she returned his gaze steadily, still smiling.

Suddenly, someone cleared his throat, and the moment was broken. Hermione looked away, looking momentarily flustered, and hastily questioned a nonplussed Healer Smitt, “Suppose we moved all of them in two months from now, just about springtime?”

“Oh, well—“ Healer Smitt looked decidedly dazed, “Yes, I—I suppose that would work… I am in charge of this area—there doesn't seem to be any regulations against it…”

“Thank you very much.” Hermione said briskly, “Ben, Adrian—would you rather stay here, or come with us?”

They looked at each other, then back at Harry. Adrian's face broke into a smile and he tugged at Ben's arm. “Let's stay with them, Ben.”

“All right. As long as we're together, I guess.” Ben said, looking uncertainly at Healer Smitt. She smiled, still looking somewhat distracted.

“That's fine, dear, if you wish.”

“Come along, kids.” Hermione shooed the two boys out the door. She looked around at the rest of the kids.

“Do any of you not want to come with us?”

There was a long silence. Jack looked somewhat indecisive for a moment, then he shrugged and answered for all of them, “Looks like all of us want to come.”

“We'll come and pick you up for visits every now and then until the house is finished, then,” Hermione promised, “we'll come and see you as often as you like.”

“Thanks.” Katy spoke for all of them. Jack's face was impassive, though he nudged Dusty and raised his eyebrows. “For everything.”

Hermione looked at Harry, who cleared his throat (which had gone rather tight), “Right. Er… we'll see you soon.”

He tried to turn to follow Hermione out the door, but something squeezed his leg tightly and wouldn't release it. He looked down and saw Jackie's wide eyes gazing back at him. She had squashed Oats the bear in between her little body and his leg, her arms wrapped around both in a tight embrace.

“Bye,” she said shyly, offering a smile. “Come visit us soon.”

“Okay.” Harry said, smiling back. Moisture was gathering at the corners of his eyes. “I will.”

“Promise?” she demanded sternly. He put his hand over his heart, and as he did so, he couldn't help but feel that this vow was to the whole room, an oath to start and finish something much bigger than he could imagine.

“I promise.”

-->

A/N: This next chapter came quite easily after the past one, as the plot has (finally) begun to move forward. I really tried to delve into my OCs: namely, Adrian and Ben. Tell me what you think!

Chapter Thirteen

Harry stood in his bedroom, carefully examining his reflection in the mirror. He straightened his clean green T-Shirt (one that Mrs. Weasley had given him for Christmas), ran his fingers through his hair, and dusted off his jeans. They were his old ones, but they would do. He pinched the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, putting down his comb and reflecting over the day's events. Hermione would either bring it up instantly at dinnertime or completely avoid talking about it.

He shook his head.

There were moments when he wondered if he and Ron had been a little too successful in giving her a bit of an impulsive streak. He turned his head to the side, listening for the telltale sounds of Ron in the kitchen—the fridge opening and closing busily, and Pig hooting happily. By the sounds of it, the little owl was also industriously crashing into anything that could possibly shatter upon impact.

He hooked his thumbs in his jeans and strode out of the bedroom into the kitchen. Ron was lounging at the kitchen table, feet propped up on the table edge. In one had he wielded a clean spoon, in the other, a large and (as far as Harry could tell) nearly empty carton of chocolate ice cream.

“Off to dinner at Hermione's, then?” Ron said lazily as Harry headed toward the fireplace. “Have fun.”

Harry turned around.

“You're not coming?”

With relish, Ron slowly licked melting ice cream off the spoon. He shook his head, smirking at Harry and examining his reflection in the spoon.

“No, I reckon she'd rather be alone with you,” he said casually. Harry spluttered.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he demanded, feeling his cheeks burn. Ron put down the now-gleaming untensil and tipped the carton so that the remainder of the ice cream trickled into his gaping mouth.

“Reckon I'll let you unravel that one by yourself.” Ron said smugly, winking. “Or ask Hermione to do it for you.”

Harry stared at him incredulously. The room suddenly seemed rather hot. “ We won't be alone, anyway-- you've been talking to Ginny again, haven't you?”

Ron swung his feet down from the table, standing up and heading toward the fridge. Pig hooted and swooped around Harry's head, nearly smacking into him every time he neared his glasses.

“You know, the funny thing about sisters is,” Ron commented, popping the lid off the milk carton, “They drive you mad with all their talking, but then you realize that a lot of what they're saying makes sense.”

He paused, thinking as he took a swig of milk.

“Sometimes, anyway,” he said, rolling his eyes, “Do you know, she's always bringing Luna around lately. Gives me these looks when I don't say hello to her, but I'm never sure if she can hear me or not.”

Harry shrugged.

“Girls are strange,” he commented, grateful that Ron had, at least for the time being, let Hermione go. Ron nodded in solemn agreement.

“You said it there, mate.”

Harry glanced at his watch.

“I'd better get going,” he said after a moment. “I wouldn't want to be late.”

When he arrived by Floo a few moments later, Hermione's flat was surprisingly calm. Ben and Adrian were sitting at the kitchen table, engaged in what looked like a game of Monopoly.

He walked over to the kitchen table, watching as Ben tossed the dice to the table, and moved ten spaces down the board. Adrian looked up as he did.

“Hey, Harry,” he said with a slight grin. “We're playing Monopoly. Want to play?”

He pointed at a stack of money and cards at one side of the board.

“Hermione was playing, but she said she had to get dinner ready. Her things are all there, though. I've been playing for her, too.”

Harry regarded the board dubiously. Ben nudged Adrian.

“Your turn.”

He looked slightly less content than Adrian did. There was a shadow of trouble that hovered over the corners of his eyes, and he looked rather sickly in the warm light of Hermione's sunny kitchen.

“I'm buying Boardwalk.” Adrian announced, “Are you playing or not?”

Harry took a seat beside Ben.

“I'm not sure I know how to play,” he admitted, taking the dice that Ben handed him. Adrian shrugged.

“Neither did we, until Hermione taught us. She's got loads of games in her closet—we've already played checkers this afternoon.”

“Does she?” Harry tried not to sound surprised. Hermione didn't quite seem the sort for board games.

“Do I what?” Hermione's voice came from behind him. She dropped a kiss in his hair as she passed, and Harry looked down quickly, pretending to examine the money as he felt his cheeks heat up.

“Does she do that every time she sees you?” Adrian asked curiously. “Hey, look—you've got a Chance card.”

Hermione rinsed her hands in the sink, saying over her shoulder, “Where's Ron?”

“Er… he can't make it.” Harry said, “I have to pay both of you five hundred?”

Ben took the card and scanned it.

“Yeah,” he said, sticking the card back on the bottom of the pile, “but you collect two hundred for passing Go.”

As Harry passed the two boys the allotted amount of money, Hermione tapped the stove with her wand and questioned, “What's his excuse this time?”

“He hasn't got one.” Harry said, somewhat honestly, “He reckons we'd be all right without him.”

“Is that what he said?” Hermione sounded mildly surprised. “Well, that's an odd thing to say, even for him. Ben, do you need something to drink?”

“No, I'm fine.” Ben said, avoiding Hermione's gaze. “Adrian, trade you for Tennessee Avenue?”

Adrian considered, wrinkling his nose as he thought. He glanced down at his deeds, then shook his head decisively.

“No.”

Ben shrugged and moved his piece forward three spaces.

“Well, that means I don't need to make as much, I suppose,” Hermione remarked, taking down a cutting board and chopping up an onion. “Honestly, I'm not sure how Mrs. Weasley did it all those years—all those boys seemed to have Ron's appetite. I can't imagine cooking for nine for so long—“

Adrian tilted his head.

“Well, I suppose you will be cooking for nine soon,” he reasoned thoughtfully, “Me, Ben, those three girls, the two boys, you, and Harry. You owe me, Ben!”

Hermione fell silent, looking somewhat unnerved.

“I suppose you're right,” she said rather faintly, after a pause. She resumed chopping up the onion in thoughtful (or, by the look on her face, mildly terrified) silence.

About two hours after dinner, Hermione led the two boys to her study. Harry followed, finding that she had set up two small cots with pillows, sheets, and blankets.

“I've washed your things,” she said to them, passing them freshly laundered and mended pajamas. “Your toothbrushes are in the bathroom—get ready for bed and I'll be back to say good night in a moment.”

“Thanks,” the boys said together, and Hermione shut the door to the study. She looked at Harry, let out a breath, and headed back to the kitchen. He followed her back, saying quietly, `Are you all right?”

She began washing the dishes in silence. Harry refrained from pointing out that she could do it by magic, and instead dried the plates she handed to him.

“You really seem to know what you're doing,” he ventured, “With them, I mean. Adrian and Ben.”

When she didn't reply, he went on, “I mean, even Ben seemed happier than before. Obviously he's still, you know, grieving over his family, but Adrian seems to love you and—“

She shook her head slowly.

“Hermione?”

She muttered something under her breath, still shaking her head.

“What?”

“I've gone mad,” she said faintly, nearly shattering a glass as she slammed it on to the counter top. “Completely mad.”

“So what else is new?” he tried to joke, but when she merely looked torn between outrage and misery, he backpedaled. “Hermione, it was a joke—what's wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” Hermione said, nearly dropping a dish. Her hands were shaking; whether with outrage or with fear, Harry couldn't tell. “I've only just taken responsibility for seven children ranging from three to ten and accepted a full-time apprenticeship at St. Mungo's at the same time; no, everything's perfect—“

Her face was pale, and though she seemed to be trying to look angry, she only succeeded in looking terrified.

“Hermione,” he said quietly, reaching out and taking her soapy hands in his. “you'll be fine. Things will work out.”

“How can I do this?” she cried, staring up at him with wide eyes, “I've never been a babysitter before, much less a mother! How on earth am I supposed to take care of over half a dozen children on my own? And apart from that, how on earth am I supposed to support them? I haven't got a steady income—and I'll be studying, for Merlin's sake—“

“Hermione.”

She stopped short when he spoke. He looked at her, desperate to reassure her.

“Listen, Hermione, you're not alone. I'm a part of this too; I want to help.”

He paused.

“I just got a job, you know.”

Her eyes widened, and she gazed at him in shock.

“Kingsley's letting me form an official D.A.,” he explained, enjoying the dumbfounded look on her face, “It's completely separate from the Ministry, but it'll help people learn to defend themselves even beyond the normal stuff you learn at school. I didn't want the money, at first, but he reckons I deserve a higher salary, for some reason—and now I can help you.”

“Oh, Harry,” she breathed in wonder, her hands tightening around his. “Harry, that's a wonderful idea! And you'll be a teacher!”

He grinned.

“I take it you approve of the idea?”

“Approve?” she beamed, all traces of fear disappearing, “It's wonderful!”

She threw her arms around his chest and hugged him tightly. He grinned happily, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I want to help you, Hermione. And I'm sure Molly does, too.” He paused. “It's a great thing you're doing, even I can tell.”

She drew back suddenly.

“I have to say good night to the boys,” she said, studying him carefully. “But I don't want you to use your money trying to—“

“I want to. Final word, Miss Granger,” he said sternly, and she flashed him a quick, sheepish smile.

“Then… thank you, Harry. A thousand times over. I'll try and pay you back someday, I—“

“Oh, no, you won't,” he interrupted. “I care about those kids just as much as you do, Hermione. It's just as much my idea as it is yours.”

She smiled again, and her eyes fluttered closed as he bent and kissed her cheek.

As he drew back, he couldn't help but smile when her eyes remained closed for a few seconds after his lips touched her cheek.

He brushed aside that insistent curl of hair and she turned away quickly, blushing.

She hurried toward the study, cracking the door open cautiously and knocking softly on the door. The lights were still dim.

She crept in quietly, with Harry standing at the doorway, then noticed Ben sitting on the floor next to his cot. He was staring intently at the candle in front of him, passing his finger quickly through the flickering, pale white flame.

Hermione stopped by Adrian's cot. Adrian was already fast asleep, and she bent and kissed his forehead, murmuring a quiet good night. Ben looked up at that, his troubled features looking even more shadowed in the light of the flickering flame.

“You're not my mum, you know. And not his, either.” He spoke after a pause. Hermione hesitated, then gently touched his shoulder.

“I know I'm not, Ben. I'm not trying to be.”

Ben looked at her, then spoke again, this time in a whisper.

“But you are,” he said, passing his whole hand through the flame again. “You're going to try to adopt us, aren't you? I heard Healer Smitt saying something like that to the others. Before we left.”

She knelt beside him.

“I'm just going to give you a home until we can find you a place to be happy—you and Adrian,” she said gently, and Harry could see her eyes glow as she spoke. It seemed she, too, had been struggling with exactly what she was trying to do. “If that's with me, fine. If that's with someone else—that's fine, too. Anywhere that you think you and Adrian could be happiest.”

Ben's blue eyes glinted almost eerily in the candlelight.

“But Mum's never coming back, and that's enough to make everything miserable,” was all he said, in a painfully flat, colorless voice. “I don't know if Adrian even cares anymore. He loves you more than Mum, and it's only been a day.”

Hermione glanced over at Adrian.

“I'll never replace your mum, Ben,” she said quietly, “not in Adrian's heart, and not in yours. I wouldn't want to. But it's not a matter of replacement at all— it's just creating a new space for someone else.”

She took his hand.

“Come along, then. Bed.”

He allowed her to help him into bed. She tucked the blankets under his chin and looked him in the eyes.

“Good night, Ben.” She bent down and kissed his forehead softly. “Sweet dreams.”

As she drew back, Ben asked suddenly, “Is it true you know the song?”

She looked at him blankly.

“The song?”

“The lullaby. The one about the horses,” he said. Hermione nodded, taken aback.

“Mum used to sing that to us,” he said in a drowsy voice, “Adrian said you sang that to him—when you found… when…”

He choked on the words and fell silent, looking embarrassed. He looked away and turned over in bed abruptly, causing the sheets to rustle loudly. Harry thought he could hear his voice break as he spoke.

“Good night.”

Hermione came and stood by Harry at the doorway, looking into the dim room at Ben's blond head. Her eyes softened in a way Harry had never seen them do before—in a tender, gentle way that was so different from the brisk practicality that defined her behavior normally. He felt a lump form in his throat

“Good night, Ben.”

She shut the door, and Harry smiled at her, the lump dislodging enough for him to joke hoarsely, “What was that you were saying about not knowing how to handle kids?”

She turned, and her eyes glistened with tears, making her eyes look twice as bright.

He reached out and embraced her tightly. For a moment, he felt himself relax fully—she felt so comfortable in his arms; her warmth seemed to reach every part of him through the smallest amount of contact. She smelled vaguely of parchment, and he could swear he smelled the faint scent of vanilla lingering about her hair.

“Hermione, that was… you were—were perfect,” he said, leaning his cheek against her hair, “I may not know a lot about parenting, but Merlin, you're going to be a fantastic mother someday.”

She smiled against his collarbone. A shiver went through him as her lips moved with her next words, brushing across his skin.

“Thank you, Harry. I hope so.”

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A/N: So, more OCs (I count Hermione's parents as OCs, since we never actually meet them in the series) and more of Ron. Which is unusual in my writing, if you haven't noticed. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Fourteen

“Yes, Mum,” Hermione's exasperated voice rang through the yard. Harry glanced down at her, still holding his wand aloft. She was shading her eyes with a hand, watching him intently from the ground, and speaking with her parents on the phone. He smiled reassuringly, swooping around to talk to Charlie, who was helping to repair the old house's roof. “Yes, I'm quite certain—Healer Pruitt… oh, all right then, Doctor Pruitt has agreed to do as much of my training at home—what? Of course. No, not like that! Honestly, Daddy—“

“I'd love to hear what they're saying on the other end,” sniggered Ron as he hovered next to Harry, “Look, she's gone into her lecture mode again.”

Harry grinned, shaking his head. Hermione was pacing the yard with the phone, her expressions changing so quickly it was a wonder even she could keep up with them. Meanwhile, Ben and Adrian played catch with an old training Quaffle George had obligingly lent them.

“… and really, Mum, I can't understand why you're so anxious for me to—Mum! What is that supposed to mean? Oops—Adrian, do be careful— what? Oh, no—now, Daddy… Adrian's one of the boys that… Mother, give it a rest!”

Adrian chucked the Quaffle at his brother and threw back his head as Charlie soared over him. “Let me ride!”

Charlie grinned. “Sorry, mate, I'm working. Ask Harry or Ron, though, since they're being useless—“

Harry grinned and touched down in the yard next to Adrian. Adrian looked at him hopefully.

Harry glanced at Hermione, who he knew had been adamantly against letting either boys ride a broom. Then again, she had never expressly said they weren't allowed. Besides, she was now engaged in what seemed to be a passionate argument with her parents.

He winked and jerked his chin, pressing a finger to his lips. Adrian grinned back, climbing on the broom in front of Harry.

“Hold on tightly,” Harry muttered to Adrian, who was trembling with excitement. He kicked off and sped up into the air, circling the roof at a high speed. Adrian laughed in delight.

“… really can't believe after all these years that you—Harry Potter, you bring him back down this instant!” Hermione shrieked suddenly, dropping the phone and dashing around under them, as if she expected to have to catch a falling Adrian any minute.

Harry and Ron roared with laughter.

“Hermione, he's fine!” Harry called, stopping and hovering over her head. “Look, I've got him—I'm holding onto him and he's got a hold on the broom.”

Hermione glared up at him, squinting in the sunlight.

“Small comfort—how many times have you fallen off your broom?” she snapped, “Come down here immediately!”

Harry and Ron exchanged amused glances, and Harry guided the broom in a gentle descent to hover several feet off the ground beside Hermione.

“Come on, Hermione, it's fun!” Adrian complained, gripping the broom handle tightly. “I won't fall.”

Hermione sent Harry a stern glare.

“Just because you were the youngest Seeker in a century—“

“… I can keep my balance, too, see?”

Adrian threw out his arms and promptly tumbled off the broom. Hermione sighed and pulled Adrian up, marching him away from the broom, ignoring his protests.

“Can I try?” Ben asked, making his way toward Harry as Adrian kicked at the Quaffle in disgust. “I'm older than Adrian—I'm nearly eleven!”

“Same age as I was.” Harry pointed out to a now uncertain Hermione, “Come on, Hermione, let them have a bit of flying. If Healer Pruitt was right, and they are wizards, they might as well have a start at it.”

His coaxing was interrupted by a much less tactful comment from Ron, “Merlin, Hermione, lighten up!”

“Hermione Jane Granger!” shrieked the phone, “Pick up this phone! Are you all right? Are you alive?”

“If that Potter boy has done something to her—“ growled a second voice, and Harry felt a twinge of worry. Hermione's father didn't seem like a person to be messed with.

Hermione sighed, snapped, “Yes, then, all right, but if he dies—“, and hurried over to the phone. “Mum, really—“

She cringed and held the phone at arm's length as a voice very like Hermione's exploded, “…terrify the living daylights out of us! If you ever do that again, I will personally drive all the way down to… wherever you are right now, and I will drag you back to give you a proper lecture! But meanwhile! What on earth do you mean, you and Harry have decided? Are you getting married? Are you engaged?” A horrible thought seemed to occur to her mother, “You aren't—those children aren't—“

“No!” Hermione snapped back, quite scarlet about the face and glaring ferociously at the phone, “No, Harry and I are not dating, we are not engaged, we are not married, and because I know you're thinking it, no, I am not pregnant with Harry's child—“

Whump!

Hermione whipped around. Ron had toppled into the grass, bawling with laughter, tears streaming down his face. He clutched his stomach, wheezing hysterically and pointing wordlessly at the phone.

Harry felt his face burn.

“And I'll have you know that unlike some—“ Hermione cast Ron a dirty look, “Harry happens to have some moral fiber, which you are currently insulting with your extremely loud tirade. If you would listen to me, you'd know that. I'll call back later, Mum, if you'll excuse me.”

She snapped her cell phone shut and turned on Ron, glowering at him.

“Ronald Billius Weasley,” she began furiously, “If you ever laugh like that when my mother's on the phone again, I will personally ensure that you never laugh again.”

Ron sobered obediently, though he had several loud coughing fits that sounded suspiciously like sniggering.

“She sounds like she could give our mum a run for her money.” Charlie had landed next to Ron, and was now using his wand to refill his water bottle. He shook his head, taking a swig of water. “Reminded me of when Ginny first dated that one bloke—Michael Corner, was it?”

“Never liked him.” Ron said immediately, with a dark look at the grass. Adrian and Ben sat on the grass, obviously abandoning hopes a flying spree.

There was a crack just before Ron spoke, and Ginny was sitting next to Adrian on the grass.

“No, let me guess who we're talking about,” she said brightly, “Dean Thomas, Michael Corner, or… well, or You-Know-Who, I suppose. Though I never really liked bald men,” she added thoughtfully. Everyone present made a face.

“Can we go flying?” Adrian cast a wistful look at Harry's Firebolt. All eyes turned towards Hermione.

She bit her lip, looking uncertain. After a long pause, she snapped, “Yes, all right. Fine. But no Wronski Feints or Sloth Grip Rolls or—what?”

The older set of the group was staring at Hermione in silent wonder.

Ron turned a reverent face toward Harry.

“You've managed to make her say Quidditch maneuvers correctly,” he said in awe and gratitude, “I hope you marry her—“

“Ron!” Hermione turned quite pink. “I've already had enough of that from my mum, thank you.”

“So can we go flying?” Adrian persisted impatiently, as the whole of the group turned knowing smirks on a very flustered Hermione.

“I'll take Ben up.” Charlie volunteered, mercifully drawing the attention away from Hermione, “Harry can take Adrian, like before.”

“Do be careful.” Hermione said anxiously to Harry, as Adrian clambered on the broom in front of Harry. Harry smiled reassuringly.

“He'll be fine. I promise.”

Hermione smiled reluctantly as he squeezed her shoulder, then kicked off with Adrian balancing in front of him.

Adrian waved happily to Ben, who was grinning fully for the first time since they'd met him. “I can't wait til I can do this myself!”

Harry glanced at Hermione, using one hand to wave back at her. For a moment, her face relaxed, and she waved back, smiling slightly.

“Harry, can I steer?”

Harry looked away from Hermione, relaxing his hold on the broom handle. “Here—just hold it here… that's right—guide it like that…”

Adrian's look of delight made Harry grin. The boy's blue eyes were wide, drinking in the sunshine and the wind, and his small tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. He could feel the thin blond hair, clean and healthy rather than grimy and matted, whipping against his arms.

Adrian laughed again, leaning back against Harry and twisting his neck around to look directly at him.

The simple gratitude shining in his smile made Harry's heart lift, and he grinned back.

“Like it?” Harry asked unnecessarily. Adrian nodded vigorously. “So do I.”

Adrian grinned.

“I think… I think my mum would have liked it up here,” he said as Harry slowed the broom to a leisurely glide. Harry was silent, unsure of what to say next. “She didn't have much freedom. That's what Ben said, anyway. But I like to think that she can see me up here, don't you?”

Harry felt his stomach twist sharply. He had not even looked at the other bodies at the house.

Adrian looked back at Harry and smiled again. It was the simple, resilient smile of someone who saw something in the world that other people spent their entire lives looking for.

Harry took a hand and ruffled his hair, his heart so full it ached.

“Yeah. I do.”

Adrian rested his head back against Harry's chest, looking content.

“You know, I miss my mum and my grandfather, and my dad, too. But I'm glad I have Ben. And I'm really glad I have Hermione.” He looked back at Harry. “Aren't you?”

Harry looked down at Hermione, who was shading her eyes with a hand and watching them with a faintly worried smile. Her messy ponytail whipped playfully across her shoulder. She saw him looking, and she smiled, waving.

“Yeah,” he said, as Adrian waved back, “I guess we do have her, don't we?”

“And each other.”

Harry smiled and used one arm to give him an awkward hug.

“And each other, mate. That's right.”

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Chapter Fifteen

“Katy, this is Ron—don't take anything he says seriously—this is Ginny—same with her—and you know Harry already—he's the one outside with Adrian and Ben.”

Hermione smiled sweetly at Ron, who looked somewhat wounded, and Ginny, who merely smiled back.

“Thanks for the introduction, Hermione.” Ron muttered, waving his wand and chipping away at the old paint of the door frame.

“Oh, Hermione just has a few issues—denial, for one,” Ginny said innocently, “Nice to meet you, Katy. Oy! Charlie, what do you think you're doing with that hair tie?”

“Denial…?” Katy repeated uncertainly. Ron opened his mouth, looking amused, but Hermione silenced him with a look.

“Adrian and Ben are playing catch outside with Harry, if you'd like to join them.” Hermione said, above the wooden thunks echoing through the house as Bill worked on repairing some old shelves, sending the nails burrowing into the wood with a wave of his wand.

“Oh—well,” Katy's blue-green eyes darted to Bill's work and then back to Hermione. She tucked one foot behind the other ankle shyly, “Would you mind if I watched him work?”

She pointed at Bill.

Hermione looked startled, but smiled.

“Of course not,” she said warmly, “Just remember to not take anything they say seriously,” she added.

Katy grinned shyly.

“I won't,” she promised, tugging at one of her braids, “I get a lot of practice with that. Jack and Yasmine are always saying stupid things—once, Yasmine nearly hit Jack—right here, on the chin—and Dusty and I had to hold them apart before they got in trouble.”

Hermione looked wary.

“And do—do they fight a lot, Jack and Yasmine?” she said casually, as Katy sat beside Bill, watching him work intently. She picked up a nail, studied it, and pointed out, “This one's a bit bent in the middle.”

Bill looked at it, surprised.

“Thanks,” he said with a smile, tossing the nail into the trash bin. “Good catch.”

Katy beamed, then looked back at Hermione. Hermione smiled back, then repeated her question.

“Well,” Katy began thoughtfully, “It's not that they don't like each other or anything, but they both like to be in charge. That's why they don't get along, really, but it's brilliant when they work together. I mean, you saw what it was like when they fight when you visited us first.”

Hermione nodded, and sat down next to Katy.

“You seemed to be a good leader, too.”

Katy flushed and looked down bashfully.

“Yes, well, they don't really like paying attention to me, except when I make my voice sound like a grown-up's or whistle or say something that I've heard adults say before,” she said, “I mostly just keep them from fighting. I listen, too, when Yasmine complains about Jack—which is a lot.”

“What about Dustin?” Hermione said, as Katy began passing Bill nails. “What's he like?”

Katy shrugged.

“Oh, Dustin's really quiet. He likes drawing things,” she said, twirling a nail in between her fingers, “He's always using chalk to draw on the floor, since it washes off it you scrub it with a wash rag. That's why we call him Dusty, because if no one's making him wash up— Healer Smitt forgot about that a lot—he's covered in chalk dust. He's friends with Jack.”

“So I noticed.” Hermione said. Katy perked up as Bill began to sand the shelves, “Jack didn't seem too keen on the idea of coming to live with us.”

Katy slid a finger through the dust on the floor, thinking.

“Well,” she doodled a smiley face through the dust, “he doesn't want us to be split up.”

“Oh?”

“He's been at St. Mungo's since he was three, I think.” Katy said, running a hand down the newly-sanded wood, “I don't know. I think he's sort of angry that no one came to claim him, but I don't want him to know that I know. He's very proud, really, but he's very good, too.”

She spoke earnestly.

“We're the only family he's got, you see,” she said, looking at Hermione with her eyes wide. “I can understand how he feels, though I've been at St. Mungo's since I was born.”

Hermione felt her throat constrict, though she nodded and asked with difficulty, “And what about you, Katy? How do you feel about a family?”

Katy nibbled at her thumbnail thoughtfully.

“I don't know,” she said at last, “The way Yasmine talks about them, I expect they're quite nice.”

She smiled.

“And Yasmine talks a lot about families.” She paused, then grinned, “But she's only read about them. I don't expect she's ever actually had one, except for us.”

She looked at her dusty finger.

“Sometimes I think that my family ought to have kept me,” she confided, leaning in, “I don't think I'd have been too much trouble, but I suppose it's hard to tell when you're a baby. Jackie was hard to get along with, when she first came. And I sometimes get angry—don't tell Yasmine that, though—that they didn't keep me, because I think it's a bit unfair for them to say that someone's going to be too much trouble before they've even spoken a single word with them.” She looked at Hermione, “I try not to do that. I suppose you do too, right? You seem like that.” She smiled, “You seemed to care about us a lot, you and Harry. You didn't even know us. I like that about you two.”

Hermione felt tears building in her eyes, and she looked away.

Katy stopped.

“Am I talking too much?” she said anxiously, handing Hermione a rather patched handkerchief, “Yasmine says that even though I look like the quiet one, I talk too much. Of course, she usually says that after I whistle and stop them fighting—like I did when you first saw us. Though I can't help it. Yasmine does most of the talking back at St. Mungo's, and that leaves a lot of time for thinking, you know. And you listen so well that I feel like I can talk about what I think, instead of just thinking it.”

“No, I like listening to you.” Hermione said hastily, “You're a very intelligent person.”

“Do you think so?” Katy said, “That's nice. Jack's the clever one in our group. I never really thought I was particularly clever.”

She paused.

“I like lessons, though. I learned how to read, but not as quickly as Yasmine. Yasmine says she likes to devour books—just like that, with a long `vour' at the end—and she knows all the books in our shelves by heart. There's only about six of them, but they're long. Not very good for Jackie, but Yasmine and I sometimes pretended to read from them to Jackie and made up our own stories.”

She looked at the bookshelf Bill was putting back up in the corner of the room. “Yasmine would like this room, probably. She'd say it had an air of mystery about it, or something like that. I think she says things like that right out of books, but she says she makes them up. I don't tell her that I know she gets them from books, though. She likes making things up.”

“What sorts of things?” Hermione was utterly fascinated by Katy's unusually perceptive observations, and it seemed Bill was listening intently, too.

“Plays and things. She used to do them a lot more often, when we were littler.” Katy said, tugging at a braid again, “Now she just keeps talking about families. She went out to the Children's Ward once—it's on the other end of St. Mungo's—and she saw a lot of families there.”

She paused.

“She also found a lot of books. She told us one story about a Muggle named Robin Hood, and a band of robbers who lived in a forest. And another one about a family who got stranded on an island and built this magnificent tree house. I liked that one best. They were very inventive with how they made things. And they didn't even use magic!”

“I have those books,” Hermione said eagerly, “they're very famous Muggle books.”

“Are you Muggleborn, then?”

Hermione nodded.

“Well, I don't know what I am.” Katy said matter-of-factly, “But I'd like to think that I have some Muggle blood in me. Do you think that's strange? Some people don't like Muggleborns much, like You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters. But I think Muggles are actually smart. I like the way they've made things, because magic seems easier. Is that silly of me, do you think?”

Hermione shook her head.

“You're right.”

“Oh, I'm glad you think so,” Katy said in relief, “Jack thinks that Muggle's aren't very smart, since they haven't found us yet. But I think that's unfair. I found some old Muggle watches in the bin—don't tell Healer Smitt I was going through the bin again; I'll get in trouble—and I took them apart. It was all quite complicated, and it took until Christmas that I got them fixed again.”

She smiled suddenly.

“I've been talking for a long time, haven't I?” she said, with a giggle, “Am I getting very boring? Yasmine is sometimes, and I know how to focus elsewhere and still look like I'm listening.”

She cocked her head and fixed her eyes on Hermione's.

“But you really were listening, weren't you?” she said, happily, “Yasmine doesn't listen to me very much, even when she's fighting with Jack. Will you let me talk this much when I come live with you?”

“Yes,” Hermione said with a smile, “I will.”

Katy beamed.

“I like you,” she said sincerely, “would you mind if I hugged you? Jack and Dusty hate it.”

“Not at all.”

Katy threw her arms around Hermione's neck. Hermione wrapped her arms around Katy tightly, pressing her cheek against her soft auburn hair.

“It's funny,” Katy mumbled into Hermione's blouse, “normally when I hug someone I want them to let go, but I don't think I want you to.”

Hermione felt tears in her eyes again, and she sniffed as quietly as possible.

“I'm not like this at St. Mungo's at all,” Katy said, still holding Hermione tightly, “I have to act like Yasmine to get them to stop fighting, mostly, but then when I talk with them alone, I'm like this. I suppose I ought to act more grown-up, but it's hard to act grown-up when you don't feel like one.”

Hermione felt a hard lump in her throat.

“I know what you mean,” she murmured.

“Yes, I suppose you do.” Katy said, “That's why I told everyone I was sorry, after I said that they should grow up. Really, I'm not normally like that,” she drew back slightly and looked her anxiously, “I think you know that, don't you?”

Hermione smiled and tapped her on the nose.

“I do now. You're a perfectly sweet person, and you are quite clever, whatever Yasmine tells you.”

Katy smiled.

“Thank you,” she said happily, “Someday I'm going to invent something that will change the world,” she frowned, “I'm just not quite sure how, yet, but that's all right. I'm sure I'll figure it out between now and when I grow up. It'll make things better, somehow.”

Hermione smiled.

“I know it will.”

Katy looked at her curiously.

“I'm not positive about it, myself, but you seem quite sure,” she said, “You always seem very certain of yourself. I wish I was. Yasmine's like you, too, except I know she isn't, because… well, I don't think she'd want me to tell you that, even though I know you wouldn't tease her. So I won't tell, because I think some things just don't need to be said. Don't you think?”

“Yes. I do.” Hermione said, nodding. “You know, it takes some people a very long time to figure that out.”

“Well, I don't think Jack has figured that out yet. He can be a bit mean sometimes. I don't think he means to, mostly, but it's mean all the same. I do that too, just not as much out loud, but I think it, and that's just as bad, right?”

“Right.”

“I read that somewhere.” Katy admitted, “But I don't mind that I got it from a book. People who write books have to be rather quick, don't they? Yasmine's smart, so she's going to write a book. I hope it's like the story about Robin Hood and the family in the tree house; those are fun.”

She rested her chin on Hermione's shoulder and sighed.

“No wonder Yasmine is so grouchy in the afternoon,” she said, “talking is tiring, though I don't mind talking to you. I get grouchy when I'm tired, and so I try not to talk very much in the morning or I might say something to hurt someone's feelings. I suppose this is morning, but I haven't said anything very mean, have I?”

“No, you've said some very good things this morning.”

“I thought it was so.” Katy said with a yawn, “You know, I was really nervous about coming here, so I didn't sleep much last night. Do you mind if I take a nap?”

Hermione smiled and shook her head.

“Go ahead.”

Katy had already dozed off by the time Hermione had finished her sentence. Bill winked at Hermione and chuckled.

“Well, at least now we know she talks,” he said, laughing quietly. “She seems to have a liking for mechanics, too, as far as I can tell.”

Hermione smiled.

“There's a lot she can teach us, too.”

“Even you?” Bill quipped. She grinned and picked the sleeping Katy up.

“Even me.”

-->

A/N: Ahem. As you've probably figured out, I'm introducing another one of the kids in this chapter. Meet Dustin.

Chapter Sixteen

“Katy told me you liked to draw, Dustin,” Hermione said. He simply nodded, shuffling his feet and sticking his hands in his pockets. “Harry's got some things for you to do while you're here, unless you'd rather go out on a few errands with the boys and I.”

Dustin shook his head, casting a rather alarmed look at the other boys, who were wrestling in the grass. “No, thanks.”

He scratched his head, rubbing his soft dark hair with a hand.

“Where do I go?”

Hermione pointed him up the staircase. “First door on the left. Do you need anything?”

Dustin ducked his head. “No. I'm okay.”

He shuffled up the newly sanded stairs, his footsteps light and barely hard enough to create sound on the stairs. Hermione watched him go, shaking her head slowly. It was strange, how differently each new child behaved away from their tight little group.

“Dustin?” Harry guessed as the boy approached. Dustin raised his deep brown eyes to him and half-shrugged. Harry was struck by how thoughtful those liquid eyes appeared, framed behind fringes of dark lashes. His dark hair was neatly combed to the side.

“That's me. She sent me up here.”

“I suppose Hermione's left on her errands, then.” Harry said, more to himself than anything. Then he grinned at Dustin, trying to make him feel welcome. “Come on in.”

Dustin followed him into the room, still hunched over and casting a glance around the room. The walls had been newly wallpapered a soft yellow, and it smelled of new furniture and new things.

“Hermione told me you liked to do art,” Harry said, picking up and plastic bag, “So I got you something to do while you were with us today.”

He held out the sack. Dustin extended a hand cautiously and gripped the handle.

Harry watched him carefully as he slipped a hand into the bag.

Surprise crossed his face, casting his eyes in a curious light. He pulled out several pieces of wood, long and narrow. He looked up at Harry, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“I thought you might like to make a sign for each room and one for the kitchen,” he explained, “One for each of you. This is Jackie's room.”

Again, surprise animated his quiet features, enough that he spoke.

“You mean, we each have our own room?”

Harry smiled slightly.

“Yeah,” he said, as Dustin drew out tubes of paint and brushes. “So what do you say?”

A smile spread across his face, wide and toothy. He looked Harry in the eye for the first time, straightening his shoulders.

“I want to.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said warmly, “Hermione wants you to paint downstairs—I'll show you.”

Dustin put all his supplies away in the bag carefully and followed Harry out the door. Harry glanced at him, pleased at his happy expression.

He was beginning to see why Hermione felt so strongly about making this house the best home it could be.

As they crossed the kitchen, Dustin spoke up suddenly.

“Are you going to be in the house with us?”

Harry hesitated.

“Well—“

“Because I don't think I'd mind if you were,” Dustin said in a rush, as if he were afraid his sentence was going to be cut off in the middle. Harry pulled open the door at the back of the kitchen.

“I don't know,” Harry said at last, “but here's the work room, Dustin.”

He turned around and watched Dustin's face.

A workbench and table was built into the wood wall on the right, already neatly filled with tools, art supplies, and building blocks. Several tables sat in the center of the room, and a chalkboard sat at the front of the room.

“Hermione reckons you kids seem to be a creative bunch. She says you'll be using these for lessons, too.”

He grinned.

“I built that for you, mate,” he said, pointing to the front right corner of the room. Dustin dashed over to the easel. “Took me forever to get it right, and I had a bit of help—Katy's pretty clever with tools for her age.”

“Thank you,” Dustin said faintly, transfixed on the gleaming wooden easel. “Thank you.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, savoring the thrilled look on the normally quiet features of the boy, waving his wand and turning on some lights, “You can get started whenever you like. I might watch, though.”

“Okay,” Dustin whispered absently, touching the easel reverently. “Yasmine showed me a picture of one of these once, but this is better.”

“Well, I think Katy had the same idea,” Harry said, coming to stand beside him. “If you like, you can push that plank back—like this—and it'll be a slanted desk.”

Dustin looked at him, his eyes wide. Then he grinned, his crooked front teeth appearing for a brief moment before he turned his attention on setting up his supplies.

“There's a palette in there, too.” Harry pointed to the wood palette. “For you to mix paint on.”

“Water?” Harry reached out and snagged one of the empty cups resting on the workbench. With his wand, he filled the cup with cold, clear water. Dustin took it and placed it on the floor next to him.

“Don't forget to make one for the kitchen, the workroom, and the living room,” Harry reminded him, as Dustin unscrewed the first cap.

“I can do whatever I want?” Dustin asked suddenly. He turned his head and studied Harry carefully. Harry smiled.

“Anything you want. I reckon you know the others better than anyone else.”

Dustin ducked his head again, squirting a blob of a vibrant red onto the palette. He squinted one eye, examining its color, then reached for the white, digging around in the bag.

He squirted a glistening white onto the palette, then carefully used his brush to swirl the two colors together, creating a bright pink.

“Yasmine's better at letters,” he said abruptly, “I've never tried painting anyone's name before.”

He painted the whole front of the plank pink. His strokes were careful, firm. The wood's dark brown disappeared beneath the smooth pink paint. Harry grinned as Dustin paused again, squinting the other eye at the plank and nodding in satisfaction.

He splashed his brush into the cup of water at his feet. The pink bloomed into the clear water, leaving it bright pink and splashing against the sides of the cup.

One quick stroke left a curved line of white at the left of the plank, brilliant and curly at the end. Dustin's squinted eye never left the plank as he dabbed his brush into the white again, and began a curly `a' alongside the `j'.

Harry watched as he carefully formed Jackie's name on the plank.

“Jackie,” Harry read as he finished. “Good job—that looks great!”

Dustin looked at him and grinned slowly. The smile stretched cautiously across his thin face, almost lazily. His dark eyes gleamed suddenly as he raised his brush and waved it. He left a streak of white across his flushed cheek as he lowered it.

“Wait,” was all he said, popping open the brown tube and squirting a good amount of rich brown from the tube.

As Harry watched, he guided the brush to create three brown circles, one large one, and two smaller ones resting on top of it.

The brush burrowed itself into the mountain of white on the palette, then painted a dot in the center of each of the smaller circles.

He squeezed a gleaming pile of black onto the palette, and gently traced a shiny nose, two shiny eyes, and a big smile onto the dark brown circle. The brush landed in the water for several quick seconds, and then dipped into the pink one more time. Carefully, Dustin painted a large pink tongue sticking out of the wide grin.

Harry grinned, looking at Dustin.

“Oats,” they said together, and in that moment, Harry felt Dustin's dark eyes smile directly at him. He slung an arm around the boy's thin shoulders. “Looks exactly like him.”

“Not really,” Dustin said, shaking his head, “He hasn't got a tongue. But he's close.”

Harry chuckled, ruffling his dark hair.

“He's fantastic.”

A white flash of a grin, and Dustin's ears moved slightly with the smile. “Thanks.”

There was a silence, before Dustin said, “You can call me Dusty, if you want.”

Harry registered the silent offer of friendship, and he took it.

“So why do they call you Dusty?”

Dusty strode over to the chalkboard, picked up a thin piece of white chalk, and started drawing on the black expanse.

When he stepped back, an elaborate drawing of Harry and Dusty greeted Harry's eyes. Each line was surprisingly accurate, every stroke and detail carefully placed. Dusty smiled his slow, lazy smile at Harry's obvious surprise and held up his hands, pale with chalk dust.

“Dusty.”

Harry grinned back.

“And brilliant at it.”

-->

Yet another A/N: Here's a warning—acting on some advice, I've combined and slightly rewritten a few of my earlier chapters. Nothing pertinent to the overall arch of the story has really been altered, so it isn't entirely necessary to read them when I post them (which, for the record, I haven't yet.) After this chapter, you may notice that there are fourteen chapters, rather than seventeen. Don't worry. Nothing's changed, just keep on reading. I hope you enjoy getting to know… Jackie and Yasmine.

Chapter Seventeen

“Jackie, don't run!” Yasmine tugged at Jackie's small hand as Jackie tried to make a dash for the stairs. Jackie gripped Oats' soft paw tightly and made a face at the older girl.

“Why not?” she demanded, “Dusty said there was a room for me upstairs.”

“Hermione!” Harry called, hurrying down the staircase, “They're here!”

“Yes, I know—“ Hermione called from somewhere upstairs, sounded exasperated, “My goodness, Ben, just hold still! A little clean water's not going to hurt you. Of course it had to be the last full paint bucket we had--stop sniggering, Adrian, I know you tipped the thing over—don't give me that look; I was standing right there watching you!”

Harry shook his head and grinned in greeting.

“Hi, Yasmine—Jackie. If you like, we can go see your rooms.”

“Told you,” Jackie said smugly, and pulling away from Yasmine's hand, she darted up the staircase, Oats clutched in her hand. Harry grinned at Yasmine's look of dismay.

“Don't worry about it,” he said good-naturedly, waving a hand, “It's your house, too, you know. Come on, then—“

He motioned towards her, and hesitantly, she followed Harry up the huge wooden staircase, running a hand across the polished banister and trying not to look shocked. It was the biggest house she had ever encountered, perhaps as big as the mansions she had read about. She touched the stone wall on her other side, feeling the cool bumps of each stone under her fingertips. If she tried, she could picture this as a castle. She stared at Harry's back, examining him carefully.

He didn't exactly look like a prince or anything particularly unusual, though she did notice he had a rather boyish look about him. He'd fit better with Robin Hood and his merry men, she decided as they neared the last step. He didn't have broad shoulders like the pictures in the old battered book at St. Mungo's, but he looked lean and moved quickly. That was how she pictured Robin, anyway, except with fair hair and blue eyes, instead of that unusual shade of green. And no glasses, but that didn't matter.

He turned and grinned at her, and she noticed the famous lightning bolt scar on his forehead. It was thin and rather hard to miss.

“Coming?”

She blinked and realized she was still standing three steps below the landing. She turned slightly red and hurried up the last three steps.

“Just—looking around,” she said, and he grinned again. It was a sort of crooked smile, she noticed, as if one side of his mouth wanted to smile more than the other end did. Just the sort of smile for the merry thief living in Sherwood Forest, she decided, kind but rather mischievous.

“This isn't working,” sighed a voice from the second door down the hallway, on Yasmine's right. Harry snorted with laughter.

“Hermione, Yasmine's here, and Jackie's probably in her room by now—“

Yasmine took a few cautious steps forward, peering through the doorway. It was a rather roomy bathroom with two sinks and soft yellow walls, with matching towels, though they were currently strewn across the countertop.

Hermione, she thought, what a lovely name.

Ben was standing in the bathtub. Every inch of visible skin was covered in white and soapy water. Adrian was perched on the end of the bathtub, stifling laughter, and not very well, either.

Hermione, the woman who had been with Harry before, was wielding a sponge and looking extremely frustrated. Her curly brown hair was back in a very messy ponytail, and her nose was wrinkled slightly.

“Hello, Yasmine,” she said, wringing the sponge over Ben's head and releasing a stream of soapy water. “I'm sorry I couldn't come to the door, but someone decided to pull a bit of a prank today.”

Adrian pressed his hands hard over his mouth, muffling his laughter. Ben scowled, and Yasmine was surprised to see that the white moved with his mouth.

“That's all right,” Yasmine said, as Hermione scrubbed at the back of Ben's ears. She looked back at Harry. He was lounging against the doorframe, arms crossed and mouth twitching.

“Well, Hermione,” Harry said in amusement, “I reckon I've never seen a paint bucket fall with that much accuracy.”

“Oh, don't you start,” Hermione muttered, turning on the water. It thundered and steamed as it poured from the spout onto Hermione's sponge, “It's partially your fault, you know.”

Harry put on a face of injured innocence.

“My fault?” he repeated, with mock surprise, “Now why would you say that?”

“Because, as you well know—Ben, stop moving, for the last time—you let Adrian go into Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes the other day, where you bought him prank paint!” Hermione let out a noise of frustration, and upended the soap bottle over Ben's head. “I'm sorry, Ben, but this doesn't seem to be working.”

Ben made a face at Adrian, spluttering as she turned on the shower. “It's okay—it's not… not your fault!”

He spat out some soap and snapped, “It's not funny!”

Adrian smirked.

“I think it's awfully funny, Ben. You should have seen your face—it looked like someone had fried an egg on it—“

“Ben, hold still!” Hermione grabbed his arm (which was still covered in paint) and restrained him from wrestling his younger brother.

“Have you asked George about a solution?” Harry hadn't finished his question before Hermione jumped back from the bathtub, yelping, “Now, honestly, who let him install the showerhead?”

“Thank you for using Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes Sprinkler Showerhead,” recited the showerhead as it spurted water at an already drenched Hermione, “We hope you come back to try our other—“

Harry stifled a laugh and handed Hermione a towel, brushing aside the hair plastered to her face. “That's a new one.”

“That's the last time George works on this house,” Hermione muttered, grabbing her wand and drying herself off with a quick flick. “I swear, if he tries anything else—“

“Have you asked about a solution?” Harry repeated, hanging the towel up on the rack as Hermione dried the floor with another flick of her wand.

“Oh, naturally,” Hermione said, picking up the sponge again and doggedly scrubbing at Ben's arms, “but according to George, the only way to get it off is to wash. And unfortunately, it's going to take a good three hours to get it off. Not that we've seen any progress.”

She sighed and gazed at Ben, who matched her miserable expression perfectly as he gazed glumly back.

“The only other thing I can think of is to let him sit and soak in the bathtub for two and a half hours,” she said wearily, “but I don't know if that would work.”

“I'd like that better,” Ben muttered, glaring at Adrian, “as long as he gets out of here.”

Hermione sighed.

“Well, it's worth a try, then,” she said, picking up the half-empty soap bottle and starting the bathwater. “You might as well just throw those clothes away, Ben, as I don't think I'm going to get the paint off of them.”

She dumped a liberal amount of soap in the bathtub.

“And you, young man!” she said, staring frostily at Adrian. He wilted. “You will be sitting in your room for the same amount of time that Ben has to be in the bathtub. After that, you'd best be ready to apologize to your brother.”

Adrian slid off the edge of the bathtub, looking somewhat subdued, and shuffled out the door, past a somewhat wide-eyed Yasmine. He stopped and looked up at Harry.

“It was funny all the same, wasn't it?” he said in a loud whisper.

“March!”

He jumped and hurried out of the room.

Harry managed to keep a straight face as Hermione herded the rest of them out of the bathroom, though his eyes watered and hiding his laughter was rather painful.

“I'm sorry that you had to watch that, Yasmine,” Hermione said, as they walked further down the hallway. “They're very good boys, really, but I'm afraid our friend George Weasley has taken it upon himself to instill mischief into Adrian at an early age.”

She noticed Harry's determinedly straight expression and added, “And you're not helping, Potter, so don't you start that.”

Yasmine shrugged. Something painful had begun in her gut, almost like hunger, only it—wasn't. It was just that sort of longing, though, as she watched the four others interact, as though she had just been presented with a great feast and then been swept away, without getting a single bite.

“Oh, that's all right,” Yasmine said truthfully, “I don't mind it.”

Hermione smiled at her. She looked rather pretty when she did, Yasmine noticed. She could almost imagine her in a storybook— or in a Greek myth, perhaps—a naiad or a dryad… a natural, earthy beauty with that curly brown hair and soft brown eyes…

“Look, Yaz, I found my room!” Jackie popped her head out of the first doorway, beaming. “It's pink!”

Yasmine looked back at Harry and Hermione, watching them exchange smiles. There was something in the way Hermione looked at him… and she felt a pang again, a sort of painful gray feeling fogging her mind for a quick moment.

“Come on, Yazzy!” Jackie tugged at her hand impatiently, and with one last look back at the two adults, Yasmine followed Jackie into the room.

Harry put an arm around Hermione's shoulder and squeezed gently.

“Oh, come on, Hermione… you have to admit he looked funny,” he prodded teasingly, and Hermione smiled reluctantly.

“Yes, he did, but Ben looked so miserable that I couldn't laugh. Really, Harry. I can't believe you took Adrian into the shop and bought him something.”

Harry chuckled.

“I didn't think it could do much harm. It was only prank paint.”

He took her hand and pulled her to look in the doorway. Jackie was on the floor, playing with a soft plush doll Hermione had placed carefully on her pink bedspread. Yasmine was watching, though her expression was hard to read.

“Yasmine?”

She turned, and Harry let go of Hermione's hand as he sat beside Jackie.

Hermione smiled and motioned to her.

“Would you like to see your room?”

She nodded. “Yes, very much.”

Hermione opened the door next to Jackie's and led Yasmine walk in. She heard the girl let out a soft gasp.

Hermione entered the room and stood beside her.

“I heard you liked to read.” Hermione said quietly, as Yasmine touched the bookshelves cautiously. Most of the books looked rather old. “Just like me.”

Yasmine looked up at her. Hermione's smile was warm, invitingly kind. And again she felt a wistful feeling flit across her.

“Most of these are my old books,” she went on, motioning to the bookshelves lining the walls, “There's some for Jackie, too—picture books. But—there's two on the bed I'd like you to look at.”

Yasmine glanced at her uncertainly, then moved over to the bed. Resting on its rich red covers were two battered books.

“Little Women?” Yasmine read, picking up the first, rather thicker one. She eased open the cover, running a finger down the pages and gazing at the picture on the cover page. “I've never heard of this before.”

“It's by an American Muggle by the name of Louisa May Alcott.” Hermione explained, “It's about four girls—all sisters—named Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. It's a wonderful book about a family that sticks together, even when things change.”

At the mention of families, Yasmine was reminded of the families she had seen at the Children's Ward that day. The way the kids argued and yet seemed to completely accept each other, the way the parents watched over their kids with that gentle, steady authority and ownership, and how much she had wanted to ask, more than anything, what exactly was wrong with her.

But there was no use thinking about it, Yasmine reminded herself firmly. Or at least she meant it to be firmly, but her throat had swollen shut suddenly and she found herself feeling rather sick.

Yasmine looked up at her, and sat slowly down on the bed.

“It sounds nice,” she whispered, feeling tears well up in her eyes. Embarrassed, she swiped a hand across her eyes and stared down at the pages. She had to keep talking—if only Katy were here; then perhaps Hermione's full attention wouldn't have been focused on her. “And what's the other one?”

She picked it up and opened the second one.

“There's nothing in it,” she said, puzzled. “Just empty pages.”

She looked at Hermione for an explanation, and Hermione smiled.

“That's for you to write in. Katy told me you like to write stories.”

Yasmine stared at her, and something seemed to snap inside her, as if there had been a harness around her emotions before. She shut the book firmly, surprising even herself with her brash actions.

“Not anymore,” she said flatly. Hermione looked at her in surprise as Yasmine stood up, turning away. “I don't want to write again.”

“Why not?” Hermione asked, surprised.

Yasmine turned around.

“Because… because they're all—“ her eyes looked dark, stormy, and Hermione cautiously moved forward to touch her arm.

“They're all lies,” Yasmine said finally, defiantly. Even as she spoke, she felt as though she had just insulted someone very dear to her and very great, almost as if the books could hear her. “Every—every…orphan in them gets a family, and it's not true. It's not. They get a mother or a rich grandfather or a grandmother or a father, and it never happens in real life.”

She saw Hermione's eyes soften in understanding and she felt a flare of anger boil in her gut. She turned away, hiding the hot tears that were trembling in her eyes. “You don't understand. No one does.”

“Yasmine—“

“You don't know what it's like!” Yasmine burst out, a few tears escaping before she could stop them. Her throat seized up, and a sob bubbled up in her voice, “You have a family—you and Ben and Adrian and Harry—I saw it! And you don't mind stories about families or orphans, because you have a family. But I don't, and I hate them!”

She felt an angry sort of triumph sweep over her, rather like she imagined a villain would feel when confronted with her enemy, and she held her chin up high. Of course, she would start crying when she finished, but it was rather hard to stop. She couldn't imagine any villain looking or feeling victorious with her face all puffed up and wet, and this spoiled her defiance immediately. She only cried harder.

She stiffened as Hermione wrapped her arms around her, saying helplessly, `Yasmine, I'm sorry—“

Yasmine could only vaguely register the anger that burned in her now. Everything inside her was so dreadfully and miserably mixed up, and she felt as though she were drowning in the hot, wet haze that falls on someone who has been crying very hard for a short period of time.

“So is everyone else,” she managed to choke finally, trying to get away from her embrace, “Everyone else is sorry for me, and I'm sick of it. I'm tired of it. They never do anything about it.”

Just after she'd said that, she realized whom she had spoken to.

She scrubbed her eyes on Hermione's soft blouse, realizing how tightly Hermione was holding her. She could hear the soft thud of Hermione's heartbeat against her ear. The crying must have done her some good, she thought somewhat miserably, for now she felt much more in control. But now I'm trembling all over, and I've got a terrible headache…

“Never mind,” she whispered feebly, feeling hot shame flood her heart. “I… thanks for the books.”

Hermione's hand stroked her hair once before she let go.

“You can take as many as you like back to St. Mungo's with you. You'll be moving in soon.”

Yasmine nodded, again feeling waves of embarrassment travel over her before she turned away, pretending to examine the bookshelves.

Hermione opened her mouth, as if to speak, then thought better of it. Yasmine's dark hair covered her face as she bent, seemingly engaged in one of her old books.

“Just let me know if you need anything,” she said quietly, before gently shutting the door behind her.

It took Yasmine a second to realize she was alone.

She scrubbed her eyes again and put down the book. She glanced around the room, taking in the welcome sight of all the old books lining the bookshelves.

She wandered over to the bed and crawled into the soft, freshly washed covers. The pillows were just as Katy had said they were, “puffy, but not too puffy, you know.”

Katy had been so terribly excited when she had gotten back. Yasmine had known her long enough to notice how bright her eyes got when something wonderful had happened.

Except there had never been so much mystery in the excitement before. Yasmine had waited eagerly for her turn to visit. Turns had been always been decided by who won a certain game in the group. Of course they would pick chess this time, a game Yasmine had never quite understood. The old, second-hand pieces that some well-meaning, wealthy person had sent to complete the chess set never seemed to like her much. She supposed this had something to do with her attempt to give each of the pieces funny names, even though that had been a long time ago. So she had lost to Katy and beaten Jack. (This had been deliciously satisfying at the time, but Jack didn't seem to care all that much, and it's not really all that fun to beat someone who didn't want care if they won, and didn't put very much effort into it.) Jackie, who wasn't old enough to know how to play yet, had been assigned to take Yasmine's turn with her. (That had been an almost-collective decision, as everyone agreed that Yasmine was the most responsible of the group. Jack had disagreed, but then, they always disagreed.)

Needless to say, it had been extremely difficult to coax any satisfactory description from either of the two who had previously visited, as Dusty merely smiled his careful smile and said, “It was nice.”

Katy was a bit easier, and though she talked a good deal and willingly answered all the questions she could, she wasn't able to describe anything in detail. She had only said that she thought Harry's eyes were green, maybe blue, and didn't Yasmine notice when he had first visited? So even though Yasmine had studied the two grown-ups as best she could, she still couldn't imagine what they were like, only that they were kind and good at listening and clever with tools.

But now, Yasmine felt unsettled. She supposed she had, as Jack would put it, “made a right old mess of things, like girls always do.” She gazed at the ceiling, feeling ill.

She supposed Hermione would go tell Harry about what had happened, and she was probably quite upset with her for yelling and insulting her. Yasmine's insides squirmed at the thought of what they would say to Healer Smitt. Most likely they would go off about how terribly ungrateful she had been, though something deep within her told her that they weren't the kind of grown-ups to complain.

She sat there for a long time, staring at the ceiling and imagining all kinds of consequences that might occur. Would she be left behind at St. Mungo's while the others came and lived here? Yasmine pictured herself living alone in the old hospital ward, with only Healer Smitt for company, and shuddered. Healer Smitt was nice enough, as far as adults go, but hardly someone who really enjoyed a kid's company.

There was a knock at the door.

“Hey,” chirped a voice from outside. Without waiting for an answer, Adrian pushed the door open and trotted inside.

He blinked.

“You girls really like your naps, don't you? Katy slept when she came, too.” he said, “Hermione says lunch is ready.”

Yasmine sat up and pushed back the covers.

“I wasn't asleep,” she said hastily, “she doesn't mind if I eat lunch with all of you?”

Adrian stared.

“Why would she?” he said incredulously, “You can't think that you'll be eating by yourself when you come live with us? If you don't get downstairs, the sandwiches will be gone before we get there.”

She slid to the floor.

“Come on,” Adrian said rather impatiently, “I'm not allowed to let you stay up here. Or else Harry says he won't let me eat, but I think he was joking, or at least Hermione says he is. `Course, she glared at him rather awfully when he started laughing, but I think she was trying not to smile. And I'm already in enough trouble, besides, because I dumped paint on Ben. I don't see why it was all so terrible, since it's all off except for his hair—he looks like an old man, except he hasn't got a beard like my grandfather did.”

“All old men don't have beards,” said Yasmine, following him out the door. Adrian shrugged.

“Well, the only ones I've ever met did,” he said matter-of-factly as they reached the staircase. He darted downstairs, taking two at a time. Yasmine hurried to catch up with him. He paused, glancing toward the kitchen.

“What?” Yasmine said curiously. He grinned.

“I don't know. I think girls are strange. That's what Harry says, but I don't mind you and Jackie and Katy and Hermione, but that's it.”

He paused.

“You don't like me very much, do you?”

“What makes you think that?” Yasmine said in surprise. He shrugged.

“Just the way you stare,” Adrian said frankly, “without any expression, like you don't know exactly where you are.”

Yasmine stared at him, frowning.

“Ginny has a friend,” Adrian started walking again, apparently unaware of how potentially insulting his remark was, “named Luna. She gets the same look, but less angry-looking. Hermione says,” and he made his voice like a girl's, or what he fondly imagined was like one, “Really, I don't know where her mind is, half the time, much as I love her.”

Yasmine stifled a laugh.

“Then there's that,” Adrian started walking backwards and looking at her at the same time, “as if you're afraid to laugh. It's much better if you laugh out loud, you know.”

Before Yasmine could reply, Adrian backed right into Hermione.

“I hope you're being kind,” she said to Adrian, catching him before he tumbled to the ground, “And my goodness, be careful. You haven't got eyes at the back of your head, you know.”

“Harry says you do,” Adrian said, scampering into the kitchen, “leave some of the ham ones for me!”

“Oh, he does, does he?” Hermione said rather loudly, and Harry was heard stifling another laugh.

“I'm getting blamed for everything,” he complained.

Hermione shook her head.

“Yasmine, the sandwiches are on the counter. I'll get you something to drink.”

Yasmine followed her into the kitchen. Harry was leaning up against the counter, one hand holding a sandwich and Jackie in the other arm. “Turkey or tomato?”

“Turkey, please,” she said hesitantly. He handed her a sandwich.

“Plate, Harry,” Hermione said absently, without turning around. Harry winked. Yasmine stifled another laugh, and Jackie giggled.

“Harry, I'm serious,” Hermione turned around and handed Yasmine a glass of lemonade. Harry grinned and handed her a plate.

Yasmine looked at Hermione uncomfortably.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asked, leaning on the counter. Yasmine flinched.

“I… expected you to be angry.”

Hermione looked surprised.

“Why would I be angry? Did I seem angry?”

“Well,” Yasmine said, taken aback. She thought about it, then admitted, “no. You didn't.”

“Well, I wasn't,” Hermione said, handing Harry a napkin and motioning to the corners of his mouth. He swiped at the mustard obediently. “If anyone had the right to be angry, it was you, and I don't blame you in the least. You were right—I don't fully understand.”

Yasmine felt a pang of guilt.

“Well, no, not completely!” she blurted out, “I'm sorry.”

“And I am too.” Hermione said warmly, “I do hope you come back to writing sometime—we all need a bit of imagination.”

Yasmine felt herself smile.

“Maybe… I will. Just maybe.”

Hermione smiled.

“I'll look forward to it.”

-->

A/N: Unfortunately, I've yet to figure out how to re-upload chapters without completely deleting the story. So, here it is: Chapter Eighteen. You will meet Jack, however not quite as thoroughly as you might think… enjoy!

Chapter Eighteen

“I still think it was rather rude of Jack,” Yasmine said to Katy, as they flew back and forth on the tire swing. Katy shrugged, using one hand to scratch her nose.

“Maybe he's just not ready for it,” she suggested reasonably.

“I think he was just trying to be rude.” Yasmine said as the swing twirled around. “He's like that.”

“Or you think he is.” Katy said, peering at her around the rope, “It was good of him, to take all of us on his turn. And wasn't it lovely for them to take us to the park?”

“Just like you,” Yasmine said, “to think the best of him.”

The swing slowed, and they jumped off it together, landing in the mulch that covered the playground.

“I don't see why I shouldn't see the best in people,” Katy said, sounding puzzled, “wouldn't you like to have that thought of you?”

“Well, when it's not true, there's no use pretending,” Yasmine said, suddenly struck by the strangeness of the statement. She loved playing pretend, though she didn't say so now. At eight, Jack had already scorned the game as “kid stuff”. She couldn't let on now, though she often did it by herself.

“But suppose it is?” Katy persisted, as Yasmine mounted the steps of a large red slide, “Suppose he really did want us to have a good time?”

“Well, it isn't. What do you suppose they think of him?” Yasmine looked over at Harry and Hermione, who were pushing Jackie and Adrian on the swings, “Sitting like that on the bench. You'd think someone had died!”

` “But it's not just him,” Katy pointed out, as Yasmine pushed off and skated quickly down the slide. “Ben's with him!”

“All the same,” Yasmine said, “he should at least act like he's having a good time.”

“But you said there was no use pretending,” Katy pointed out. “And I really don't think Harry and Hermione mind.”

Yasmine couldn't think of anything to say to that. So instead, she persuaded Katy to go down the slide with her, and after one or two good rides, the subject was dropped.

“Do you suppose they look like the adventure sort?” Yasmine said after a while, climbing the play set and beginning the monkey bars. “Or more the romantic sort?”

“Well,” Katy said thoughtfully, “I'm not sure.”

She studied the two grown-ups. Harry had just given Jackie a good strong push, sending her flying into the air. Hermione laughed and seemed to caution him.

“They really don't seem very adventuresome to me,” she said presently, sitting on the steps of the playground and watching Yasmine drop from the monkey bars. “But I suppose they could. They seem like the rescuing sort of people.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Yasmine agreed after a bit. “Like the knights in that Muggle book. The one with Arthur and the Round Table.”

She paused, looking dreamy.

Katy swung her feet back and forth. She was used to this sort of thing by now. She wasn't very good at it, but Yasmine didn't seem to mind. She simply couldn't understand why anyone would want to imagine a person (besides themselves) as someone else.

“But they really do seem the romantic sort,” Yasmine said presently, clambering back up the steps and beginning the monkey bars again, “don't you think?”

Katy shrugged.

“I don't know.”

“Well, I think they do,” Yasmine said decisively, “I think Harry would make the perfect outlaw, and Hermione could be… I don't know. Who do outlaws normally fall in love with?”

Katy shrugged, but Yasmine didn't seem to notice.

“A duchess,” Yasmine decided after a moment of debate, “or… the daughter of some famous lord—no, the sheriff! Yes, that's it, the sheriff's daughter. And then—“

“But Harry and Hermione aren't…” Katy said, but Yasmine was charging ahead.

“And then, Hermione went out for a ride—you know, like they do in stories, horseback and all that—and one of Harry's band found her and captured her! And then…”

“Yasmine, I don't think—“ Katy began, but gave up. Yasmine's imagination had run away with her, and at that point there was no use trying to keep up with it.

Katy hopped off the playground.

“Come on, Yaz, let's go talk to Jack,” she said loudly, over Yasmine's excited storytelling. As expected, Yasmine ignored her. When this happened, Katy always decided that her end of the conversation was finished.

Katy wandered over to the park bench. Ben had gotten up and left Jack sitting on the bench alone.

“Hullo, Katy,” said Jack unenthusiastically. Katy perched on the bench beside him.

“It was really nice of you to let us come on your turn,” she ventured. Jack laughed rather flatly.

“Well, I wasn't going to come alone.”

Katy looked down at the sidewalk.

“It's all or none of us, you know that,” Jack said, “I know you do. Yasmine doesn't care, and Jackie's too small to understand. And I think Dusty understands, too.”

Katy said nothing.

But Jack didn't seem to notice.

“Yasmine said I should be grateful,” he said scornfully, “Well, I'm not. They're trying to break us up. Probably going to pick one or two of us and try to adopt just those two.”

Katy stiffened.

Jack noticed it this time. “I know. If they pick anyone, I'll bet it's you and Jackie. Jackie, because she's the smallest, and you, because you're quiet and obedient and everything else. Remember that one boy, Samuel? I don't think that he really had any relatives, but someone came and claimed him because he was the little one.”

He scuffed his shoe against the sidewalk.

“Me and Yasmine are too loud and old, probably,” he muttered, “And Dusty; most people think he's strange. You remember right after the war was finished? When they brought us back to St. Mungo's? Everyone was coming to our ward then, just looking for their relatives. I saw the way they looked at me and Dusty and Yasmine. They looked right through us. You're pretty, and quiet, so people don't mind you.”

He shrugged.

“And Jackie had gone to bed already, but I bet if they had seen her, they would have picked her right away.”

He scowled.

“I don't see why Yaz wants a family,” he muttered, “when all those families passed her up.”

Katy didn't say a thing. Jack saw her face, and grinned.

“You and I know better. Dusty, too. We'll talk Yaz around, don't worry.”

Katy doubted this very much, but she managed a weak smile. Jack, looking heartened at her response, jumped up.

“Come on, Katy-girl!” he said, using an old nickname, “Let's race to that big tree over there!”

Momentarily forgetting the conversation, Katy darted forward and dashed toward the tree.

“Well, it seems he's finally perked up a bit,” Hermione said with relief, watching Jack and Katy run. “Katy's good with the others, isn't she?”

“Yeah, she is,” Harry, said, helping Jackie out of the swing. “But I wonder what Yaz is doing over there?”

Hermione noticed Yasmine sitting by herself on the playground.

“You'd best go talk to her, Harry,” she said, “See what's bothering her. I'll watch Jackie and the others.”

Obediently, Harry went and sat by Yasmine on the plastic steps. Yasmine looked up, words dying on her lips.

“Hello,” she said, feeling embarrassed. Harry smiled.

“Hi,” he said, “what are you up to?”

“Oh, nothing,” Yasmine said, and when Harry merely nodded, she added, “just thinking.”

He nodded.

“Hermione does that, too. A lot,” he said, shifting and looking at her. “Are you having a good time here?”

“Oh, yes.” Yasmine said sincerely, “It's fun. I've never visited a Muggle playground before.”

“Magic ones never really compare,” Harry said, watching Hermione spin Adrian, Ben, and Dusty on the carousel, with Jackie in one arm, “bit too noisy and too flashy.”

Yasmine thought back to the few times Healer Smitt had taken them to the hospital's playground. Everything seemed to light up, spin, transfigure when touched, or even levitate.

“You're right,” she agreed, “the hospital has one. We never had much fun on it.”

“There was one by the house I lived at, when I was your age. Almost like this one, really, with the four swing sets and slides at each corner, and then the play set. I used to hide in the tube slide—like that one—when my cousin was chasing me.”

Yasmine tried to imagine a Harry her own age, hiding in the tube slide, and was surprised to realize that it wasn't all that hard.

“How old are you?”

Harry grinned. “Eighteen.”

“And Hermione, how old is she?”

“She's eighteen, too,” he said, glancing at Hermione and smiling. Yasmine carefully memorized the soft way he looked at her. It would help to imagine things with him later.

“You're not that old,” she found herself saying. He shrugged.

“We both grew up quickly,” he said, “I had to.”

“Why?” Yasmine said, curiously.

“Well, I reckon you know,” Harry said, with a rueful smile, “My parents died when I was about one.”

“Oh, that's right,” Yasmine glanced instinctively up at his scar, nearly hidden behind his hair, “That's awful.”

He was silent for a moment, and then sighed.

“I don't remember them,” he said, after a pause, “I do have a few pictures, of course. I used to wonder why I had to lose my family before I could remember them, and why Ron had such a big family. But…”

Yasmine looked at him.

“But…” she prompted in a whisper. She felt as though he were letting her in on a great secret. Harry smiled quietly.

“I realized that family doesn't have much to do with who your parents were. And I had friends, too… good ones. And I couldn't take those for granted, even if I wanted to know my parents.”

“Hermione,” Yasmine whispered. Harry looked at Hermione and smiled broadly.

“Yeah. I had Hermione.”

He put an arm around her.

“Look, Yaz, I may not know a lot about how it was to live at St. Mungo's, but I know what it's like to feel lonely. And Hermione does too.”

“She does?” Yasmine stared at him in disbelief. “Hermione?”

“She was a right little know-it-all in school,” he said with a laugh, “extremely annoying, as it was, so not many people liked her. She and Ron hated each other.”

Yasmine shook her head, hardly able to imagine the three hating each other. And it wasn't often that her imagination failed.

“She really didn't have anyone at Hogwarts,” he continued, “Except the teachers.”

“Then what made things change?” she asked, swinging her feet and staring at the mulch.

“My first Halloween,” Harry said, “Someone let a troll into Hogwarts. Things went mad; prefects leading everyone else back to their Houses and all that. Earlier that day, though, Ron had been rather mean to Hermione, and she'd gone off crying. Reckon that she had finally had enough. And she stayed in the bathroom crying half the day.”

Yasmine gaped at him.

“Really?”

He nodded.

“Then what happened?”

“Well, she didn't come out for dinner. So she wasn't there when people started heading for the houses. But then, as we were, I realized that Hermione was still in the bathroom. So I made Ron come with me, and we found the troll. It was in the girls' bathroom, and the key was in the lock, and we locked it in.”

Yasmine stared at him.

“You locked it in with her?”

Harry looked embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, we didn't realize it was the girls' bathroom … didn't think. She screamed as we were running away, and so we came dashing back, and we managed to knock it out. Then the teachers all came running, and she… erm… well, she got us out of trouble by accepting the blame herself.” He grinned fondly, “You can't really go through something like that together and not become friends.”

“You saved her,” Yasmine said, feeling awe and respect come over her, “as if she were a damsel in distress, and you came back and…”

“Well,” he said, looking embarrassed, “it wasn't that glorious or anything. Quite nasty, actually. Trolls have a terrible smell. Besides, she's saved my life more than once. I owe her a lot.”

Yasmine looked at Hermione, who was tickling Jackie in the grass, and felt a new respect come over her. “She saved your life?”

“Several times. And other peoples' lives, too. She's brilliant like that.”

He paused.

“Looks like Hermione's gotten lunch out. We'd better hurry, or Adrian will scoff all of the ham sandwiches before we get there.” He winked, and she laughed.

“Race you there!” she said, even though she knew she would lose, and before he could respond, she had dashed ahead, ignoring his complaints.

“Hey, you got a head start!”

“So that proves,” Yasmine finished relating the conversation to Katy after lunch, as they climbed the tree, “that they really are adventuresome, and that they love each other, too.”

“I wonder,” Katy said thoughtfully, “if they know they do. Love each other, I mean. They've never said it to each other when I was there.”

“They probably have when they're alone,” Yasmine said confidently, “he's probably given her a kiss once or twice, too. That sort of thing.”

“I don't know,” Katy said. “She always seems quite flustered when someone says something of that sort about she and Harry.”

“So?”

“So maybe she loves him, but she doesn't realize.”

Yasmine scoffed.

“Who falls in love with someone and doesn't know it?”

“It was just an idea,” Katy said meekly, hugging the tree trunk to keep her balance.

“It doesn't make sense,” Yasmine said firmly, “Perhaps they just don't want people to know yet. Maybe Hermione's parents would be upset.”

“I don't know why. Harry's a very good person.” Katy said, “Maybe we shouldn't talk about it. It's really not our business.”

Yasmine fell silent after that.

“I think it's interesting, all the same,” she said, as Katy settled on one of the thicker branches. “But we'll figure it out, soon enough.”

“I think we should let them figure it out first,” Katy said. “It's only fair.”

“Fine,” Yasmine said, sitting next to her, “I won't talk about it anymore, if it bothers you that much.”

But she couldn't help but think about it, all the same.

-->

A/N: As I have still not been able to re-upload the other chapters, here is the newest one. Hopefully you will enjoy getting a glimpse into Dusty's mind.

Chapter Nineteen

Dusty glanced around surreptitiously, and then closed his fingers around the slender bit of chalk. He crouched on the floor, etching a soft, sweeping curve of a face. It made a slightly squeaky sound against the wood slats.

The lines were faint, wispy, but they seemed to shine with—not life, exactly, but beginning. He didn't know whether anyone else understood exactly what he meant. He frowned, squinting one eye and wondering how to direct those fragile lines with his next stroke.

He could not forget, hard as he tried, how much he wished he were at the house, with that easel and chalkboard. In that quiet, with no threat hanging dangerously above his head as he tried to lift those lines from lines to life.

He slipped his tongue from his mouth thoughtfully. Under his guidance, the chalk uncovered a pair of eyes, kind and friendly.

He wished he had colors, then. Colors to let the lines breathe, stretch. The eyes gazed at him from the floor, waiting for him to give them a smile to match.

A soft smile, a slight dimple in the right cheek— he shifted on his knees. A neck, and shoulders, soft and sweeping, and then… he allowed curls to spill down the shoulders, somewhat wild no matter how he tried to straighten them. A torso, a small waist…

But the woman he had drawn was not looking at him. He frowned. There was something, someone else he hadn't found yet. He raised the chalk, and with careful deliberation, he began drawing another person to her right. An strong arm around the woman's waist. A face bent near hers, so close that the two smiles nearly touched, and a mess of hair. Round glasses, a thin scar.

He frowned. There were other things, hiding there. He raised the chalk, then lowered it. He felt, quite firmly, that he was not to find them yet.

He smiled halfway, his smile not quite stretching the whole way.

He'd find it eventually, when the picture wanted him to.

He reached beside him, and without hesitation, he splashed a cupful of water across the picture. The cloudy water swept across the woman and the man, but that didn't bother him.

The picture was still there, really. Hidden to everyone's eyes but his.

He mopped up the water with a handkerchief, slipped the chalk into his pocket, and crept out to the hallway to sit against the wall. He sat next to Yasmine. She was staring blankly at the opposite wall, looking unusually solemn.

“Dusty?”

He looked at her. Her eyes, dark like her long hair, seemed anxious. He nodded to show he was listening.

“We're moving tomorrow.”

“I know,” he said. The others had talked about it.

She looked around them, at the empty, hushed white hallways. The closed doorways that had always been closed, the muffled sounds of Healer activity.

“Are you scared?” she whispered at last.

He shook his head. “Not really.”

She hugged her knees, resting her chin on them. “What do you suppose it will be like?”

“Different.”

She looked at him, with that flare of gold-brown in her eyes that showed she was annoyed. “I know it's going to be different. But good different, or bad different?”

He shrugged.

“Suppose it depends.”

She looked at the wet kerchief balled up in his hand, and at the chalk smudged on his cheek.

“What do you think it'll be for you?”

He considered this. Smiles of chalk entered his mind, images of real smiles waiting for him.

“Good,” he said simply, “Happy.”

She nodded, frowning thoughtfully.

“Do you think Jack's right?”

He shrugged. He rarely ever expressed opinions on Jack's ideas. Jack wouldn't be swayed from them anyway.

“Do you really think they might… adopt some of us and not the others?”

He shrugged again.

“I'm not sure,” he said truthfully. “But they won't adopt us if we don't want it.”

“I want it,” she whispered after a long pause, “Don't you?”

He thought about this.

“We'd have to leave the others,” he said at last. She fell silent.

“I know,” she said after a moment, “But… I still want to. I want…”

She trailed off. Dusty rubbed his fingers against the kerchief. The white chalk disappeared off his fingers, leaving them damp and pink.

“So do the rest of us,” he said finally, “we just want it together.”

She looked at him, startled. He wiped his fingers against his jeans.

“Haven't you ever imagined a family?”

He shook his head. She sighed softly.

“You must've at least once,” she prodded. He shook his head again.

“The picture hasn't come yet.”

She stared. “What's that mean?”

He shrugged. And she looked away, letting it go.

He didn't expect her to understand. But no matter how often he tried to coax the lines into a picture of parents or anything like that, they went awry. He took this to mean he wasn't to find it yet.

“I wish I were more like you and Katy,” Yasmine said suddenly, “nothing seems to frighten you.”

He shrugged.

“Unfinished pictures,” he responded. She looked at him, puzzled.

He smiled slowly.

“I don't understand you,” she said resignedly, “but if that's the only thing that frightens you, I think you're lucky.”

She stood up and wandered into the room. He stared at the wall.

There was one picture he had never managed to finish, and Dusty had never tried to draw it again. He had almost been glad when an irritated Healer Smitt had discovered it and mopped it away.

It was the picture of himself. For some reason, he was always alone, and this frightened him more than anything. For he would search and draw and he even tried to imagine, but his picture always remained solitary.

And his slow, slow smile was always lonely.

He hugged himself, huddling against the wall at the thought.

Dusty stared at the blank wall.

When you draw a picture of yourself, you always discover things about yourself that you don't like to think about.

And Dusty never liked to think about his loneliness.

~*~

The next day was filled with the flurry of activity. Harry and Hermione and Ron and Ginny came early the next morning, ready to help move the few belongings of each child over to the big house. Jackie, who was too small to pack her own things, merely hopped on Ron's back as he picked up the suitcases and Flooed back over to the house. Ginny helped Yasmine pack Jackie's things, and Hermione made sure that each boy hadn't forgotten anything.

After a hectic half an hour of moving, every child finally made it into the house, all of their things sitting in their respective rooms. Immediately, Adrian and Ben were able to coax Jack and Dusty into playing a game of catch, and Katy offered to show Yasmine the workroom. Ron handed Jackie off to Harry, who obligingly offered to continue their game of dolls. (He ignored Ron's slight snigger and put Jackie on his shoulders, making her laugh.)

“Well, Hermione, I don't particularly envy you,” Ginny commented, looking amused, “You've got your plate full enough as it is.”

“I'll manage,” Hermione said briskly, striding out onto the porch to watch the boys in the backyard, “your mother did it, didn't she?”

“Yes, but she had my dad, too.” Ginny pointed out, “And we were all her own kids. Don't tell me you don't want a family of your own, too?”

Yasmine and Katy froze by the screen door at the words.

Hermione paused, and Yasmine instinctively grabbed Katy's hand. Already fear had clawed at her stomach. Surely this was far too early for this to be happening; Hermione wouldn't give up on them for a family of her own, so soon?

Hermione let out a breath. Yasmine held her breath and squeezed Katy's hand.

“Well,” she said carefully, “I won't pretend I haven't thought about it, but… that's a while off yet. I'm not in a serious relationship or anything—“

“Harry seems pretty serious,” the girls heard Ginny mutter, but Hermione ignored her.

“Besides, I still have my training to finish, and I have my hands full enough as it is.”

Yasmine relaxed and looked at Katy.

“Wouldn't it have been awful if…?” she whispered, unable to finish.

“She wouldn't have.” Katy whispered back firmly, though she looked slightly shaken, “She's just moved us in.”

She pushed open the screen door.

“Come on, Yaz, let's play catch.”

~*~

The next evening, Dusty sat on the kitchen floor as Hermione busied herself with dinner. Adrian tossed a pair of cards in between them.

“Pairs. Now you have to play a higher pair.”

Obediently, Dusty peered at the cards. Two threes. He glanced at his cards, and picked out two jacks. He placed them on top of Adrian's cards.

“Your turn, Yasmine.”

She frowned, then placed two aces on top of Dusty's cards. Adrian whistled, impressed.

“Pass, then.” When the other two looked at him in puzzlement, he explained, “I can't play higher than that. What about you?”

Dusty shook his head. “Ace is the highest card.”

“Not in this game,” Adrian corrected, “twos are the highest cards. Hearts is the highest suit, so the two of hearts is the highest card.”

Dusty glanced at his cards.

“Pass.”

Jack, who looked somewhat happier than he had yesterday, passed as well. He reached out and stroked Crookshanks' back, making him purr.

“So now you start again,” Adrian said, motioning to Yasmine, “With a run or a pair or three matching. If you can play four of a number, that beats anything. You can play a single card, too.”

“Adrian, do you know where Ben is?” Hermione asked, as she stirred the tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Adrian smirked.

“In the shower, Hermione.”

“I see.” Hermione said, half-smiling. Poor Ben still had white hair. She tossed a handful of fresh, aromatic basil into the sauce, stirring and adding some garlic, “And the girls?”

“Katy's playing with Jackie.” Yasmine put in, placing three queens on the pile of cards. “She promised she'd play dolls.”

“Dolls,” Adrian said, with a note of disgust. “Cards is much better. Pass.”

“I pass.” Dusty said, as Hermione began buttering a crusty loaf of French bread. Jack tossed three twos onto the floor.

“Hermione,” he said, addressing her for perhaps the first time since the first time they'd met, “can I have a piece of bread now?”

She hesitated.

“Oh, all right,” she said, handing him a piece of bread on a napkin, “Dinner's in about an hour.”

He shrugged.

“Thanks, anyway. Does that mean I start?”

Suddenly, a resounding crack echoed throughout the kitchen. Hermione jumped, and Crookshanks let out an irritated mew.

Harry glanced around the kitchen, and, seeing Hermione, he sidestepped the card game and joined her in standing by the stove. He bent, sniffing the fragrant sauce appreciatively.

“It smells excellent, Hermione.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Harry. How was your day?”

He leaned against the counter. “All right. Tiring. It's harder to organize the D.A. again without you.”

“I'm sure you're doing wonderfully,” she said, turning a bit pink. “What's hard about it?”

Harry reached out and gently swiped a splatter of sauce off of her cheek. “There's the age difference, for one. It's not just Hogwarts; it's adults, too.”

He noticed her touching her cheek.

“Sauce,” he said in explanation, and she nodded. “But there's some talk of expanding the D. A. outside of Defense. You know, basic healing or emergency transfiguration work. Things that you might need.”

“That's a good idea,” she said, wrapping the bread in foil. “Who else is working with you?”

“Actually, Professor McGonagall.” Harry said, as she turned and put the bread in the oven. “And Kingsley. Oh, and Neville. He and I are sort of at the top of the organization.”

“You've gotten a good group together,” she commented, standing next to him and absently placing the lid on the sauce. “But you do look tired.”

She regarded him with concern, and she reached out and put a arm around his waist. He looked surprised (Yasmine, who was watching, noticed that it was the very pleased sort of surprised) and put an arm around her shoulder.

“I'll be all right,” he said after a long pause, vaguely aware of how closely she was standing to him, “I've had worse.”

“I know you have,” she said, smiling fondly at him, “I was there, remember?”

“If I forgot, I'd have died a while back,” he said lightly. There was a pause, in which the two just gazed at each other.

Dusty, for his part, was studying them closely. The position the two were in was almost like the picture—her smile, his smile, and how close they were. But something wasn't quite right, as though they were not quite as… free. Hermione seemed a little less comfortable than in the picture… and there was still something missing. Something little, he realized, something barely there—

“Anyway,” Hermione said after another long pause, drawing away from his arm and opening the fridge, “I take it you've set a place to meet?”

He started.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, after a moment, “Kingsley's letting us build a place for it. Sort of an all-purpose building.”

“Well, I can't expect you to meet in the Room of Requirement,” Hermione said, “Are any other D. A. members coming back?”

“The Patil twins—actually, Padma's married Ernie McMillan, so she's a McMillan now—said they'd like to come if they can, although they're both rather busy. And Cho (she's engaged to Michael Corner, did you know?), and Ginny of course. Luna, the Creevy brothers, Seamus, Dean… lots of people in our year said they'd like to come, as the last year was a bad one.”

“Padma, and Ernie. Who would have thought?” Hermione shook her head, “And the war hasn't been over for even a year yet. Though I suppose wizards tend to marry young—“

“I suppose you don't?” he said casually, pretending to check on the sauce. She was silent for a moment.

“Well,” she said after a pause, “that all depends.”

He put the lid back on the pan, nodding.

“It depends on who's asking, doesn't it?” he said, and despite himself, he looked up. Their gazes met, and she found herself at a loss for words. His green eyes bored into hers, and she felt herself blush quite unexpectedly, her heart suddenly fluttering furiously in her chest.

“I… suppose it does,” she said in a rather unsteady whisper. He swallowed, and a split second later, he had jumped and stuffed his fingers in his mouth.

“Oh, dear,” Hermione said, taking his hand and examining the burns, “you really shouldn't lean on the stove like that.”

She reached up to the cabinet above the stove, taking out a small tube of salve and rubbing it softly over his still-damp and smarting fingers. Her small fingers moved lightly, gently, and he found himself staring at her mutely.

Hermione felt his gaze acutely, and her cheeks burned, though she noted that the sensation wasn't particularly unpleasant. In fact, it was a rather enjoyable feeling—

She stopped her train of thought sternly.

With her wand, she tapped the layer of salve, and Harry examined his fingers.

“Good as new,” he said, almost hoarsely. “Thanks, Hermione.”

Hermione nodded, looking flustered, and turned away as one of the pots on the stove began to boil.

Yasmine gazed at them.

She was beginning to wonder if Katy had been right.

Dusty helped Adrian gather up the cards and smiled an unhurried smile.

The picture was beginning to come into focus.

-->

A/N: One person needs a bit more of an introduction. So yes. Meet Jack. (This might possibly the strangest chapter yet, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!)

Chapter Twenty

War.

Jack had always enjoyed the game. He flipped over the card and tossed it onto the table.

Ace to queen.

He swept the cards away and placed it in a neat pile next to his elbow. He and Harry looked at each other for a moment, then flipped another card.

War was simple. It was straightforward.

Its outcome was predictable and the objective clear.

Jack watched as Harry collected the cards and tucked them into the back of his stack.

Jack sipped his water and leaned his cheek on his hand.

There was no uncertainty in the game, in what he was supposed to do. It was he against Harry. He was to win the battles, and eventually he'd win the war.

Ten to three.

There was no debate, no gray area. If he had the higher card, he'd win. Even if they tied at first, eventually someone would win.

Perhaps, Jack thought idly, that's why he didn't like chess. There were too many variables, and it was hard to figure out what you were trying to do. Sometimes you'd have to willingly give up a piece, and that seemed to defeat the purpose of the game.

Eight to six.

“So how're you liking it here?”

There he went again. Trying to be friendly, as though they could be best friends. Jack shrugged and pretended to straighten his part of the deck.

Harry tossed his card out on the table.

“It's nearly been two weeks.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, trying to keep his voice even and civil, but not friendly.

Another battle he had to win.

“Hermione says things have been going well.”

“Hmm.” He traced his finger along the tabletop, flicking his card to the center of the table. He heard Harry sigh.

King to two.

He was winning. He ran his finger along the ridges of his card.

“Look, mate,” he said quietly, “I don't know why… what exactly it is you have against us. I'd rather you just say it.”

Us.

He and Hermione.

Wasn't it always, when he was talking? Jack quietly sipped his water.

“What makes you think I have something against you?”

A battle in the open was always harder to win. Playing chess against Dusty had taught him that much.

“I think you know.”

Jack shrugged again.

“What if I don't?”

Five to three.

“Why does it matter?”

“Because,” Harry said after a pause, as Jack collected the cards, “it's just making things harder.”

If he could be vague, so could Jack.

“Things?”

The patterns on the back of the cards were blue and didn't move. Most likely Muggle cards.

“Look,” Harry's voice was gently impatient, “this doesn't have to be as hard as you're making it.”

He traced his finger along the patterns. Was that a man?

“I'm not making things harder.”

He wasn't. Things were already as hard as they could be.

Harry's pile was shrinking.

Good. He was winning.

“Jack, what are you afraid of?”

Ace to ace.

A war was coming.

“I'm not afraid of anything. I—I don't care.”

He wished the others were here. But they had gone out to the park again, with Hermione.

One card, then a second.

“Really.”

Neutral. Calm.

A third card.

“Yes, really!”

And the fourth, exposed. The battle on its back.

And he lost.

Four to three.

A small victory, but it hurt enough.

Harry collected his cards.

“I won't tell.”

Now he was asking for peace.
“I…” Jack looked up. Harry's eyes met his, calmly, evenly.

Something a warrior should never do.

Because when you looked in an opponent's eyes, the things you were convinced didn't exist in that person ended up staring you in the face. Real kindness, for one, sincerity.

But Jack was never one to give up.

“You want to split us up.”

Despite himself, the fingers clutching the deck faltered. The cards spilled from his grip in a colorful, fluttering mess.

“Split you up?”

The battle on his terms. But even that offer hurt.

“Yes.”

He swept the cards back into his hands and lowered his gaze. Time to recollect himself.

The war hadn't ended.

“What do you mean?”

Jack paused, flipping over a card and gazing at it.

Another two.

He swallowed. He felt as though something was strangling him, and he swallowed again. Hard.

Because the hot liquid gathering in his eyes was a condition he hadn't planned on. Stormy weather interrupting his plans.

“Jack.”

There was power in hearing your own name spoken, like a simple stunning spell meant to immobilize you, and not to kill. Just meant to gain control. But Jack couldn't give up control yet. He would fight to hold on to it. He looked up.

Harry sighed and leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his dark hair. He wet his lips and simply looked at him.

It was up to Jack to make the next move.

But this wasn't a game of War anymore. It was not a simple matter of building up through small victories.

This was a game of chess.

The objective was clear, but the path to victory was not. Jack was no longer in control because he no longer knew what to do. This was not trusting to luck, to his ability to go through a motion.

It was an active, tangled web of thoughts. Of one person's mind being cloaked from another, to sudden moves on the board.

“Hey,” Harry said quietly, “Hermione and I—we don't want to split you kids up, okay? That's why we brought you here.”

An offer of surrender always made Jack suspicious. Surely there was a catch, and it wasn't hard to find.

“But you brought us here to be adopted.” He stared hard at the cards, which had become a blur of white, black, and red.

“If you want it.” Harry conceded. “I don't know the specifics, but I reckon you can't be adopted unless you want to.”

“But the others want it!”

Jack completely lost control. He had given up the war, but he was going to make the most of the battle. He was going to throw himself into it, and not care what happened. For the others. For Dusty and Katy and Jackie and even Yasmine. He would not allow them to be split up—he knew what it felt like—

“Jack…”

“It's all your fault! They would have never considered it if it weren't for you! You and Hermione, you expect me to be grateful for splitting us up? We've been together forever, we'll always be together, I don't care what you do to us!”

Horrified, Jack realized he was sobbing for breath. Scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve, he sniffed heavily and glared at him.

“They're all I've got, all right? We're all we have. Just because you show up doesn't mean you're any better than what we have now!” He threw out a hand, sending his glass crashing to the floor. “You'll throw me out, just like—“

He choked, stopping short. He kicked at the shards of glass glistening on the floor, breathing heavily and licking tears off his lips.

“They won't leave me again. I won't let them.” He crossed his arms and gazed at Harry through narrow, very wet eyes. “Just because you and Hermione won't want me doesn't mean they won't. I'm the worst of the lot and you know it; but just ask Katy, she wants us to stay together.”

Harry was standing now, over the shards of glass. Jack had laid out his terms, and whether or not they were accepted, Jack didn't care to find out. He turned on his heel and ran.

He ran away because he wanted to, not because he was afraid. He pounded up the stairs, hearing the thud of his footsteps on the stairs only vaguely through the throb of his heartbeat, and the sound of his own ragged breathing. His every breath felt wet, and he flung open the door to his room. He darted around his bed and huddled on the floor, a quivering, sobbing wreck of a general who had lost a war.

Soon, the door creaked quietly open.

“Jack?”

He hid his face in his arms.

“Go away.”

“Jack,” Harry's voice said again, very softly, “c'mon, mate.”

There was a sigh, and Jack heard the bed groan slightly as Harry sat on the edge of the bed.

“Go away. I don't want to talk to you.”

“You don't have to listen. Just let me talk.” When Jack didn't respond, Harry went on, “Look here, Jack. Hermione and I… well, we're not exactly married.”

“Yasmine reckons you will be,” Jack said in a rather muffled voice, into his arms. He didn't add that he had scoffed at the idea almost immediately, and that he and Yasmine hadn't spoken to each other for nearly two days straight afterwards.

Harry shifted, with a half-embarrassed chuckle.

“Does she, now.” He slid off the bed to sit on the floor next to him. “Well, we're not. Not… yet.”

“So you will be.”

Harry chuckled again. Jack chanced a glance at him and saw him looking very red.

“Er… well. We haven't—planned on it. But we're not in any position to be thinking about adopting any of you.”

“Yet,” Jack muttered.

Harry hesitated.

“That's all to say, we'll do everything we can to make sure you're not split up. All right? The person who adopts one of you had better be willing to adopt all of you,” he said, with such sincere finality, Jack felt slightly reassured, and he scrubbed his eyes.

Just then, a door downstairs opened, and the babble of familiar voices filled Jack's ears. Before Harry could say anything, Jack had jumped up and darted downstairs. As he hurried down the stairs, he saw a beaming Jackie waving a duck feather happily in the air, Yasmine and Katy talking loudly as usual, and Dusty looking thoughtful in between a laughing Adrian and a rather sheepish Ben. Everyone he had fought for in one noisy, messy, and happy crowd. And Hermione in the middle, holding hands with one and wiping mud off another, looking pleasantly flustered and flushed. His heart swelled so that it almost hurt.

“Now, everyone go to the backyard—I'll see if we can't get something to eat. Oh, hello, Jack—“

And before Hermione could finish, Jack rushed forward and hugged her round the waist. Hermione's arms went around him uncertainly.

“Jack?”

But Jack simply offered her a small smile and ran to catch up with Katy and Yasmine and Dusty as they headed out the kitchen door. As Harry walked down the staircase, she closed the door and looked at him curiously

He smiled.

“Now what's that look, Miss Granger?”

“I'm just wondering what transpired while I was away,” she said, motioning for him to follow her into the kitchen and opening the freezer. Harry shrugged modestly.

“Oh, you know, we played a card game. Ate lunch. Talked a bit.” As Hermione reached out to pull out a box of Popsicles, he brushed aside a curl of her hair. She looked at him, looking even rosier and—the word crossed his mind before he could stop it—rather pretty.

“Now what's that look, Mr. Potter?” she said, parroting his words playfully. He felt himself grin, turning rather red himself.

“You know,” he said, as casually as he could with his stomach feeling as though someone had let a flock of butterflies loose in it, “Yasmine reckons we're going to be married.”

She paused in the action of tearing the top open, looking away.

“Does she?”

“Yeah. Silly, really,” he said hastily, “Just some of her imaginings, I suppose.”

“Is it?” she said in a rather odd sort of voice. He stared at her, his heart suddenly pounding hard against his chest.

“Er… you don't mean…?”

“Oh, of course not,” she said, so immediately that Harry felt his heart sink. “Really, I don't know where she gets these things half the time. She's probably been talking to Ginny too much or something.”

“Yeah,” Harry said under his breath, feeling oddly deflated as Hermione hurried out the door with the box of Popsicles, “or something.”

-->

A/N: Here's another chapter… length-wise, it's rather short. But it should give you at least a little something to think about (and, perhaps, rail at me about) until the next chapter.

Chapter Twenty-One

The darkness itself seemed to gleam as flashes sparked the smoky air; cries rent the air like well-sharpened knives clashing in battle. Walls crumbled around him, and a dear voice was weeping, begging for mercy, and a great orange fire roared to life, a great brilliant blaze of light—

Fear seemed more familiar to his body than breath, and he saw those fearsome eyes race closer—a bony, grimy hand extended in mocking welcome— a threatening, ornate stick brandishing like a whip…

He fought to run, but the earth spurted out underneath his feet and would not allow him to move—

And another cry—and that unbearable sense of an end—of something being snuffed out…

Weeds whipped around his legs and pulled him down—far down... and suddenly someone had gripped his hand, seeking to keep him safe—but then he looked again, and the eyes gave a wild flash of triumph, and he yanked his arm away…

“Ben! Ben, listen to me!”

And suddenly his body grew rigid. His eyelids, reluctant to let him leave his nightmare, seemed to be twice as heavy as before.

“Ben—“

And his eyes opened to the faintly yellow glow of a candle. He choked on his own breath, and the tears came at last, almost a relief in their quick, salty warmth.

“Ben.”

A soft whisper this time, and he looked up, drawing in great, shuddering breaths and drawing his legs up as if he were in pain, and he was—nightmares had a way of leaving an infection—

A gentle hand swept across his face, and the glow moved to rest on the bedside table. He sobbed into his wrists, for his hands were clenched.

“Here.” The bed sank slightly as someone sat on its edge. “Here, Ben, it's all right.”

He propped himself up on his elbows. He could not bring himself to sit up completely. Hermione held out her arms, her eyes soft with concern and weariness. He shifted; in a heartbeat he was in her arms, and he was still sobbing breathlessly.

“Oh, Ben,” Hermione's hand braced the back of his head as he clung to her tightly, as if she were the sole reason he remained firmly on the ground. “Ben…”

She smelled of vanilla and brown sugar and books, and her hair fell over his shoulder as he felt his sobs leave, replaced by sudden, hiccupping spasms of breath.

“I ran.”

He spat out the words, raw and sore, wet and weak. She held him more tightly as he cried out in anguish, “I ran!”

And the tears returned, stinging and fast and thick, like a hurricane. Her arms pressed against him, firm and warm and real, but he still felt as though he were being tossed in a great stormy sea of salt and regret.

He squeezed his eyes tight—remembering the sound of his feet slapping the path and turning on stones. Remembering the mad, animal way he ran, as if his only home were not burning and crumbling behind him. The rhythm of his own breath and the thud of footsteps were the only sounds in his ears—and not the cries of his mother—his mother…

“I ought to have died with them!”

The gleam of light—the cries of pain…

He felt dizzy, detached, half-conscious as he seized fistfuls of Hermione's soft nightgown, slamming his teeth down on his tongue until he tasted blood—blood, oddly metallic, oddly salty—

“I left Mum… I left Adrian… Grandfather…”

He felt himself go limp, his mouth barely forming the words under the torrent of tears streaming over it.

Mum, her wan face and small, pale smile, her cracked, rough hands—a shadow of what she had been, rosy and lively and willowy… her wet coughs, the long, wet coughs that had replaced her soft laughter…

Grandfather, his secret smile, wrinkles of secrets and shadows and wisdom…

Both memories faded, like old photographs, torn by fear and guilt. The reality, Hermione's face, gentle, dimly lit, younger than Grandfather's, younger than Mum's—eyes soft and warm and kind… hair curly and brown and wild—unlike Mum's, soft and graying and yellow.

Ben's fading memory-photographs were all Adrian really had… he hadn't known Mum before the sickness, and Grandfather was the hunched, faltering old man of the secret midnight meetings, held outside in the fading moonlight—and to Adrian, Dad was the stern, sane man who flitted in and out of the house, disappearing for months at a time, but always coming back to ensure that the family was all right.

For Ben was not above altering the pictures Adrian saw.

He hid his face in Hermione's nightgown, seeking the dark warmth that closed eyes and her tight embrace brought. She rocked him back and forth slightly, resting her chin in his hair.

“I woke you up,” he found himself mumbling hoarsely, but she made a soft sound at the back of her throat.

“It doesn't bother me.”

He opened his eyes, glancing around for the first time. The twisted sheets, the misplaced pillows, the candle on the bedside table.

“How late?”

“It's around one.”

He scrubbed his eyes with a fist. Suddenly he felt terribly, terribly tired—guilt was a dull ache that sometimes gained strength, and sometimes hid. He looked at her, and she saw his face, and she helped him lay down again.

“Hermione,” he whispered, the word barely escaping his lips, “I left.”

She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, hand on his arm, eyes on his. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, steady, familiar, and gentle. The same way she always had, as if knowing this had not changed her feelings a single jot. It was because of this that Ben twined his fingers in hers and whispered, “You stayed with Adrian when he was sick.”

She gazed at him, and she seemed to understand.

“Hush. Go on and try to sleep. I'll be here.”

Hermione gazed at his damp, pale features and kissed his forehead once more. Her heart ached keenly, and she squeezed his hand tightly.

Who knew behind those placid blue eyes lay a heart so weighed down? She certainly hadn't. But she could see in his face the same look she had seen on Harry's face so many times before—it should have been me. It's because of me.

Harry.

For some reason, her heart quailed, and she mentally looked away.

But that was harder to do than it should have been.

Ben's breathing had slowed, indicating that he was actually sleeping at last.

She gazed at the flickering candle, vaguely aware of how tired she was. She slipped to the floor, reaching for one of the extra pillows lying beside the bed.

Why was it, her mind wondered, that she was so afraid to think of him?

I'm not afraid.

She hugged herself with her free arm, burying her face in the pillow. Harry was the first person she'd run to if she were afraid, so it was absolutely ridiculous to—

But then there was that. There was that security, that feeling of strength around him.

And yet, despite that security, there was a level of uncertainty. There was a lot of that, if Hermione was completely honest with herself.

But why?

Why was it?

She closed her eyes. Friends. Best friends.

Part of her wondered if calling him by that name was just the easy way out. Because she was almost certain that best friends didn't have constant—accusations, she supposed—of marriage or impending marriage. Especially from children and ex-girlfriends. And boyfriends.

But Ron didn't exactly count. He had been an almost in her life. An almost that had become a never. Just like Viktor.

Those were her friends.

But as much as she hated to think it, Ginny had not been an almost. She was. For a good year and a half.

Not that it mattered now. Ginny seemed happy enough only dating every now and then, and she hadn't shown much interest in Harry since.

And Hermione was far too practical to let it bother her.

Really.

That was what she told herself.

But Hermione had never been an almost in Harry's life. She wasn't sure if she had a secure place as an is.

Hermione felt like a constant maybe.

And she hated it.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she started violently. She must be tired, to be thinking like that. She glanced up at Ben, who was fast asleep.

She really must give herself some rest soon.

And teach herself not to blush at such clearly foolish thoughts like that.

But then her mind reminded her of all the times that she had looked into his familiar green eyes and wondered. For a fragile, tiny fragment of time, her heart would flutter, and he would smile, and she would go on wondering.

And dwelling on it.

Of course the next morning or the morning after, she would laugh at herself for being so stupid.

But then the thought crossed her mind, familiar but oddly striking. It was as if she had only ever seen its shadow before, and finally she had caught a fleeting glance of the thing itself.

I love him, don't I?

She closed her eyes and let out a breath, feeling herself drop slowly off to sleep. But Hermione had never been one to leave a question unanswered.

So, in reply, one more thought flitted across her mind.

Maybe.

But Hermione didn't register that she was back to seeing only the shadow of the answer.

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A/N: Longer chapter, much more to like or hate. The style has actually changed a bit, but partially because it was written in a much more… child-like viewpoint. In an odd way. This one took me much longer to write because I never found myself completely satisfied with how it ended. Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Two

Rain always made the children rather miserable. Not only did it severely limit their options for play; it had a way of making everything seem gray and unhappy.

On this particular June afternoon, the rain hadn't stopped all day. The grass in the backyard was flooded with water, and thunder and lightening had become quite regular.

That day, all of the children were in Yasmine's room, listening to her read one of her books out loud.

“'…I say, Peter, can you really fly?' Instead of troubling to answer him, Peter flew about the room, taking the mantelpiece on the way. `How topping!' said James and Michael. `How sweet!' cried Wendy—“

At this point, a rather grumpy Jack found it necessary to interrupt.

“I can't see anything so special about it. Wizards fly all the time.”

Which of course stirred up all kinds of argument among the seven of them. Yasmine, highly irritated, said rather snippily that wizards used brooms, and anyway Jack wouldn't know, since he was afraid of heights. To which Jack retorted that Yasmine wouldn't know either, and besides that she hadn't any right to act so smart just because she was reading the book, which he found very stupid. Katy, ever the peacemaker, timidly suggested that since they hadn't gotten very far, mightn't Jack give it a few more pages, to see if it really was? Jack, who was normally very kind to Katy, said icily that he didn't need to listen any further, because this wasn't how magic worked at all. Wizards flew and so there was nothing exciting about this at all, and he was dying of boredom, and they ought to start reading something exciting, like Treasure Island (and everyone knew they'd read Treasure Island three times and never wanted to hear about Jim and Long John Silver again, or at least until Christmas).

“As if you would know how magic works!” said Yasmine scornfully, and she proceeded to shut the book with a loud snap. The others, who had very much been enjoying the story, immediately began arguing with Jack.

“Wizards need brooms to fly, so it is special, since Peter can fly without one,” Adrian said, who had grown up as a Muggle anyway, and thought it was special to be able to fly at all.

“And anyway, these are Muggles, and they're flying without airplanes or helicopters or balloons, that's special.” Ben said, who felt the same as Adrian. “Keep reading, Yasmine. No one wants to read Treasure Island except Jack.”

“Well, it's heaps better than Peter Pan,” said Jack sourly, who had really been enjoying the story, but was tired of being inside, and when a boy is tired of being inside, he finds it very easy to find something to complain about, and usually settles for something that everyone else seems to be liking.

`”If you want to read Treasure Island so much, why don't you go and read it by yourself?” said Yasmine, who was tired of being inside as well, and also tired of constantly being interrupted.

And of course, Jack couldn't argue with that logic, but determined to have the last word, he fumed, “Fine! I will! And when your brains start oozing out of your heads from boredom, don't come complaining to me!'

But Yasmine also liked to have the last word.

“At least we have brains to lose!”

Furious, Jack yanked Treasure Island off the Shelf (which was where Yasmine had put all of the favorites), went to his room, and slammed the door shut with a bang.

To make everything worse, this woke Jackie, who had been napping, and as she always did when woken prematurely from a nap, she began wailing.

“… twelve clockwise turns and—oh, dear...” Hermione was in the middle of brewing a very complicated potion that if brewed improperly, would burn right through the cauldron and potentially set the house of fire. And there were exactly two hundred and four steps that she was performing by memory. So of course she was already on edge, since this was more or less an examination, and Healer Pruitt's full attention was focused on her process. And right as she added the salamander tails—a crucial step that had to be timed exactly—Jack slammed the door, and Jackie had begun wailing.

Hearing this, and hearing the two children bicker even through the walls, Hermione went scarlet and nearly stopped in the middle of her eighth clockwise turn, but of course Healer Pruitt reached out and helped her to continue stirring.

Jackie's wails grew even louder, and Hermione's face grew redder, and Healer Pruitt, who despite his strict appearance was a very understanding person, said, “Perhaps you'd best go… deal with things. I'll watch this.”

Hermione murmured a hasty apology, but Healer Pruitt waved her away. As Jackie let out a piercing shriek and continued to cry, he cringed and was reminded of why he had avoided the Children's Ward, even though they did offer him an extremely high-paying job.

Hermione hurried up the stairs and went directly into Jackie's room, who, like everyone else in the house (except for perhaps Healer Pruitt), was in a dreadful mood.

“Jackie, dear, do please hush…” she pleaded through gritted teeth, mentally adding the Essence of Groban as she did, “Shh… there's a good girl…”

After a good ten minutes of this, Jackie finally quieted down, and then there was another two minutes where she refused to let Hermione leave the room until she rocked Oats to sleep too (Hermione, whose patience was wearing thin, desperately wanted to point out that the bear's eyes would always remain open) and then the red-haired doll (whose eyes were painted closed), and when Hermione finally shut the door on Jackie's room, she was having one of those times where she wasn't sure if she wanted to cry or yell or do both at once, and what made things worse is she knew she shouldn't do either of them.

So she merely hurried back downstairs, and when she returned to the cauldron, Healer Pruitt had taken her to the very last four steps. This meant that Hermione would (at a later time, the Healer assured her) have to brew the potion for him again. Hermione forced a smile and set a date for that to happen, and was extremely glad when the Healer had gone, though she was furious at the same time, for she had just barely managed to remember the first one hundred and two, and it was a miracle that she had executed them properly.

A telltale crack sounded in the living room, and Harry found himself confronting a very upset Hermione.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped, and he stared at her, taken aback. He held up several grocery bags.

“I thought you'd be too busy to do the grocery shopping, and so I did it on my way back from work.”

Hermione went very still, and she silently took the bags from him and wandered into the kitchen. He followed her. The very jerky, very unsteady way she was handling the groceries worried him, and he said cautiously, “Hermione?”

She turned around, closing the fridge.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, I'm fine,” she said very calmly, and she promptly dropped the eggs to the floor and burst into tears.

“Hermione!” he said, hastily stepping over the mess to wrap his arms around her quivering frame, “Hermione—what in Merlin's name…?”

She sobbed into his shirt.

“I've ruined the eggs,” she said miserably.

He rubbed her back.

“It's okay—I can get more,” he said soothingly, and she hiccupped, scrubbing her eyes on his shirt and wrapping her arms around his waist. “What happened?”

“Nothing, and that's just it,” she said rather wretchedly, “I was in the middle of the exam, and then the children started fighting again, and Jack woke Jackie, and I was so terribly embarrassed, and I went up to quiet Jackie down, and the moment I was back the exam was over, and I had to reschedule, and I only just barely managed to do it the first time!”

“That's not `nothing',” he said softly, stroking her hair gently, “it's just been a rainy day for you.”

As if to further prove his point, thunder boomed, causing the windowpanes to rattle. Hermione hid her face in Harry's chest—and Harry gallantly attempted to ignore how pleasant it felt to have her in his arms, because it really wasn't anything to celebrate.

“And then I snapped at you, and you were being so sweet—and I was rude and inconsiderate, and now I've probably made you late for something, and I've gotten your shirt all wet…”

“That's all right,” he said softly, and it was.

She scrubbed her eyes.

“Thank you for the groceries, Harry.”

He smiled, happily aware that her arms were still looped around his waist. “You're welcome. I can go get you more eggs, if you like.”

“Oh, I couldn't make you do that,” she said, and she leaned against him. His heart thumped contentedly.

“I'd like to. You've got enough on your plate as it is.” He rested his chin in her hair, closing his eyes. The kitchen was quiet except for the rain pattering against the window, and she felt so warm and comfortable in his arms. “Your Healer's training is a lot by itself, and you're watching the kids, and you're doing all the paperwork for the Children's Ward at St. Mungo's. The least I can do is help with the groceries.”

She raised a rather watery smile to him, and even though his day had been frustratingly unproductive, Harry suddenly felt extremely accomplished. With his thumb, he wiped the remainder of her tears off her face. He then bent and (with as much bravery as he could manage) kissed her cheek, perhaps a bit too closely to her mouth, but sufficiently far away to still be considered a kiss on the cheek.

At least that's what he hoped.

“Thank you,” she said again, and he smiled.

“You're welcome, Hermione.”

She beamed, then said, “Do you have plans for dinner, Harry?”

“Actually, I do.” He said, and when her face fell, he laughed and said, “I said I'd come for dinner tonight, remember?”

Her eyes lit up, and she blushed sheepishly.

“I forgot.”

“I think I can forgive you this once,” he quipped, making her laugh.

~*~

Of course, Jack and Yasmine and all the older children got a proper lecture from Hermione, and Jack and Yasmine were both rather frosty toward each other and Hermione that afternoon. But then, both felt rather guilty, as they were meant to, and by the time dinnertime came, they had apologized to Hermione, and though they never outright apologized to each other, they did exchange small smiles and played a game of checkers, and that was enough for them (though Hermione did make them apologize to each other verbally later, which both found rather pointless, as they had already made up.)

Healer Pruitt received an invitation to dinner that night, and though he regarded the children—especially Jackie—rather warily at first, he soon warmed up to the group, and entertained the entire table with his tales of the strange maladies and accidents he had ended up curing himself.

“Top notch organization your Mr. Potter is running, Miss Granger,” he said to her as she cleaned up the dishes. Hermione turned very pink and murmured something under her breath.

“What's that?”

“He's… not my Mr. Potter,” she said, though with less conviction than Healer Pruitt had expected.

“Oh, isn't he?” was all her mentor said, rather pointedly. “Let the poor lad know, will you? He wouldn't stop looking at you all evening.”

He hid a smile of amusement as Hermione looked up at him sharply, and for a moment, he could catch the mingled doubt and pleasure in her face.

“Well,” he said, “thank you very much for dinner. You have a splendid family and a lovely home.”

She didn't appear to hear him for a moment; she was gazing rather confusedly in front of her, and when he repeated his thanks, she started.

“Oh… you're very welcome. Please feel free to visit anytime.”

He shook his head, stifling a chuckle. The girl didn't appear to know exactly where she was.

He patted her shoulder and said quietly, “Feelings aren't usually half as complicated as we like to make them. I hope you know that.”

He took his cloak from off the table and Apparated, leaving a very quiet Hermione in the kitchen.

She stood there for a long while, the faucet still running clear, steaming water over the dish. She gazed in front of her, the Healer's remark echoing in her mind.

Suddenly, someone's arms slipped around her shoulders, and she jumped, dropping the plate into the sink. It shattered immediately upon hitting the bottom of the sink, showering glass into the soapy dishwater.

“Oh, dear,” she said, feeling extremely embarrassed and very confused. “Clumsy of me—“

“Here,” he said kindly, and mended the plate with a wave of his wand. Hermione was strangely grateful that he had released her to do so, for her heart was fluttering rather madly within her and she wasn't sure why. Until she was, however, she wasn't keen on letting it continue.

“Thanks.”

“I didn't mean to scare you,” he said, coming around and standing in front of her. She smiled weakly.

“That's all right.”

He tilted his head to the side in concern, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose.

“Well,” he said after a pause, “I just wanted to let you know that I had to leave.”

“Oh—of course,” she said, after a long silence. “I'm sorry; I just…thank you so much for… everything.”

He quirked a grin.

“You say that as if you didn't deserve it.”

“Well, the way I treated you this afternoon—“

“Hermione, you were having a bad day. But even then, getting to see you… it was worth it, and I…” he trailed off, and he looked up. For a moment, his gaze locked on hers intently, and Hermione caught her breath at the warmth and earnestness with which he gazed at her—in fact, Hermione realized, she had stopped breathing— he licked his lips, and with an embarrassed half-smile, he blurted out, “I just wanted to see you.”

She felt herself blush as he laughed, nervously rubbing the back of his neck and looking away.

“I… I dunno where… I'm having the strangest night, Hermione—I dunno where that came from—“ he cleared his throat and swallowed visibly. “I… I really ought to go. I—Hermione. I… Look, I'm sorry that I—I really… normally I'd—I—“

Before she could say or do anything, he'd bent and kissed her on the forehead, soft and hasty and nervous.

“G'night. I'll… I'll see you tomorrow!”

“Harry!”

But he had Apparated already with a crack. She stood frozen by the sink, dishes forgotten and feeling strangely giddy.

She let out a breath, making every effort to suppress the warm tingles flooding her body. But even then, she still felt rather dazed, pleasantly so, but dazed all the same.

“Hermione?”

She turned around, and saw a sleepy Yasmine standing in the kitchen doorway. “Yasmine, you should be in bed.”

“Yes, I know,” Yasmine said with a yawn, “only I was wondering if Harry had gone yet.”

Even in her drowsy state, Yasmine could see her turn pink.

“He just left.”

“Oh,” Yasmine said, rubbing her eyes, “I forgot to tell him something. Will he come back tomorrow?”

Hermione didn't know, and said so.

She glanced at the clock: nearly ten thirty.

“Yasmine, you really should go to bed.”

“Yes, well, I was,” Yasmine said, dragging a toe across the floor and hanging her head, “only I've just gotten to a good part in Half Magic and I really can't sleep until I know what happens.”

Hermione hesitated as Yasmine looked up at her hopefully. She knew she should make Yasmine go to bed, but she couldn't help but remember all the nights she had hidden under the covers with a flashlight, desperate to finish a book she really couldn't put down.

So then, with a quiet smile, she relented.

“All right, then,” and when Yasmine's face brightened, she added, “but only this once.”

“Yes, all right!” she said happily, and she turned, clearly about to race upstairs. Then she paused.

“Would you read it to me? I read to the others all afternoon.”

Hermione paused, then smiled again.

“All right. Go get your book, and make sure you don't wake the others.”

Yasmine beamed, then turned and slipped quickly out of the kitchen. Hermione shook her head, still smiling.

When Yasmine returned, she and Hermione went to the living room and sat on the couch together. Hermione began reading: Jane and Mark and Katherine and Martha had just wished themselves and their cat Carrie to the Sahara Desert.

Every time they finished a chapter, Hermione would lower the book, look at Yasmine, and whisper that she really should go to bed now, and Yasmine would say that they couldn't stop now. She would then snuggle closer to Hermione and Hermione would laugh quietly and start the next chapter.

Soon, the book was finished, and Hermione closed it, placing it on her lap. “And now it really is time for you to go to bed, Yaz.”

“There's a sequel,” came the hopeful answer, and Hermione laughed.

“Maybe another time,” she said, “You're off to bed.”

She bent and kissed Yasmine's dark hair.

“Sleep tight.”

But Yasmine didn't move. She looked up with excited dark eyes, and she whispered, “Imagine having your wishes granted; wouldn't it be just splendid?”

“Yes, I suppose it would,” Hermione said carefully, “But you do see that Jane and Mark and Katherine and Martha really had all they wanted to be happy, already. All the charm did was set up the right circumstances.”

“I suppose so,” Yasmine agreed thoughtfully. She leaned her head against Hermione's shoulder.

“What would you wish for?”

Hermione looked out at the gray stones of the empty fireplace, considering the question carefully. Yasmine's dark eyes were watching her face expectantly, and at last, Hermione said, “I'm not sure.”

“Really?” Yasmine's voice sounded disappointed. “You haven't thought about it at all?”

“Well…”

“What about Harry? What do you think he would wish for?”

Hermione paused.

“He's always wanted a family of his own,” Hermione said after another pause, and Yasmine looked at her with wide eyes, “Children, and… and someone to love who loves him back.”

She hoped very much that Yasmine didn't notice her hesitation, but she could see Yasmine thinking hard.

“But… suppose,” Yasmine said after another pause, “Just suppose… he already has all that, like you said? Suppose he does? And all he needs is to… realize that he wants them, and that maybe that other someone wants them too?”

And then she looked up at Hermione with bright, dark eyes, and she said in a secretive whisper, “Because you do, don't you?”

With those soft, innocent eyes looking at her, Hermione felt as though something within her had broken, as if some sort of barrier had shattered, and she felt strangely free to whisper an answer back.

“Yes.”

Yasmine's face transformed into a brilliant smile.

“I thought so. I knew you loved him!” she whispered excitedly. Then she frowned.

“Haven't you told him?”

Hermione shook her head mutely. Her heart was beating unusually quickly. It felt odd to hear it said out loud: I knew you loved him.

I love him.

But wait, a voice in her head protested, isn't this all rather sudden? And loving Harry…that way?

She brought her knees up to her chest and stared mutely at the fireplace. Yasmine stared at her curiously, surprised at the rather blank look on Hermione's face.

“Haven't you?” she repeated, putting her hands on Hermione's arm. “You must have.”

“What?” Hermione started and looked over at her. Yasmine stared back. “Oh—Yasmine, you should be off to bed—it's nearly midnight.”

“But…”

“Bed, Yaz,” she said, and Yasmine knew then that the conversation had ended. She glanced at the grandfather clock and smiled.

Two minutes to midnight—midnight. She slid off the couch and tiptoed out of the living room, chancing a glance backwards once more. Hermione was still staring at the fireplace, looking puzzled and thoughtful.

She giggled and hurried up the stairs, glancing out the front door. The stars seemed to twinkle, sharing a secret giggle with her.

When the clock strikes twelve, things happen. Yasmine had read enough to understand that. And not just anything—magical things happen, usually the end of an enchantment. She wondered what would happen for Hermione, and resolved to stay awake in bed, waiting for the spell to end.

Hermione curled up on the couch, listening to the soft, amiable tick of the old grandfather clock. Harry had found it in an old antique shop.

Harry.

I just wanted to see you.

As the first bell chimed, Hermione realized how much she missed him. Even if he had been in her kitchen only an hour ago, she somehow longed for his company, if only for a few more minutes.

Getting to see you… it was worth it.

She could almost feel his arms circling around her, warm and strong and gentle—and as she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the soft sound of his breath in her ear. And there was that third bell, echoing softly in her ear.

Are you all right?

In the darkness behind her eyelids, her mind suddenly constructed a vision of a brilliant flash of green. Harry's gaze, intense, earnest, and kind…

That must have been the fourth chime… it was late…

I didn't mean to scare you.

And suddenly she was reliving the memories of Harry's anger in the tent—of the dark shadows beneath those green eyes, of the beginnings of a beard darkening his chin—and that worry weighing down the corners of his mouth—and the way he looked at her with that doggedly determined look, behind which she could almost see fear… the fear that she would leave, and the fear that he would have to be brave alone… and how angry he was that Dumbledore had seemingly abandoned them, at how his only weapon had snapped… and how miserable she was when she realized that it was her fault…

Fifth chime. Nearer to midnight, now.

I think I can forgive you, this once.

So many times she had refused to believe him, believe what he said and trust him… Malfoy's treachery, the Deathly Hallows…

But he had never brought it up again, after everything had been resolved.

Six… that was six. Almost midnight.

Almost tomorrow.

What happened?

He was always concerned about others… about her. It was in his nature, that naturally concerned and sincere look that he had when he held her.

Seven.

That's not `nothing'.

And he wouldn't give up. She smiled, remembering how he had refused to let Fleur's sister remain in what he thought was mortal danger—the mortified look on his face when he realized his mistake… but she had always thought it a very brave, very noble thing to do.

That was the eighth bell, wasn't it?

That's all right.

She smiled. Things did seem all right. And she felt herself blush as her mind finished for her—things seem all right when we're together.

And Hermione was mortified to realize that she'd read that before, in those cheap romance novels that sat in waiting rooms at offices.

Three more bells until midnight.

I'm having the strangest night, Hermione.

She wet her lips and sighed. She could still see Yasmine's excited smile— “I knew you loved him!”
Hermione wasn't used to being the last to know things.

Two more strikes of the bell, and the night would be officially over.

G'night, Hermione!

She touched her forehead, remembering the soft, hasty kiss that had brushed over it only hours before.

One more strike.

I'll see you tomorrow.

She closed her eyes and felt herself smile, perhaps more brilliantly and more happily than she could have ever imagined… and suddenly, she wished she could whisper something in Harry's ear.

The clock struck twelve, and the night turned to morning, and her eyes suddenly felt very wet, as though the morning dew had crept there early.

As the gentle echo of the bell died away, Hermione tentatively whispered something, as if to let her words catch the tail of the fleeing night.

“I love him.”

It was morning, and Hermione finally slipped off to sleep on the couch.

A/N (2): I do hope you know a good dentist after reading this one. I hope it's not too cliché, though I know it does seem to reek of it, I hope I injected it with enough originality to keep you interested. Oh, and the book Hermione and Yasmine were reading is titled Half Magic and was written by Edward Eager. Excellent book, and it's still one of my favorites. And yes, there is a sequel.

-->

A/N: I'm not sure what to make of this chapter, really. Let me know what you thought, and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Three

Harry sat down at his kitchen table, rubbing his forehead wearily. The night had crept up on him, after a fairly productive but extremely long day at work.

He grabbed his wand and lit a lamp on the table, watching the light flare up quickly and give off a pool of soft light around the kitchen.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly nine—Ron would be getting off work about now.

He stretched his arms, then stood up. He might as well get something to eat—it was the first time that week that he hadn't eaten over at the old house.

He opened the fridge and examined its contents with little interest. He really should get over to the store sometime soon… half a loaf of bread and the remainders of the turkey… but what was that?

He reached into the cool confines of the fridge, picking up a massive container that had been sitting on the second shelf. On the side, someone had taped a small note.

He smiled.

Harry—

I dropped this off for you while you were at work. Use a heating charm (fuegofaris, a nice sharp flick and twist of the wrist). There should be enough for Ron, too. Though if he's really hungry, I expect he'll have to supplement this with something else.

Have a good dinner!

Hermione

P.S. Jackie grew the green beans. Make sure to mention it when you visit next. She's terribly proud of it.

He peeled off the lid and sniffed the contents gratefully. Roast chicken with lemon pepper, mashed potatoes, and fresh green beans.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he whispered, grinning and taking one of the remaining clean plates from the cupboard. He put the container on the table, picked up his wand, and whispered, “Fuegofaris!”

Suddenly, the food was steaming hot and giving off a delicious aroma. He grinned, filling his plate and grabbing a fork from the half-open silverware drawer.

Just as he was pouring himself a large glass of milk, the door opened, and a rather weary Ron wandered in. His hair was rumpled and rather muddy, and his Quidditch robes were soaked with water.

As soon as he caught a whiff of the food, he perked up slightly.

“Smells excellent,” he said hoarsely, making his way over to the counter and grabbing the last plate. “Where'd you get it?”

“Hermione,” Harry said, through a mouthful of chicken. He swallowed and watched Ron pile a plate high with food.

“Excellent.” Ron said again, “Is the milk gone?”

“Nearly.” Harry suddenly felt rather guilty. “Here, I can pour some of this into another glass—“

“Nah, it's okay.” Ron reached into the fridge and pulled out a butterbeer. “I suppose Hermione made the cake, too?”

“Cake?” Harry said blankly. Ron pulled out a plate with two large slices of dense, messily frosted chocolate cake resting on it. He plucked a note off the plastic wrap.

“The girls frosted the cake.” Ron read, and he grinned at the bright green, red, and purple frosting covering the surface of the cake. “Good of them. When did she bring it?”

“Sometime this afternoon.”

“How'd she get in?” Ron pulled up a chair and began wolfing down his dinner. “Oh, wait… you gave her a key. I forgot.”

He popped open the butterbeer and took a swing.

“Excellent,” he said a third time, “Wish she'd learned to cook earlier—might have been useful last year.”

Harry shrugged. He didn't point out how meager their food supplies had been during the hunt for the Horcruxes.

“We really should get more milk,” Ron said, craning his neck, “Want me to run out to get some? Reckon it would taste better with the cake than butterbeer.”

“If you want,” Harry said unconcernedly. Ron shrugged.

“After I finish this, I'll Apparate to Kragen's Alley. Cheaper prices.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “but make sure you get the right milk—if I ever end up drinking anything other than cow's milk again…”

“Ah, goat milk isn't bad…” Ron said fairly, finishing off his first piece of chicken. “It's the chimera that you don't—“

“Yeah, well, I ended up drinking that, didn't I?” Harry said, shuddering inwardly at the memory. “I was sick for a week.”

“Well, at least Hermione was there to nurse you back to health,” Ron said, smirking, “that couldn't have been so bad.”

“Considering I was delirious for half of it and vomiting the other half, I really don't think it could have been worse.” Harry said, and he surprised Ron (and himself) by merely grinning at Ron's pointed remark.

Ron examined him carefully, and he put down his fork for a moment.

“I reckon you've finally caught on then,” he said casually, “the way you feel about her.”

Harry stared at him. Ron was looking unusually serious.

He felt himself blush, but he said, in an equally casual voice, “What do you mean by that, mate?”

“Prat. You know what I mean.” Ron picked up his fork again, but didn't start eating. “I mean, I may be dense, but even I noticed after a while.”

Harry gave in.

“Yeah. I guess… yeah. I have.”

“Do you then?” Ron was looking uncomfortable now, but oddly determined. Harry sipped his milk and swallowed, staring at the clock.

“Do I what?”

“You know,” Ron cleared his throat awkwardly, “I mean, is it the real thing, do you reckon?”

Harry was so taken aback by this question that he found himself at a loss for words. Ron's blue eyes were looking straight at him now. Harry hadn't the faintest idea what had gotten Ron thinking about he and Hermione, but he was sure it had to be something fairly serious.

“Well,” he cleared his throat too, feeling his heart suddenly start thumping a bit more vigorously in his chest. “I…”

He glanced down at the table, considering the question.

He thought of Hermione, of her smiles and her tears, of the simple little things she did that made him smile or really think, of how content he felt in her company…

Or the way she stood by him, stood up to him, stood up for him, and was so ready to hold him… the surprising things he had learned about her in this past year—

The way she laughed, with her head slightly tilted. The way she thought, with her teeth catching her lower lip…. Her eyes, warm and thoughtful and sometimes piercing…

Then he looked at Ron.

He suddenly remembered how much he had wished he had what Ron did. A large family to accept him, perhaps, a real sense of ordinary and a part in the world of wizards, a part that hadn't been decided for him by a prophecy or a scar.

He remembered sitting and watching families in the park, desperately wishing he were one of them, and how much more he wanted.

Somehow Harry had always taken what he got. And he realized with a stab of guilt how much he focused on how much less he had than others… how much had been taken from him, instead of what had been given to him.

And then his thoughts came full circle.

Hermione.

How many people had someone like her?

And Harry couldn't help but think that she was enough.

More than enough.

If that wasn't `the real thing', he thought firmly, what was?

“Yeah,” he said at last, “it is.”

Ron nodded, looking mystified and oddly thoughtful.

“So… have you told her yet?” he said, pushing his mashed potatoes around on his plate. Harry curled his fingers around his milk glass, looking away.

“No,” he said quietly, suddenly feeling his stomach twist in fear at the prospect. Ron looked up.

“You haven't got to worry about it, mate,” he said lightly, “she's obsessed with you.”

But he looked strangely contemplative as he finished his dinner.

“How did you know?” Ron said abruptly, just as Harry stood up and scraped the remains of his dinner into the trashcan, “That you felt that way?”

“I…” Harry stared at him. He and Ron had never been a pair to discuss things like this; he was beginning to wonder if he were about to wake from a very strange dream. “Well… I just… I didn't. Until you asked.” He paused, thinking. The words seemed to slip out with much more ease than he could have imagined. “But… she's—when I'm with her… it's more than I ever thought I could have. Do you know what I mean?”

When Ron looked at him blankly, Harry tried again.

“She's… everything. It's like… I spent my whole life wanting more. Someone to… someone to love, someone to love me back. I reckon that's why… Sirius meant so much to me. You know. But… when I'm with her, I feel like I couldn't have more. I don't want more,” he was speaking himself now, staring out the door leading out the balcony. The stars were bright, twinkling sympathetically, silently, in their canvas of inky darkness. The moon was nearly full now, brighter than the lamp Harry had lit, and Harry suddenly wondered if Hermione could be watching the moon, too… perhaps listening to every word he said, like the stars…

“Oh.”

Harry heard the chair scrape against the tile, and Ron was up.

“I'll go get the milk,” Ron said quietly, “anything else you need?”

“No.” Harry had quite forgotten his earlier thoughts on the empty state of the fridge.

“All right.”

The door opened and closed, and Harry still stood at the trash bin, holding his dirty plate, and staring blankly at the stars.

He had expected to feel confused when this happened, dizzy and unsteady all at once. But instead he only felt a great peace settle over him, joy causing his heart to lift.

Hermione.

He remembered the way she had felt in his arms, that afternoon when he had dropped off the groceries. And how much he loved to simply be there with her. Regardless of whether she was upset, as least he was there to hold her, talk with her. Perhaps he'd even helped her.

He put the dish in the sink, leaning up against the counter edge.

Somehow, the idea of loving Hermione didn't seem as strange as he thought it might be. In fact, it felt rather familiar, as if he had come to terms with it long ago.

He smiled and ran a hand through his hair.

Perhaps he had, he reflected, otherwise it wouldn't have been so easy to tell Ron the truth.

He absently drained the last of the milk from his glass, staring the kitchen table.

It shouldn't have surprised him, really. There had been times—several times—where he had found himself on the verge of telling her that he loved her. Of course, he had caught himself in time—he had dismissed the idea quickly, at least consciously.

He put the glass in the sink and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

Was this what it felt like, then? To be in love?

He had expected some sort of epiphany—a revelation followed by sweaty palms, a racing heart, and a light head.

But, he realized, that was what he had gotten with all of his previous romantic relationships. And they hadn't lasted.

This was much more grounded, much more subtle… wonderful, yes, but no whirlwind.

Just warmth and contentment and joy. Peace.

Love. It had been so important to ending Voldemort, it was odd he hadn't recognized it.

He had supposed, after he ended his relationship with Ginny for the first time, that in order to have a successful relationship, he needed to keep her away from the dark parts of his life.

But Hermione knew. She knew what his life had been like during the Horcrux hunt—she had felt the same hunger, experienced the same frustration and weariness…

And because of that, she was so much more able to share in his joy. The peace he felt with her—he only hoped he could give her the same.

If she chose it, that is.

The door opened, and Ron strode in with a bag of groceries.

“Eggs and milk, and another loaf of bread.”

He poured a large glass of milk for himself and sat down at the table, picking up a fork and digging in to the cake with relish. After a pause, he looked up.

“Are you going to eat yours, Harry?”

“Oh—yeah.”

Ron waved his wand, and the carton tilted over Harry's empty glass. The glass then floated over to the table, where Harry sniffed the milk cautiously.

“I've taken a taste,” Ron assured him, “It's real milk.”

Harry gulped down a mouthful of the ice-cold milk, absently picking at the cake.

“Bit heavy on the icing, isn't it?” Ron remarked after a moment, gingerly scraping off the inch-thick layer of frosting. “Tastes all right, though.”

“Mmm...” Harry said, staring out the window. “Reckon I'll get to bed.”

He pushed the remains of his cake toward Ron's side of the plate. “Night.”

He strode past the living room and into his room, shutting the door. He blinked.

The last he had been in his room, clothes had been strewn across the floor and the bed. He hadn't had much time to straighten the room the past week.

But now, his clothes were neatly folded and put away. All the drawers were shut, the closet mirror was clean, and the bed was made.

He wandered over to the dresser, where another note lay on the top.

Really, Harry—is a cleaning spell too much for you?

He grinned, putting the note back on the dresser and beginning to undress. As he pulled out the drawer and reached for his pajamas, another piece of parchment fluttered to the floor.

He bent down, picked it up, and scanned it, his grin growing.

Put your clothes away, Harry. It builds up.

He laughed out loud and obediently tossed his T-Shirt into the hamper. As he glanced at the mirror, a note caught his eye.

I need to talk to you. Tomorrow at the park, around five? The children are visiting Molly and Ginny at the Burrow all evening.

He stared at the note, and let out a breath.

Tomorrow. He'd tell her tomorrow.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, crumpling the note in his hand.

What could she possibly want to talk about?

~*~

“And Jack's feeling a bit under the weather, Molly—“

As if to prove Hermione's words, Jack sneezed loudly, sniffling and rubbing his hand at his red nose. Hermione handed him a tissue off of the kitchen counter, and hugged him quietly.

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay at home? I can tell Harry to meet me later.” She pressed a hand to his forehead. “Do you feel like the fever has come back?”

“I'b okay,” Jack said, somewhat miserably. “But I dink I've got a fever again. I ache.”

“Oh, dear,” Hermione said, looking worried, “Maybe I had better take him home—“

“Nonsense, Hermione.” Molly said briskly, “It's only a cold—here, take another tissue, dear, don't use your sleeve—and I'm sure I know how to deal with that. Come along, Jack—we can put you up in Ron's old room. You have a lovely time, dear.”

Hermione kissed Jack's forehead softly.

“Get some rest, Jack. I'll come pick you and the others up later.”

She straightened and looked at Molly.

“Let me know if you need me to come home—Arthur showed you how to use the phone?” She motioned toward the cell phone.

“Don't worry,” Molly called back over her shoulder, walking toward the stairs with a very dejected Jack trailing behind her, “He'll be fine! Have a good time!”

Hermione took one last look at Jack, who had sneezed again, and then, turning on the spot, she Apparated to the woods behind the park.

~*~

“Harry?”

He jumped, then stood up. “Hermione!”

“Oh, Harry—you didn't do all this just for…” she trailed off, gazing at the picnic blanket. Next to it sat a large wicker picnic basket, clearly full of food. Two plates sat out on the blanket, along with silverware and napkins.

“I thought… well, you made dinner for us last night, and…” he fumbled, and found himself staring at her. The soft red cardigan she was wearing was the one she had worn those cold nights during the war, when she'd slept in the lower bunk. Her hair was pinned up into a messy sort of bun, and she looked flushed—prettily so.

A breeze gusted by them, and Hermione instinctively put a hand to her hair, though it swept a good amount of it across her face.

“We can eat whenever you like,” Harry said finally, shaking himself. “I thought… well, it's windy, and I…”

Suddenly he felt rather stupid as his voice trailed off. Hermione looked at him curiously.

“What is it, Harry?”

He turned red, and looked down at the grass, casting a quick glance behind him. There wasn't any backing out of it now, he reasoned firmly.

“I thought… well, I've always wanted to try this.” He bent and picked up the two kites he had bought, simple diamond kites, one blue and one green. “I would always see them at the park, and Dudley never had the patience for it—said it was stupid. But… I thought you might know…”

He rubbed the back of his neck with a hand, feeling rather embarrassed as his sentence faded off lamely.

“I've only tried once,” Hermione moved closer to him, looking at the kites, “But I'd love to give it another try.”

He looked up, and his breath hitched when he realized how close they were. She smiled and took the spool of the blue kite from his hand.

“If I remember how to do this…”

It took several experiments to get the kites flying. Hermione wasn't quite sure what she was doing, and Harry only knew what he had seen at the park when he was younger, and soon they were out of breath and laughing as they dashed about, coaxing the kites to ride the wind.

At long last, Harry and Hermione stood side-by-side, breathless and grinning, and watching their kites swirl about in the sky.

Hermione moved slightly closer to him, letting out some of the string for her kite. It nearly tangled with Harry's kite, and he laughed.

“Watch it!”

“I can't control it,” Hermione protested, laughing as well, “the wind does!”

He looked over at her, and he grinned. Her smiling face was flushed, her hair windswept, and he was reminded of what he had meant to tell her this evening.

“You said you needed to tell me something,” he said after a pause. She looked at him, toying with the spool of the kite and thinking.

“I'll… tell you later tonight. Not now.”

This aroused his curiosity immediately, but he let it go.

He cast about for something to talk with her about.

“How are the kids?”

She looked at him and smiled. “Oh, well, Jack's got a bit of a cold, but that's more or less it. I hope you enjoyed your dinner last night; the girls had such a good time helping me make it.”

“It was fantastic,” he said, grinning, “you even made enough for Ron.”

“I've had practice,” she said dryly, making him chuckle.

“I really appreciate the notes you left me,” he said, making her smile. “Very original.”

“Not quite,” Hermione said, laughing, “My mum used to leave me notes in my room. Not that it was ever messy—“

“Like mine?”

“Well, yes, like yours,” she said, “It was usually things like, `Don't forget that you have piano practice at four' or something like that.”

“You play piano?”

“Very badly,” she admitted, blushing, “I had a terrible teacher—she was only fourteen and I was nine—and I hated every lesson. I didn't last very long… oh, stop it!”

“Hermione Granger, hating lessons? That's something I never thought I'd hear.” Harry quipped, and grinned when she swatted him with her free hand.

“I only took about six lessons from her before I managed to convince Mum to let me stop. Of course, then she made me start girls' football instead…”

“You played football?” he blurted out in disbelief, and she looked slightly embarrassed.

“Two years of it.”

She saw his face, and she snorted.

“Really, Harry, just because I happen to value education over sports doesn't mean I never played sports at all.”

“Were you any good?” he said curiously. She shrugged modestly.

“I was a decent player, but I wasn't particularly talented. Just average, I expect.”

She looked up at the sky, where their kites were bobbing gently up and down in the wind. Harry looked up too, inwardly marveling at how little he knew about Hermione's life before Hogwarts. He resolved to talk to her about it more often.

“Would you like to eat now?” Harry suggested after a moment. She agreed, and they reeled in their kites.

After she sat down across from him, Harry reached into the picnic basket and pulled out the food. He had taken special care to bring her favorite foods: deviled eggs, crisp gala apples, bacon and tomato sandwiches (wheat bread, sliced in triangles), strawberries, and two large chocolate chip cookies.

“So did your parents do that a lot… make you do things, I mean?” Harry said as they ate. Hermione took a bite out of her apple and considered the question.

“They meant well,” Hermione said at last, using a napkin to wipe her mouth, “They liked to make sure I was… well-rounded, I suppose. I don't think they expected me to—well, to want to stay at Hogwarts.”
He stared at her.

“How couldn't they? You memorized our textbooks before we even arrived at Hogwarts!”

Hermione took another bite of her apple.

“Well,” Hermione said after a thoughtful silence, “I'm not quite sure they really understood magic, really. They rather thought it was going to be… a bit of a joke. Mum thought I was going to want to come home before first term even ended—I don't think they thought magic could be difficult. It wasn't academics they were worried about, when it all boiled down. They thought I was going to be disappointed.”

“So how much did they know about… me?” Harry asked cautiously, putting his sandwich down. She smiled.

“About you? Everything,” she said, putting her apple down, “About Voldemort? Close to nothing.”

“Your dad doesn't seem to be fond of me,” he said, remembering the phone call, “I almost thought…”

“…that he thought you were putting me in danger?”

He nodded slowly. He didn't blame Mr. Granger in the least.

“Daddy is slightly… overprotective,” Hermione said with an exasperated look, “If any man happened to look at me the wrong way, he'd immediately think that he was dangerous, too.” She paused, then reached out and covered his hand with hers.

“Don't dwell on it, Harry. It doesn't matter—we're both safe.” She squeezed his hand gently and picked up her apple again, unaware of the tingles her touch had sent down Harry's back.

“So when did you know?” Harry said after a moment. Hermione's life before Hogwarts fascinated him. He hadn't exactly had the most normal childhood as a Muggle, and Hermione had. It was a glimpse into a life he had always dreamt of when he was younger. “About magic?”

“When I did my first bit of accidental magic.” Hermione said, “It was when I was two.”

“What did you do?” Harry inquired as she nibbled at her apple again. She smiled.

“I was outside in the yard with my cousin when it started snowing. I kept insisting that the snowflakes were butterflies, and she wouldn't believe me, and I remember… I was so upset that she wouldn't believe me that I told her I would catch one and show her. Of course she just laughed and put me down, but the next moment—“ Hermione put out a hand, “I had a butterfly perched on my hand. There were dozens of them fluttering about me… I'm not exactly sure how it happened. But I remember putting out my hands, and at first all I felt was the snow melting on them, and then…” she shrugged, and Harry gazed at her, feeling strangely touched by the story.

“Did you know then?”

“That I was a witch?” Hermione shook her head, still smiling, “I knew it was magic. Children never have trouble believing that magic is real. It's the adults that have trouble.”

She looked down.

“I sometimes wonder…” she stopped, then looked at him. “Sometimes I feel like we take magic for granted. Accidental magic like that… it never happens to me anymore, but… it was beautiful.”

“It would have to be, since it was you,” he found himself saying quietly, and suddenly they were looking directly into each other's eyes, and he could see her eyes sparkle with a brightness he had never seen there before.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and her smile caused his heart to swell.

Tell her now, part of him urged, and yet the other part of him cautioned, not yet. Not quite yet.

“You're welcome,” he managed to whisper back. Then, realizing that he was still gazing at her in silence, he looked down and picked up his sandwich, taking a quick bite of it.

“Mine wasn't nearly as good as yours,” he said after a pause, “I grew my hair back when my aunt gave me a bad haircut. Appeared on the roof when I was running away from Dudley.”

“They treated you terribly,” Hermione said hotly, “I really don't know how you stood it.”

“Your letters always helped,” he said truthfully.

She paused, and then her smile returned, softer than before.

“I'm glad,” she said quietly, and she finished off her apple with a few more quick bites. “I liked hearing from you, too.”

“I wasn't very good about writing, was I?” he said, as she carefully wrapped her apple core in a napkin.

“You were better than Ron,” she said fairly. She paused.

“But not by much,” she added with a grin. He ate the last bit of his sandwich, wiped his mouth, and reached for a deviled egg.

“Ron didn't write me all that much either, really—but it all added up. And then when Dudley went on a diet, you were brilliant… sending all that food. I think I would have starved.”

She broke off a bit of her cookie and popped it into her mouth, looking thoughtful.

As they began to clean up the picnic, Harry noticed the sun beginning to set, sending soft streaks of pink across the sky.

“Want to go on a walk? There's a river not far from here,” he offered as Hermione folded their blanket and placed it on top of the basket. She propped the kites up against the basket, straightened, and smiled.

“Just like we used to,” she said, voicing his thoughts quietly, “around the lake.”

“Yeah.” Harry sensed the atmosphere shifting from the easy, comfortable mood that had settled over them at dinner to tentatively... something. Harry wasn't sure what it was. He only had the undeniable feeling of being on the edge—the brink of something new.

She smiled quietly, and he held a hand out to her. She took it, and he led her out of the park, through the woods, and to the banks of a slow-moving river.

The sky was a soft array of pinks, oranges, and bright reds. The softly rippled surface of the river reflected a watery imitation of the sunset..

“Hermione,” Harry said, as they walked along the grassy bank of the river, “you said you wanted to tell me something?”

She looked at him, and once again Harry's breath caught at the sight of her face, and she blushed nearly the same color of the sky, a soft pink spreading across her cheeks. She tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear, uncertainly wetting her lips.

“I... I did want to tell you something. Something... very important,” she said cautiously, and she let out a nervous half-laugh.

“I... I don't know how to say this.”

Harry's heart was suddenly thundering against his chest as he stopped, turned to face her, and took both of her hands. He wasn't sure why he had done so, but it felt like the right thing to do. She shifted on her feet, then moved very slightly closer to him.

“Harry, I... I really...” she swallowed and tilted her chin back, her eyes flitting across his face, and she seemed to falter. She looked away.

“Hermione?” He hadn't meant to whisper, but that seemed... right. He leaned forward and quietly, cautiously, he tilted her chin up so that she was looking him in eye. Her lips parted.

“I... it's just...” she stammered softly, and as he studied her face, he suddenly realized what had happened.

He licked his lips, barely able to hear himself whisper, “You, too?”

Her eyes widened as she released a deep breath.

“Yes,” she whispered faintly, “Do you mean...?”

“Yes,” he said rather hoarsely. “I... last night, I... I was going to tell you today—“

They gazed at each other. Harry was feeling rather overwhelmed, his mind seeming to shudder with shock.

She felt the same way.

And not only did she feel the same way, she knew. He gazed at her mutely, his hand still on her chin, and he felt his hand move up to press against her cheek.

“Hermione?” he managed to whisper. “How... when...?”

“That night when you dropped the groceries off... I—“

Her voice broke, and a few tears trickled down her cheeks, sparkling brilliantly in the fading sunlight. She blinked quickly and let out a tearful laugh.

“Yasmine and I... she made me realize that... that all I wished for... all this time... I was wishing for you,” she drew in a deep, shaky breath and smiled, “I... never thought that you might...”

“I never thought that you would ever...” he said hoarsely, his sentence trailing off as he felt himself move his face slightly nearer to hers. She laughed through her tears, and used a hand to brush them away.

“We're a right pair of idiots, aren't we? It's as if we both thought we were in unrequited love... at the same time.”

“That's what we are, aren't we?” Harry whispered in wonder, leaning his forehead against hers almost instinctively, “We're in love.”

He heard her let out a soft sob and another shaky laugh.

“Yes,” she breathed, and when she spoke, Harry was suddenly aware of how close their faces were. “We are.”

“I reckon I wouldn't want anyone else... to be in love... with me,” and suddenly their lips met, and Harry's whole body went weak as her arms went around his neck, and she felt so warm, quivering as she pressed up against him—her eyes were closed, and his were closed, and all he knew was the feel of her against him... and the one word running through his rather unsteady mind was, Finally...

A soft breeze stirred up around them, and Hermione pulled back with a soft, breathless, “Harry...”

He opened his eyes, and saw her smiling at him, looking pink and breathless. Slowly, his heartbeat slowed to a more steady beat, and he managed a soft grin.

“Oh,” was all he could say, rather weakly. She let out a breathy laugh, and he noticed how lovely her eyes looked in the moonlight.

“We should probably get home,” she said after a moment, “Jack's ill and I don't want to leave Molly with him for too long.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “Come on. Let's go get our things.”

Harry allowed her to lead him back to the park, and then, having sufficiently left the daze behind, he helped her collect the things.

They then returned to the woods, and Apparated to the Burrow.

The Burrow was surprisingly quiet when Harry knocked. The door opened moments later.

“Molly, might we use the Floo?” Hermione asked as Molly called up to the others. “And how's Jack?”

“The fever's gone, but I'm afraid his cough has gotten worse. I did give him some Pepper-Up Potion, so that should help. You know where the Floo Powder is, I'm sure—Harry, why don't you come in?”

Harry shook his head, looking at Hermione and smiling.

“I should probably get back home.” He let go of Hermione's hand and grinned. “I'll see you soon?”

“Of course,” Hermione turned rather pink, but she smiled all the same. She reached up and gave him a quick, tender kiss. “Good night, Harry.”

“Night,” he said softly, suddenly reluctant to leave. She smiled and shook her head.

“Go on, Harry. I'll see you soon.”

He grinned, kissed her one more time, and Apparated on the spot.

As soon as he had gone, Hermione turned around and saw Ginny gaping at her.

“What?” she said defensively, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by her brilliant smile and flushed cheeks. “What's wrong with you?”

“Did he just kiss you?” Ginny demanded, looking as if she were about to fall over in disbelief.

Hermione blushed an even deeper shade of pink.

“What do you think?” she said, obviously attempting to sound nonchalant.

“What do I think?” Ginny repeated, her voice growing louder with each word, “I think you owe me an explanation!”

“I don't owe you anything, Ginny,” Hermione said exasperatedly as Yasmine and Katy clustered around the fireplace.

Ginny spluttered.

“I've been all but shoving you two together for the past three months, and then you two show up and... kiss each other good night, for Merlin's sake! Right in front of me! As if it were perfectly normal!”

Hermione ignored her as she hurried Adrian and Ben and a still miserable Jack toward the fireplace, picking Jackie up and directing the others toward the pot of Floo Powder. However, her cheeks flushed again when Ginny mentioned the kisses.

“Don't think I can't see you blushing!” Ginny warned, “Oh, come on, Hermione, can't you tell me anything?”

Hermione considered this as she picked Oats up off the floor, still balancing Jackie in one arm. Katy and Yasmine disappeared into the fire as she did, with simultaneous cries of their address.

“No,” Hermione said after a moment, “Have a good night, and thank you so much for watching the children for me, Molly!'

“Oh, don't mention it, dear.” Molly said, smiling. “Do let us know whenever you need us to watch them—even if it's just for a date—“

“Thank you very much. Hold tight to me, Jackie!”

“For heaven's sake, Ginny,” Molly said with a sigh, as soon as they had gone, “don't look so disappointed! It's not as if you orchestrated the whole thing!”

“I helped with the picnic dinner.” Ginny said defensively, “Besides, I don't want all the details, just—“

“Ginny, someday you are going to have to learn to mind your own business,” Molly said with another sigh. “They did look so happy together, didn't they?”

“Happy? Of course they were!” Ginny said, sounding torn between being smug and indignant, “I told her that she had fallen for him, but did she listen? No! For six straight months—“

“That's enough from you,” Molly said sternly, “Up to bed.”

“I'm seventeen!”

“Thank you for enlightening me, dear, now march!”

Ginny scowled.

“Harry and Hermione are a month away from getting engaged, and I've still got a bedtime,” she muttered irritably, “Figures.”

A/N: I'm guessing most of you are about to murder Ginny mentally right now. Again, please let me know what you thought!

-->

A/N: And here we are at the next chapter. I hope you like it!

Chapter Twenty-Four

Yasmine flipped through a book of fairy tales, the largest and most beautiful of the books she had found in the bookshelves, with lovely soft pictures made with vivid colors and golden borders, and of course they didn't move, like magical ones did. She only had one magic book, and it was in Ancient Runes, and she had to get Hermione to translate it for her. But for some reason, Hermione didn't seem to enjoy those stories very much, so Yasmine didn't trouble her to read them to her that much, though she often wondered why Hermione didn't like the stories, and she spent a good amount of time imagining why.

Katy said that there wasn't anything too peculiar about that; after all there were some stories Yasmine didn't like to read, like The Railway Children. And Yasmine just didn't like it; there was no reason why, so why should Hermione have a reason for disliking those stories?

“I like that picture,” said a quiet voice behind her, and she jumped.

“This one?” she said, after seeing that it was Dusty. She ought to have gotten used to his odd way of moving without making noise, but she hadn't yet. “That's Cinderella, and this is the prince, and…”

He studied the picture over her shoulder.

Cinderella, slender and fair-haired with demure blue eyes, dressed in a graceful blue gown, danced in the handsome prince's arms. The prince had dark hair, and a modest gold crown, and dark eyes that smiled down on the girl in his arms. All of the people at the ball had gathered to watch.

“Good colors.” Dusty sat down next to her carefully. Yasmine nodded in agreement.

“Ben said his mother used to dance with him,” Dusty said suddenly, touching the couple with a chalky finger, “like that.”

He smiled slowly.

“Harry and Hermione went to a ball when they were younger.”

Yasmine's imagination went rather wild—Hermione in a long, elegant blue gown, with white gloves and pink cheeks, and Harry looking dashing and princely in a suit, and the dance floor clear except for the two of them, and their faces glowing with happiness as they waltzed around a gleaming white floor, with soft blue light around them and everyone watching…

“Harry says her robes were blue.” Dusty touched the gold border with interest, “But they didn't dance together.”

“Why not?” Yasmine felt rather disappointed as the vision of Harry and Hermione faded in her mind. Dusty shrugged.

“Doesn't matter. They're together now. Like the picture.”

She smiled with triumph.

“I knew it,” was Yasmine's first comment when Harry and Hermione had explained their relationship to the group over lunch, “I told you, Jack, didn't I?”

Miffed, Jack had retorted that Yasmine had said they would get married, and that they hadn't, so there. But then Yasmine had said, “I told you they were in love, and they are, aren't you?”

Hermione's dreamy smile was something Yasmine had tried to remember every detail of. The way her eyes had glowed, and the way she and Harry had looked at each other at the exact same time and held each other's gazes for a long moment…

Harry had said in a sort of whisper, “Madly.”

And Hermione had blushed, and Jack had made a face, and Ben and Adrian had shared embarrassed smiles. Jackie had fallen into a fit of giggles.

Yasmine had, that night, tried to imagine any boy saying that to her, and although the idea was lovely, the scene always turned out wrong, and Yasmine never knew what to do after the boy said it, so she had resolved to leave that until she was older.

Katy had of course spent the rest of lunch talking happily to Hermione about how glad she was, because they seemed so happy, and she was sure that Harry and Hermione would be happy for a long time, and she didn't know exactly how she knew, it was just a feeling that she had, and didn't Hermione know what she meant? And Hermione had given one those lovely, glowing looks to Harry and said that yes, perhaps she did know what Katy meant. Jack had made another face, and Adrian and Ben had hurriedly started up another conversation with Jack about the tree fort they were planning on building.

Harry and Hermione had been very careful around them, Yasmine realized as she flipped the page from Cinderella to Snow White, they'd only kissed once or twice and held hands while she and the others were present, and not for very long, either. In fact, except for the looks Harry and Hermione shared, and the way they smiled whenever you mentioned the other, she was rather disappointed at how… well, how normal everything was. When she had said this to Katy, Katy had shrugged and continued to examine the cogs of Harry's old wristwatch.

“I can't see why they can't be in love and be normal,” she had said, in that matter-of-fact way she had, “Isn't love supposed to last forever?”

Yasmine looked around and noticed that Dusty had slipped away again. She turned back to Cinderella.

She couldn't see anything normal about Cinderella, or Snow White, but Harry and Hermione… they were special. She ran a finger along the golden border, then touched Cinderella's smiling face.

Hermione looked just as beautiful, she thought, when she was with Harry.

Jack would have scoffed at her thoughts, but it was true.

She wondered what the ball had been like. Of course there had been music, and dancing, and… had there been food? Maybe… and why hadn't Harry danced with Hermione? Surely he must have wanted to; after all, she must have looked beautiful. Perhaps… perhaps she had come with a dashing stranger with fair hair, and Harry had felt as though he couldn't compete, and…

She let the thought fade off.

“Yasmine?” Hermione poked her head in the room, “Are you sure you don't want to go to the park with Harry and the others?”

Yasmine shrugged. “I don't really want to go.”

Hermione came in and sat beside her on the floor, peering at the book in her lap. “Cinderella?”

“What was the ball like?” Yasmine blurted out, and Hermione glanced at her, startled. For a moment, Yasmine was worried that she wasn't going to answer, for she was silent and thoughtful.

Then she spoke, smiling quietly.

“It wasn't… what I imagined,” she said slowly, “It wasn't like the one in your book.”

“What was it like, then?”

Hermione paused, thinking for a moment.

“It was… a bit frightening, actually.”

“Did you go with a dashing stranger?” Yasmine asked eagerly, and Hermione laughed, looking amused, and Yasmine was too excited to feel embarrassed.

“You could put it that way, I suppose. He was certainly a stranger to me at the time. He's a good friend of mine now.”

“But you and Harry didn't dance.”

“Goodness, no. I'm not sure he knew how,” she laughed again, and there was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were back in the ballroom. “He had to open the ball with his partner—“

Yasmine couldn't help but interrupt.

“Was she gorgeous?”

“The prettiest in our year,” Hermione said, without hesitation, and Yasmine stared.

“Weren't you terribly jealous?” she whispered, leaning closer to her. Hermione smiled.

“No, not really,” she said, putting an arm around her and leaning her cheek in her hair, “I didn't have anything to be jealous of at the time.”

“But you would be now.”

“Yes, I would be,” Hermione laughed, blushing that very pretty shade of pink, “But not then.”

“But if Harry couldn't dance, then how did he open the ball?”

“He… sort of waffled his way through it. His partner helped him. I think. I'm not sure.”

“You must have looked very pretty.”

Hermione smiled quietly.

“I've been told I did. I was very nervous, though, and I wasn't sure what people might think.”

“Of what Harry would think.”

Hermione paused, thinking again.

“Yes, of what he would think, and what others would think, too. It's a bit scary, really, your first date. That's what it was.”

“What was he like? Your partner?”

Hermione considered the question, fiddling with the corner of the book of fairy tales.

“Tall. Not particularly handsome, but charming enough. Strong, dark hair, a bit awkward on the ground—he played Quidditch—a good listener.”

At the look on Yasmine's face, she laughed again.

“Not exactly the Prince Charming you were thinking of, I expect.”

Yasmine shook her head.

“But what did Harry think of him?”

Hermione paused, tapping her fingers on the book and thinking.

“I'm not sure,” she said at last, as Yasmine looked at her. “He didn't mind him.”

“Did he kiss you?”

Hermione turned pink but shook her head.

“Only my hand,” she said, “he was a perfect gentleman. Some people thought that he had kissed me, but that was a rumor that someone started and nothing more.”

“So that wasn't your first kiss.”

Hermione shook her head.

“No.” And for some reason, she looked uncomfortable.

“Who was, then?”

Hermione let out a breath and looked at the floor for a moment, as if debating whether or not to answer.

“It was Ron.”

“Ron?” Yasmine blurted out, “But— I thought…” She simply couldn't picture tall, fun-loving Ron with Hermione. It had always been Harry in her mind, and she had never considered the fact that Ron might be a potential match for Hermione.

“You thought Harry would be the person to give me my first kiss, yes?”

“Well, you and Ron, you don't…” Yasmine made a quiet noise of disbelief and half-giggled. “Why?”

“It was silly, really, I just… made a ridiculous decision.” Hermione shrugged, “We both fancied each other, but that was it. It didn't have any… depth to it. We tried it and we were both unhappy. And we were smart enough to see through it.” She smiled. “Don't look so surprised, Yazzy. It's not quite as easy as stories make it seem.”

“But you gave Harry his first kiss, didn't you?”

“Oh, dear,” Hermione said with a quiet laugh, “no, I didn't. It was someone else.”

“And what was she like?” Yasmine asked, “Was she pretty?”

“Lovely. And very smart, really. Unfortunately, her boyfriend was killed by Voldemort in our fourth year—it was terrible.” Hermione's face darkened, “Harry was the last one with Cedric before he died. I suppose that's why she was drawn to him, more than anything. He was her last link to him.”

Yasmine fell silent. It was one thing in a story; in real life, it was just rather sobering.

“Did he like it?” she whispered after a pause. Hermione let out an astonished laugh.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Yasmine said awkwardly, “You don't seem like you liked your first kiss very much.”

Hermione blushed and chuckled sheepishly.

“I suppose he liked it. He was… very dazed when he told us about it. Actually, I had to guess myself, because he couldn't speak.”

“I bet he likes it when you kiss him, better,” Yasmine whispered loudly with a giggle, and Hermione laughed, turning an even brighter shade of pink.

“Hermione,” Yasmine said after a pause, “what's it like? You know, to really, really love someone?”

Hermione paused.

“I think that's something you need to find out yourself, Yaz,” she whispered, bending and kissing her forehead, “But know this: it's worth waiting for. It is every bit worth waiting for.”

Yasmine looked up into Hermione's eyes, full of light and hope and love, and she hugged her tightly.

“It's going to be an awfully long time for me, isn't it?”

Hermione laughed and hugged her back.

“Well, I met Harry when I was eleven. Who knows?”

Yasmine looked up at her.

“You waited for him, didn't you?”

“Not quite,” Hermione smiled and laughed, “We were together so much we didn't recognize what we'd been waiting for. We were odd that way. But you know that story.”

Yasmine laughed.

“I was a part of that story.”

Hermione smiled and shut the book of fairy tales.

“You still are.”

“Because the story isn't over yet.”

“Oh, no. The story is definitely not over yet,” Hermione said quietly, looking rather far away again, “Harry and I have a while to go.”

“But you're excited about it.”

She laughed and tickled Yasmine softly. “Very!” Yasmine squirmed and rolled away, laughing.

“Now let's go get some lunch. We can talk more about this later.”

~*~

“Let's make cookies!” Jackie said happily, as Hermione put away the last few dishes. “Chocolate cookies!”

“Chocolate cookies?” Hermione laughed, as Jackie hopped up on the stool Harry, Ron, and Katy had built for her. It had two green steps, the top step just high enough for Jackie to be waist-high to the kitchen counter. Jackie had dipped her feet in white paint and pressed two small, white footprints on the bottom step, and Dusty had carefully printed Jackie's name on the top step. “Right now?”

“With frosting!”

“And frosting? My, that sounds like a lot of work.”

Jackie gave Hermione her biggest, sweetest smile. “Not if we do it together!”

“Is that right?” Hermione playfully tapped Jackie's small nose, making her giggle. “And what about clean up?”

“I don't know…” Jackie frowned thoughtfully.

“Because if we make cookies, you have to help clean up, too.” Hermione said as Jackie thought, “That's part of cooking; you clean up after yourself.”

Jackie looked at Hermione hopefully.

“Could we clean up together, too?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, smiling, “we could.”

Jackie beamed. “Then let's start right now! And the others can have some when they get back from the park, right?”

“That's a good idea,” Hermione agreed, pulling out a recipe card and starting to take out the bowls and ingredients necessary for the cookies, “But maybe we'll do frosting some other time. I don't know if they'd taste as good with frosting on them.”

“Oh,” Jackie looked disappointed. “Okay. Could we make frosting tomorrow?”

“I don't know about that!” Hermione said, “We have the picnic with Harry and the Weasleys, remember?”

“Oh, yeah!” Jackie picked up the measuring spoons and pretended to stir ingredients in the bowl, “And we'll make things for that, right?”

“Right,” Hermione said, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out cocoa powder, while waving her wand and starting the oven. Jackie watched the oven knob turn to 350 degrees with wide eyes. “Ready?”

~*~

“Now roll a bit of the dough into a ball about this big--“ Hermione held up a small, one-inch ball of dark chocolate batter. Jackie eyed the ball carefully, then obediently rolled a small amount of dough into a ball of almost identical size.

“Like this?”

Hermione absently dusted a bit of the cocoa powder off Jackie's flushed cheek and smiled, “Yes, exactly like that. Now put them about this far apart of the cookie sheet—a little more, there you go—Harry, don't eat that!”

Harry grinned.

“Just making sure you made it right, Hermione,” he said innocently, making Jackie giggle. “Come on, you know you want to try it, too—“

He held up a small ball of the dough and popped it into her mouth. Hermione shook her head, smiling and rolling her eyes at Jackie.

“Does it taste good?” Jackie asked eagerly, and Hermione paused, swallowing.

“It's very good,” she said as Jack, Ben, Adrian, and Katy came through the kitchen, “Here, you can try a little, too—“

“Oh, I want to try!” Adrian said eagerly, peering at the cookie dough hopefully, “Can I?”

Of course then everyone crowded into the kitchen, and everyone took turns tasting the dough. Jackie positively glowed under the praise of the whole group, and then, obviously feeling important, bossily said, “All right, now we have to bake them! You have to go away now!”

The older kids smirked and exchanged looks that clearly said, Isn't she cute? Let's humor her. And they turned and made a great show of hurrying out of the kitchen, Adrian and Jack adding noises of terror for effect.

Ten minutes later, the cookies were baking in the oven, and Hermione was helping Jackie clean up the measuring cups and the mixing bowl with a rag and some soap.

Jackie, despite her misgivings, seemed to find the washing process enjoyable (“Almost like taking a bath, right?” she had said to a somewhat amused Hermione) and was soon up to her elbows in the soapy water, happily scrubbing at the mixing bowl.

“If only this lasted,” Hermione said somewhat ruefully, “I wish the others were so happy about washing dishes.”

Harry grinned.

“You've got flour on your face,” he said, using a hand to brush it off her cheek, “There.”

She smiled. “How was the park?”

“A few small scrapes, but no one died.” Harry said with a shrug, “Jack and Yasmine got into another argument over tag, but that was quick to sort out… and they really liked flying the kites.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said to him appreciatively, “For taking them out.”

“It was fun,” he said sincerely, “I didn't get to play much at the park when I was younger.”

She smiled, looking back at Jackie, who had finished with the mixing bowl and was perched on the counter, watching them in fascination.

“Off the countertop, please. Thank you!”

“Are you going to kiss her?” Jackie asked Harry curiously, obediently standing back on her stool. Harry grinned mischievously.

“Do you want me to?”

“Maybe a little one,” Jackie said, holding her small fingers a centimeter apart to indicate how little. Harry nodded seriously, his green eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

“All right. Just a little one.”

“Oh, really, I…” Hermione began, but Harry slid a hand up her cheek, playfully running his hands through her hair, and kissed her softly on the mouth. Her eyes fluttered shut as he did, and her arms slid around his waist tightly. Harry grinned, drew away, and glanced over at Jackie solemnly.

“How was that?”

Jackie giggled and shrugged, rocking back and forth on her feet and giving him a thumb up.

Harry bowed deeply, and Jackie laughed out loud. “Thank you very much, Miss Jackie!”

“Oh, all right, that's enough,” Hermione said exasperatedly, looking flushed and amused all the same. She picked Jackie up and put her down on the floor. “It's time for the cookies to come out of the oven, Jackie.”

She brightened. “Can I take them out?”

“Maybe when you're older,” Hermione said, flicking her wand and levitating the hot cookie sheets carefully to the counter. “Look at those! Good job, Jackie!”

Harry picked Jackie up and let her look at the hot round chocolate cookies on the cookie trays.

“Brilliant!” he said, squeezing her slightly. “Good job!”

She sniffed them happily. “Can I have one now?”

“Let's give them time to cool,” Hermione said, “And then you can have one.”

Jackie grinned and squirmed in Harry's arms, obviously indicating that she wished to be put down. He put her down, and she scampered outside, announcing at the top of her lungs, “The cookies are done!”

Harry chuckled as they heard her dashing up the stairs, still announcing that the cookies were done, and he said, “It looks like you've got a resident baker.”

“She'd bake every day if she could,” Hermione confirmed, cleaning the countertop with a damp rag, “I don't think I've ever cooked this much.”

He shrugged.

“You're good at it.”

“I try,” she said modestly, “though I have managed to burn a few things. Magic makes it much easier to start over.”

She ran cold water over the rag, wringing it out and hanging it on a hook over the sink. He watched her, leaning up against the counter.

“So how does it feel?”

“What do you mean?” she said, puzzled.

“How does it feel, being a mother of seven?” he clarified, and she frowned thoughtfully.

“A bit crazy, a bit frenzied, quite rewarding at the end of the day... It was all rather scary when I started, and sometimes I wonder how I haven't gone mad—sometimes I do…”

She smiled.

“You've been a great help.”

He smiled back, taking her hand. “I'm glad.”

After a pause, she stood on her toes, framed his face with her hand, and kissed him tenderly.

“I'm so lucky,” she whispered, looking at him with her hand still on his cheek. He smiled, leaning forward and kissing her forehead softly.

“That makes two of us.”

There was a comfortable silence, and then she said, “I'd better start taking these cookies off the pan.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No, that's all right. You're welcome to stay for dinner tonight.”

“I feel like I'm over here too much,” he said after a pause, “but I'd love to. I don't want to impose.”

She smiled.

“Nonsense. We love having you over.” She paused, and then added sheepishly, “I love having you over.”

He grinned and flushed, ducking his head.

“I'd love to stay,” he said as she began moving the cookies off the trays and onto a clean plate. He paused.

“Did I tell you what Ron said?”

She looked at him curiously. “No, I don't think so.”

“Merlin, Harry, you're practically married already; I don't know why you and Hermione even bother dating.” Harry said in a passable imitation of Ron's bemused and exasperated tone, and she snorted.

“And what did you say?”

Harry shrugged. “I told him he was right.”

Her head snapped up. “You did not!”

He looked completely serious. She gaped at him, completely nonplussed.

Moments later, he burst into laughter.

“No, I didn't,” he said, smirking, and she glared at him.

“That's not funny!”

“Yeah, it is, you just don't want to admit it.” He paused. “But you've got to admit that he has a point.”

“Ask me again in about a month and I might,” she said dryly, though Harry couldn't miss the sparkle that had entered her eyes, “Meanwhile, remind me to wait until after I'm married to introduce Ron to my parents.”

“Should I take that as a hint, then?”

Hermione looked up and saw him looking at her. His eyes were dark with sincerity, and she shrugged, her heart beating even more quickly as she did.

“Maybe.”

Harry smiled, and his eyes fixed on hers intently.

“I'll be sure to remind you soon,” he said softly, placing a kiss on her forehead.

She closed her eyes, a blanket of warmth settling around her racing heart as he touched her cheek.

“I'll go tell the kids that the cookies are ready, shall I?”

“Yes. You should,” she managed to say, looking down quickly and pretending to arrange the cookies on the plate. Her fingers trembled.

Well, you certainly didn't go for the subtle approach there, Hermione. The voice in her mind sounded suspiciously like Ginny's and annoyingly smug.

The moment Ginny had managed to get Hermione on her own (she had been folding laundry), she had crowed, “I told you, didn't I? I told you!”

To which Hermione had replied irritably that she sounded more like an eight year old than a seventeen year-old witch. Ginny had ignored her.

“So has he proposed yet?” Ginny had demanded as Hermione folded one of Dusty's shirts--he had managed to get a bit of paint on almost all of his shirts, so even though he and Jack had much of the same clothing, it was easy to tell.

“Of course not, Ginny,” she had said exasperatedly, “We've been dating a week. That's it.”

“Oh, come off it, you've been practically married since you took the kids in. He's their father figure, Hermione, and you're their mother figure. Tell me the logical next step isn't marriage. And there you go again, blushing like mad.”

“Harry and I are going to date. D- A- T-E. Did that reach you, or do I have to spell it again?”

Ginny had ignored this as well. She had what Hermione called selectively permeable hearing.

“You can't tell me you've never thought about marrying him.”

Which of course, Hermione hadn't been able to. In fact, in the past month that they'd been dating, Hermione had been thinking about it more than she would like to admit. Ever. To anyone. Least of all to Ginny. Hermione shuddered, picturing Ginny pouncing on this little tidbit of information and concocting scores of ruses to get Harry to propose.

Ginny was a very good person, and she would do anything to help her friends. As far as Hermione could tell, it had been hard for her when she and Harry had broken up. She was very good at hiding it.

But Hermione had noticed. She had done all she could, and eventually Ginny had gotten over the breakup. She did so surprisingly quickly, and Hermione distinctly remembered Ginny telling her in a businesslike manner, “If I'm not right for him—don't look like that; I really am over him—then I might as well help him find someone who is. Someone perfect for him in every way.”

Hermione had been too busy trying to dissuade her from this to notice the odd look Ginny had cast her.

Ginny was a good friend. Really, she was. But she tended to have an odd idea of what `helping' a friend really meant. At one point, Ginny had informed her that it was her job to keep Hermione from going insane.

To which Hermione had replied that Ginny was one of the reasons she had gone mad in the first place.

They got along fairly well along those terms.

Nevertheless, Hermione sometimes wondered if perhaps it wouldn't be better tell Ginny to find a boyfriend so that she could stop bothering about where Hermione stood with hers.

But Hermione didn't know that herself.

“Should I take that as a hint?”

And she had said `maybe'?

Well, I couldn't very well have said, “Yes, you daft git, you should, even though we've been dating only a month, and even though my mother would probably declare you the answer to her prayers and monopolize the wedding plans, and even though my father would probably murder you with his dentist tools. Because I'm insane. Because I can't imagine marrying anyone else. Because I love you.”

And again Ginny's voice spoke in her mind. Well, you'd probably be better off than you are now.

And Hermione couldn't help but think that she might have been right.

A/N: So… yes. That's the chapter. Too much of a jump? Too rushed? Too short? Whatever you thought of it, please let me know.

On a side note, if you'd like to bake the cookies Jackie and Hermione baked, you can find the recipe here: http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Soft-Chocolate-Cookies/Detail.aspx

I've never made them before, but the picture looked very appetizing. And they were chocolate. I might make them myself.

-->

A/N: So this chapter was probably the hardest for me to start. I wrote a good seven drafts, actually, and this is what I ended up with. And Ginny… well. She's definitely in here. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Five

“What exactly are you waiting for?”

Harry jumped and nearly dropped his food to the floor. Ginny was standing in the doorway of his flat just as Ron walked into the room.

“What?” he said warily, tightening his hold on the sides of the plate. Ginny stalked in with a dangerously purposeful look in her eye; Harry cast a look at Ron, who shrugged and gave a look that told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was on his own.

“Exactly what are you waiting on? Another war?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Harry picked up a fork and tried to look nonchalant, “care to explain?”

“I'll make it very simple for you,” Ginny said through gritted teeth. She paused, took a step forward, and looked him straight in the eye. There was a moment of silence in which Harry sincerely wished that he could melt off the face of the earth rather than endure much longer of her stare.

“PROPOSE!”

This time Harry really did drop his plate: Pig let out a hoot of delight and whizzed around Harry's head, looking elated that someone else was breaking things for a change. The little owl then proceeded to crash into the ceiling lamp and shower glass onto the kitchen table.

“That's out of line!” Ron said angrily, obviously forgetting about trying to preserve his own life, “Harry will do it when he feels it's the right time. Stupid owl!” he added, snatching Pig out of the air and mending the lamp with a wave of his wand.

“When Harry feels it to be the right time, he won't have any teeth left to propose, and he'll probably need help getting down on one knee!” Ginny seethed, glaring at Harry, “Look, you prat, Hermione may be willing to wait around forever—she's insane like that; I suppose that's what happens when you fall in love—but I'm not and you shouldn't be either! Have you got a ring? No? When were you planning on asking her, in the next century or so?”

“Come off it, Ginny!” Harry said irritably, “I'll do it, all right? Just… just not yet—“

“What are you waiting for?” she thundered, and Harry winced. “She's not going to say `no'!”

“How do you know? She might… I don't know,” he finished feebly, and this only seemed to heighten Ginny's obvious frustration.

“Look,” she said, jabbing a finger into Harry's chest and barking out the words like a drill sergeant, “I'm going to Hogwarts in about two weeks, and I'm not going to be around all year to push you into making a move! So get a move on before I lose my temper—“

“Too late for that one, Gin—“ Ron muttered, and he cringed when she whirled on him.

“And you!” she said, clearly in the mood for venting her rage, “What are you playing at? Are you going to let Luna go off to Hogwarts without knowing how you feel about her? That's right, you're not, or I'll tell her myself!”

“Fine, fine, I'll do it!'” Ron mumbled, avoiding Harry's astonished gaze and positively wilting. Ginny glared at him and threw up her hands.

“Right!” she barked, “You! Off to the jeweler's—yes, now, when did you think I meant? And you— no, not you—the idiot who I call my brother! Go make dinner reservations for you and Luna—where? You dunce! You can't even think of that yourself? So what if you haven't had lunch? Get moving! Go-go-go!”

As the two men hurried out the door, there was a crack of Apparition, and Hermione appeared just in time to see Ginny bawl after them, “And you had better do it properly, understand?”

“I'm sorry,” Hermione said rather dryly, “I must have come to the wrong flat. I didn't want to enlist.”

“You!” Ginny seized Hermione by the arm and marched her back out, “You and I are going to have a little chat—don't argue! Don't you dare argue with me, Hermione Jane Granger!”

“But what are we doing? I thought we were going to—“

“…I said don't argue!" Ginny hissed, leading Hermione down the stairs with the force of a trainer leading an unruly animal.

“But I—“

“You,” Ginny announced to Hermione (and the highly interested group of people who had gathered in the lobby), “are getting engaged!”

“But Harry…”

“Argh!” Ginny's face was so red and furious that she looked quite mad; Hermione took a step back. “You three are the three slowest people in the history of this world! Where would you be without me?”

“I don't know; surrounded by a group of people who actually find their own lives more interesting than mine.” Hermione said, who looked understandably angry and embarrassed. “Will you ever stop meddling? Honestly!”

“You're getting older as we speak, and I'm sick and tired of hearing that he still hasn't proposed!”

“Ginny, I'm eighteen. That's hardly old. That's actually considered quite young, at least by people who have lives.” Hermione rolled her eyes and added under her breath, “and brains.”

“We,” Ginny said loudly, “are going to have a chat. And so help me, you are going to be Hermione Jane Potter by the time I finish my seventh year, or I'll go mad! Don't say anything!”

She dragged a protesting Hermione out of the lobby.

Once they had gone, the room was so silent that no one appeared to be breathing.

“Well,” said one highly amused Healer Pruitt, “I suppose I can cancel our lesson for today.”

“You know that raging tomato, Pruitt?” asked his companion in astonishment, “Don't tell me that was your trainee.”

“Oh, the… ah--raging tomato wasn't a student of mine, it was the poor girl behind her.” Healer Pruitt chuckled. “How do you like weddings, Brecket?”

“Oh, I love them,” said Brecket, brightening, “and who will be the groom?”

“Supposedly I will,” said a voice behind him. They turned and saw Harry and Ron standing in their midst with rather miserable faces.

“If Ginny doesn't murder the bride, the groom, and the best man before the engagement,” Ron added mournfully.

“But I wouldn't get your hopes up,” Harry said grimly, “Let's go, Ron… I'm starving.”

They wandered up the stairs.

“And that, Brecket,” said Pruitt, “is the reason why I will forever be a bachelor.”

Brecket nodded in solemn agreement.

~*~

“Ginny, you're home!” Molly stopped short as Ginny stalked past her, dragging an alarmed and embarrassed Hermione into the kitchen after her. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I have had it!” Ginny declared. “Drastic times call for drastic measures—“

“Drastic measures?” Hermione repeated, glaring at Ginny. “Drastic measures? I don't know what you call this, but it's not just friendly intervention! This is insane!”

“Insane? Insane for wanting you happy and engaged to the person you're madly in love with?” Ginny threw her hands in the air, “You two have been dancing around the inevitable for a year!”

“Then let us dance!” Hermione said, and Ginny was surprised to notice that she sounded close to tears, “Then let us make our own mistakes! Harry and I are still working things out, Ginny, don't you see? We've never had a relationship like this before. I've never had a relationship like this! I do want to spend the rest of my life with him, Ginny, I won't pretend I don't, I love him more than I've ever loved anyone—I love him more than I ever thought I could love anything! Don't you see how frightening that—“ and she choked on her words, stopping short, her eyes wide.

There was dead silence in the room as Hermione looked away, scrubbing at her tears and flushing.

“Ever since I've started taking care of these children,” she said at last, her voice trembling, “Harry's been with me. And he and I… we started this relationship seriously. And… I—at first I… I knew I wanted to marry him; I couldn't imagine it with anyone else,” she took in a deep breath, “but the more I thought about that, the… more frightening it seemed. Everyone seemed to expect us to, but I don't know if I… I don't know how to—I'm… what if I'm a terrible wife? What if we argue? What if… what if I… what if I ruin everything? I couldn't bear it. What if when I say `I do', I… do everything wrong?”

“Oh, Hermione,” Ginny managed to say, feeling as though someone had punched her hard in the gut, “Hermione, I'm sorry. I… didn't realize—“

“Come sit down, dear,” Molly said quietly, and Hermione sank into a chair at the kitchen table, burying her face in her arms.

“I'm insane. I'm completely insane,” Hermione choked, taking the tissue Molly took from her, “I'm not even engaged—and I'm…”

“Having pre-wedding jitters?” Molly finished as Hermione blew her nose, “Well, I won't pretend that's not unusual, but you're right. Most of us have taken for granted that both of you were going to marry.”

Hermione put the tissue down and wiped her eyes with a hand.

“It's not that I don't want to,” she said, “because I do, I would marry him in a heartbeat, but… but I just don't want to—“

“…fail him.” Ginny put in, and Hermione gazed at her in surprise. “You're afraid that things won't work out.”

“He hasn't even proposed yet!” Hermione burst out, looking at them helplessly, “But as long as we're just dating—if things don't work out—“

“You won't do everything perfectly, Hermione,” Molly said gently, “It's not like school, where you can study and be prepared perfectly. But the good thing about it is, you'll have second chances. Harry will love you no matter what, as trite as that sounds.”

“And he hasn't even proposed yet,” Hermione said, scrubbing at her eyes, “I've humiliated myself…”

“Ah, well… bit of humiliation never hurt anyone,” Ginny said, more brightly, “And I say this from experience.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Hermione managed a weak smile, and Ginny grinned.

“It's my job,” she said,

~*~

“Most of the time I can't believe me and Ginny are related,” Ron said to Harry, examining his reflection in the mirror, “But it's times like these that I wish we weren't. Pass me that comb again, will you? Barking mad—did you see her today?”

“Course I did, mate,” Harry said, making a noise of irritation, “You'd think proposing to a girl is the most normal thing in the world, the way she talks about it. It's not. It's completely terrifying!'

“Oh, come off it, it's not like you have to worry about her turning you down,” Ron said, inspecting his robes and turning his head, examining both sides of his face, “She'd marry you if you proposed to her in Gobbledegook. Not that I'd suggest it, mind—she's probably looking for something a bit more romantic…”

“Look, everyone's talking about it like she's already said yes,” Harry said, “but she hasn't. She hasn't shown much inclination to getting married, either—“

“Well, come on, mate,” Ron said reasonably, “you haven't asked her, have you? That's the whole reason for asking. Anyway, this is Hermione we're talking about. You know, the one who's been obsessed with you since you were eleven? The one who went on the run with you for a year looking for bits of a maniac's soul?”

He paused.

“How do I look?”

Harry stared at him. “You're asking me?”

“Seriously, mate, how do I look?” Ron said, turning sideways and examining himself from that angle.

“Fine. How would I know?” Harry said, “And you don't know that Hermione will say yes. You don't. I don't.”

“Well, she won't if you don't ask her,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. When he saw Harry's face, he sobered slightly.

“Look, you love her, don't you?” he said, putting down the comb.

“More than anything.”

“And she loves you, doesn't she?” Ron persisted, “Merlin, mate, don't look at me like that. `Course she loves you. She has for a long time, all right? You don't have anything to worry about.”

He sighed and gazed at himself in the mirror.

“Me, on the other hand,” he said, ruefully picking up the comb again, “I'm going on a date with Luna. Luna Lovegood. She's going to think I'm a complete idiot.”

“Luna? Nah. She'll probably just think the wrackspurts have got you.” Harry said, trying to be reassuring. Ron didn't look encouraged.

“What's a wrackspurt?”

“Dunno. Talk to her about it.” Harry sat on the edge of Ron's bed. “If Ginny thinks I'm proposing tonight, I'd hate to think what she'll say tomorrow. I haven't even got a ring.”

“Just say you don't know Hermione's ring size,” Ron said helpfully. Harry stared at him.

“Rings have sizes?” he said blankly.

“Yeah, I didn't know that either,” Ron said, “but it works, doesn't it? Gives her something to investigate—gives you a bit of time. She'll find it out for you, too. It's a bit scary, how good she is at finding out things about other people.”

He glanced at his watch.

“Well, I'd better get going,” he said with a deep breath, “Wish me luck, mate.”

“Have a good time,” Harry said, “ask her about the wrackspurts; I've always wanted to know.”

Ron took one more glance in the mirror, squared his shoulders, and in a moment, he had gone.

Pig twittered happily and perched on Harry's shoulder. He looked at the owl's massive eyes and sighed.

“Reckon I should visit Hermione?”

Pig hooted.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Harry said, standing and walking out of Ron's room, the owl swaying happily on his shoulder. “I should get something better on…”

He shut the door to his room and strode over to the closet, opening it and looking ruefully at the few clean shirts he had left.

“Suppose I should do some laundry soon,” he cast a look at his hamper grimly. It was overflowing the dirty clothes.

“Well, what do you think, Pig?” Harry pulled out a green flannel button down that Ginny had given him for Christmas. He pulled it over his white T-Shirt and examined himself in the closet mirror, hanging on the door. “Works for me.”

Pig hooted again, fluttering off of Harry's shoulder and perching on the bedpost.

Harry hesitated, then grabbed his wand and Apparated out of the flat.

~*~

“And then what happened?” asked Yasmine, hiding a giggle. Katy closed her eyes, tugging at her auburn braid and thinking hard, wrinkling her nose.

“And then… and then the talking, polka-dotted dog sprouted wings and flew out the window.”

“And then what happened?” asked Adrian, grinning.

Yasmine thought for a moment.

“And then the talking, polka-dotted dog with wings annoyed an angry cloud, who threatened to hold him captive.”

“And then what happened?” Katy asked Adrian. Adrian thought for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on his lip.

“And then… the angry cloud fried the talking, polka-dotted dog with wings with a bolt of lightning.”

The girls fell into fits of laughter. Katy rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin with her hands.

“But how can we finish the story without a main character?”

“Make him come back to life!” Adrian said, grinning.

“But how?” Yasmine said, crossing her legs and hugging a pillow. Adrian smirked.

“Another bolt of lightning, of course.”

“That's dumb,” Jack said disdainfully as the girls looked at each other and laughed, looking up from Treasure Island, “That whole game is dumb.”

“So? It's fun,” retorted Yasmine, rolling back onto her back. “What else can we do?”

“We could play cards. Or read.”

“We could read—“ Jack began, but Ben, Katy, Adrian, and Yasmine cut him off.

“Not Treasure Island!”

“Shh!” Yasmine said hastily, realizing how loud they had been, “We can't wake up Jackie.”

Everyone fell silent. In that silence, they heard a sudden crack down in the foyer.

“Harry's here!” said the girls in unison.

~*~

“How was the exam?”

Hermione dried her hands on a dishtowel, making a face. He grinned.

“Let me guess—you're certain you've failed it.”

She felt her heart give a particularly enthusiastic thump as he came to stand beside her, sliding an arm comfortably around her.

“I really did this time,” she said, hiding a grin. He gently kissed her forehead.

“You always say that,” he said, stating the obvious, “and you've always scored higher than should be allowed.”

She smiled.

“What? No retort?” he said teasingly, “Only a smile? What happened to you?”

“Are you saying I can't keep quiet?” Hermione challenged, and he laughed.

“Not if you don't want to,” he said, brushing a curl of hair way from her face, “and there's nothing I can do to make you talk if you want to.”

There was a pause, and Hermione leaned up against him.. He tightened his arm around her, struck by how comfortable the silence felt.

“Hermione?”

“Hmmm?”

He leaned his cheek against her hair.

“Do you love me?”

The question was so simple, so earnest, Hermione felt her throat constrict. She smiled and held the hand of the arm that was looped around her waist.

“Yes.”

He paused.

“Do you mind saying it?”

“No,” she turned, and he put his other arm around her, and she smiled. That smile that made him light-headed with wonder and disbelief that such a smile could be directed at him.

“I love you, Harry James Potter, and nothing's ever going to make me stop.” She stood on her toes and kissed him. He put a hand on her cheek, rubbing her cheekbone with his thumb. He gazed down at her quietly, and his eyes suddenly brightened, and an expression of surprise flitted across his features. He paused, leaned closer to her, and spoke again.

“Marry me?”

She felt herself go completely limp in his arms; he tightened him embrace around her and used a hand to tilt her gaze toward his.

A shy half-smile hovered about his right cheek as he repeated his question nervously, “Marry me?”

He paused, and blurted out, “Please?”

She felt as though a great daze had captured her entire body; her knees were trembling like mad and tears were welling up in her eyes, and there was the strangest feeling sweeping over her, sapping all strength from her body, and it took her a moment to recognize the feeling.

It was joy.

He licked his lips, and fumbled, “I… I don't even have a ring—I'm sorry… I've made a mess of things as usual—but… but when you said… when you said that you loved me—I couldn't wait. I couldn't wait another second. And I know you probably wanted something more romantic, but Hermione, I can't wait— that is unless you want me to... and I didn't know rings had sizes…”

He paused and hurried on, “And I know you're supposed to kneel, but… I forgot. Merlin, I've just ruined everything, haven't I?”

He stopped.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday,” Hermione managed to whisper faintly. “The tenth. July.”

“It's been a month. You said… I should ask you in a month, and- well, here I am. I've… please, Hermione?” he paused and gently nuzzled her cheek with his nose, “Be mine?”

She let out a breath and realized she was sobbing, and before she could think she had blurted out an answer.

“Yes, yes… a thousand times, yes—“

He drew back, holding her tightly and gazing at her in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Yes?” he repeated, his voice quivering, “You… don't mind?”

“Mind? I couldn't imagine… I don't ever want to imagine anything else,” she buried her face in his shoulder, “Do you realize what you've gotten yourself into?”

“You said yes. I'm still trying to convince myself that you said yes, at the moment.”

“Oh, Harry, I'll make such a mess of things—I'll probably be a terrible wife—“

“But you'll be mine,” he said softly, “if you're trying to talk me out of it, it'll never work. It never has.”

She raised her tear-stained face to him, beaming and laughing and crying all at once.

“Oh, Harry. Harry!”

He grinned, and his eyes suddenly felt very wet, and she was holding onto him tightly, and he was stroking her hair, realizing for the first time what had just happened.

She was going to marry him.

She was marrying him.

His wife.

This woman, this beautiful, intelligent, bushy-haired, brown-eyed, loving woman was going to be his wife.

She felt his chest shudder under her arms and she held him tighter.

Harry was crying.

“Oh, Merlin. How did I ever… when did I ever deserve you? How did I…”

He buried his face in her hair, and she began to cry all over again.

“Stop it, Harry, or I'll never stop crying,” she sobbed, and he grinned through his tears, gazing at her through the tearstains on his glasses.

“How was that for a terrible proposal?” he choked, and she kissed him quickly, putting her arms round his neck.

“It was terrible—and the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard in my life.”

Against the wall near the kitchen doorframe, Katy and Yasmine beamed and stifled laughter of pure joy, nearly knocking Dusty, Ben, Jack, and Adrian flat as they joined each other in a little dance. Yasmine peered around the door frame, then turned and looked at Katy, her eyes dancing.

“And then what happened?” she whispered.

Dusty smiled a long, slow smile.

“A new picture,” he said simply, and as Katy looked at him, she found herself believing him.

“What about a happy ending?” suggested Adrian. Yasmine shook her head.

“It's a beginning,” she corrected him, looking dreamy. “A new, wonderful, perfectly perfect beginning.”

A/N (2): Well. There you go. The last of the seven drafts of this chapter. Hopefully you're not completely disappointed.

I should add that after this chapter, updates will definitely be slower, though hopefully I can settle into a regular schedule with them. School is coming up and I'm headed off for a vacation, so… yes. I hope this was enjoyable!

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A/N: Thank you so much for all the feedback you gave me on the last chapter! This chapter is relatively longer than the others. I'm hoping to settle into a weekly schedule for updates. I hope you enjoy this chapter! (Additionally, many thanks to jane_s, who recommended this fic on the rec machine—it was very flattering!)

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Psst!” Katy crawled onto Yasmine's bed softly, prodding her gently in the shoulder. “Yazzy?”

“Hmmf?” Yasmine mumbled, hugging her comforter and rolling over. Katy crossed her legs and peered at her in the moonlight.

“Do you really think we ought to have listened?”

Yasmine yawned and stretched, reluctantly opening her eyes and blinking sleepily up at Katy. “Listened to what?”

“Harry and Hermione. You know, when Harry asked her to marry him.”

“I don't know. I think it's all right.” Yasmine yawned and rolled over. “Go back to bed.”

“Because I was just thinking,” Katy said, watching her shadow stretch across the bed in the silvery moonlight, “I was just thinking that was a very special thing, don't you think? Almost too special.”

Yasmine was silent for a moment, then she sat up slowly and looked at Katy thoughtfully. “Do you really think so?”

Katy nodded slowly. Yasmine twirled a curl of hair around her finger.

“I suppose you're right,” she said quietly, looking down. “I don't know.”

They were silent again, both looking (and feeling) very guilty. Katy tugged on her messy auburn braid and looked up.

“What do we do?”

Yasmine thought for a moment.

“We'll be happy,” she said at last, “We won't pretend we didn't hear, if they ask, but we don't need to tell. Besides, we are happy for them.”

Katy agreed and lay back next to Yasmine, gazing up at the ceiling.

“What do you suppose it's going to be like, when they're married?” Yasmine said suddenly, turning and looking at Katy. Katy reflected.

“I'm not sure. What do you think?” she said. Yasmine sighed and closed her eyes.

“Different,” she said at last, “but more like—well, more like a family.”

Katy closed her eyes too, listening to the crickets outside the window. After a pause, she whispered back, “Do you suppose that's what we are?”

The moment she said it, she wished she could take it back. It felt as though she had said something that no one else had ventured to say yet, and she didn't like the feeling. Uncertainty and hope made an uncomfortable combination, and it felt worse when Yasmine didn't say anything back. Yasmine was the one Katy had always counted on to imagine the future, and if she was afraid to guess at it…

But then Yasmine spoke again.

“We could be. That's what makes it all so horrible to imagine, because if… well… I love them, Katy. Don't you?”

Katy swallowed and squeezed Yasmine's hand.

“Yes. But suppose…”

“Don't say it.” Yasmine said miserably, “Don't say it. I can't imagine it. I'd be miserable if…”

“Don't you go and say it!” Katy whispered, and Yasmine fell silent. They lay and stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed and frightened for perhaps the first time in months. The silence was terrible, but both of the girls thought that bursting into tears, as they were close to doing, would be far, far worse.

~*~

“You're a bit quiet today, Yaz,” Hermione commented as Yasmine set the table. “Is anything wrong? Oh, dear.”

Yasmine had jumped so abruptly upon hearing her name that she had dropped a glass. It shattered and sent glass flying all over the kitchen. An ornery hiss sounded from beneath the kitchen table, and Yasmine felt her throat tighten dangerously when she saw Crookshanks glaring at her with his fur standing up on end.

“Sorry,” she said desperately, “I… I wasn't—“

Crookshanks yowled as she accidentally trod on his tail. Yasmine leapt back, and the cat padded out of the kitchen, looking thoroughly incensed, flicking Yasmine with his injured tail.

“Sorry,” Yasmine said again, and she was horrified at how miserable her voice sounded. She cleared her throat and tried to smile, but she could not keep a few tears from trickling down her cheeks.

Hermione flicked her wand and picked the newly mended glass up off the floor.

“It's perfectly all right, Yaz,” she said kindly, using a hand to brush the tears off her cheeks. “What's bothering you? You don't quite seem yourself.”

Yasmine wiped her eyes. “Nothing.”

Hermione hesitated, and she knelt down beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “This is about the engagement, isn't it? It seems to bother you.”

“No, it's not that,” Yasmine said quickly, “I think it's wonderful. Really, I do, and I… I just… I didn't sleep well last night, that's all.”

Hermione studied her for a moment, then sighed and nodded.

“If you're sure,” she said, standing. “You can talk to me about it, you know.”

Yasmine said yes, she did know, and smiled just to banish the worried look in Hermione's eyes. She and Hermione talked about Jane Eyre, which was a bit hard for Yasmine to read but she loved it anyway.

“Harry has cousins like that,” Hermione said, when Yasmine mentioned John and Eliza and Georgiana, “Well, actually, only one. I don't know what he's like now—Harry said that he seemed a bit better the last time he talked with him—but when Harry was younger, he was a terrible bully.”

She waved her wand and sent the top of the saucepan settling over the pan. “Hogwarts was a bit better than the school Jane ended up in, though.”

“I suppose no one died of disease at Hogwarts,” Yasmine said, putting the last fork in place. Hermione thought for a moment.

“Well, no… not in that sense,” she agreed, “in our second year… well, never mind.”

“What?” Yasmine said curiously, “You can tell me, can't you?”

“Well,” Hermione said after a pause, “I suppose. In our second year, Voldemort opened the Chamber of Secrets.”

“What's that?” Yasmine said, coming to stand beside Hermione, “It sounds mysterious.”

“Well, it was mysterious, I suppose,” Hermione said, though her voice was rather grim, “according to legend, it was created by one of the founders of Hogwarts—Salazar Slytherin. Only his heir could open the chamber—and unleash a monster. It was meant to `purge' the school of… well, of people like me. Muggleborns, half-bloods…” her voice trailed off, and she looked at Yasmine cautiously.

“He wrongly believed that only purebloods were worthy to learn magic,” she said, emphasizing the word wrongly. “The Chamber had been opened once before, and… a student was killed—a girl. Her ghost haunts the girls' toilet at Hogwarts. Tom Riddle—that was Voldemort's name before he became—what he was—was the heir of Slytherin.”

She paused.

“He was a wizard possessed of an extraordinary power—Parseltongue, or the ability to talk to snakes. Only a Parseltongue could open the chamber, and only a Parseltongue could control the monster—a basilisk. A basilisk is a giant snake with a deadly stare. If a person was to look at the snake directly in the eyes, they would die instantly.”

Yasmine felt a chill creep over her, and Hermione gazed out on the kitchen, her eyes distant and lost in memories.

“And… did anyone else die?”

Hermione turned her gaze to Yasmine and smiled quietly.

“No, thank goodness. No one died. Several came close,” she said, then hesitated. “If you were to catch an indirect glimpse of a basilisk's eyes—a reflection, for example—you would only be Petrified.”

“What… what does that mean?”

Hermione looked down on the stove, and Yasmine noticed her hand tightening around her wand. Her other hand rested on the countertop, and as she flexed her slender fingers, the engagement diamond sent glittering flecks of light across the counter.

“A victim would become as still and as stiff as stone. Never breathing, never blinking, never moving. Alive, but no one could see it.”

Yasmine saw something in Hermione's eyes then—she saw a memory flicker in her brown eyes and across her face. She put her wand down on the counter, her eyes fixed firmly on her engagement ring—the three diamonds set in the slender, golden band.

“And this happened at Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” Hermione said quietly, “it did, and it was very frightening.”

“Did… did you know anyone who…?” Yasmine ventured, and Hermione flinched. But she nodded.

“Yes,” she said evenly, “I was one of them.”

Yasmine gaped at her. “You… you were Petrified?”

Hermione nodded.

“Harry must have been so upset,” Yasmine said softly, and Hermione smiled.

“He visited me in the hospital wing. Madame Pompfrey said there was no point in talking to me—she thought I couldn't hear—but I could. I could hear, and I wanted… very much—to say something back. But being Petrified... you're trapped. The worst part is your mind is awake. And I worried,” she said with a forced laugh, “I worried and fretted all the time. You see, Harry… he has the tendency to be in the middle of things, and I couldn't stand not knowing… I knew what the creature was and I knew how the basilisk was getting around—it was using the plumbing—and I had just returned from the library, having figured it out. I warned another girl in the toilet to be careful and we were using her mirror to get around corners, but… that's when I was attacked. Luckily I had a page from a book in my hand with all of the information on the basilisk, and Harry found it. It was when… well, Ginny was taken down into the Chamber of Secrets. Then of course, Harry and Ron went off to rescue her… and they did.” She smiled.

“They did it. I remember when I first woke up—that's what it felt like, almost like coming back from the dead—and I was so excited to hear that they had done it, and I literally ran down the Great Hall screaming that they had solved it…” she laughed, looking embarrassed, “it was quite a year.”

Yasmine smiled, and she leaned up against the counter, cautiously extending a hand toward Hermione's. Hermione let her take it, and Yasmine ran her finger softly over the cool, gleaming diamonds in the ring.

“Yasmine,” Hermione said quietly, “does it bother you?”

Yasmine looked up.

“I think it's wonderful,” she said honestly, touching the ring again, “And Katy and Dusty and Adrian and everyone else does too. We think that Harry's the only one we would want you to marry; otherwise it would bother us, I think.”

She paused.

“Because if it was anyone else, then you wouldn't love him. At least not as much as Harry. And why would you marry anyone else, anyway?”

Hermione laughed and hugged her, kissing her hair.

“Very practical,” she said, picking up her wand and waving it. A knife flew into the air and began slicing up a loaf of bread.

“When Harry and I told you this afternoon,” she said after a pause, “I was worried about how you would take it—especially you and Jack.”

She pulled out a roll of foil, pausing and looking thoughtful.

“I'm not sure how he feels about it.”

Yasmine shrugged.

“I'm not sure he does,” she said, recalling the familiar bored expression that had come over Jack's face as Harry and Hermione told the group, “He has a certain look when he doesn't want you to see what he's thinking. I don't think he minds.”

Hermione cut the foil into rectangles and lay them out on the counter. Yasmine pulled Jackie's stool over to the counter and watched her place pieces of glistening pink salmon in each rectangle.

“Well, I was hoping all of you could be involved in the wedding,” Hermione said, drizzling each piece of salmon with splashes of olive oil. “If you wanted to.”

“Of course we do!” Yasmine said quickly, “We all do. Well, at least the girls do.”

Hermione smiled.

“I'm glad.”

She reached for a bright yellow lemon and began slicing it. Yasmine watched for a minute, then said, “I'm going to go find Katy.”

She hopped off the stool and hurried out of the kitchen.
Hermione glanced at the clock, sighed, and quickly drizzled each package with lemon juice. With a wave of her wand, each piece of foil folded itself over the fish and flew into the oven.

Exactly as the clock struck four o'clock in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. Hermione washed her hands and dried them quickly, hurrying to the front of the house and pulling open the door.

“Hermione!” Suddenly, Hermione found it very hard to breathe, and with difficulty, she returned her mother's fierce embrace. “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” Hermione said, letting go of her mother and standing aside, “Hi, Daddy—“

She stood on her toes and gave her father a kiss on the cheek.

“Daddy?”

“Hermione,” he said a bit gruffly, “how are you?”

Hermione bit her lip.

“I'm fine,” she said softly, “thank you for coming.”

He made a quiet noise from deep within his throat, and he looked strangely restrained, as though he were struggling to remain silent.

“Isn't this the loveliest house, Howard?” Mrs. Granger beamed as she gazed around the foyer. “So roomy!”

“Difficult to maintain, I suppose—I hope that… that man…can handle it,” said Mr. Granger, in a very odd, disjointed sort of way, as though each word were being jerked from him forcibly. Hermione sighed.

“Harry helped restore the house, Daddy,” she said patiently, “In fact, he's the one who bought the house for me.”

Mr. Granger scowled and fell silent.

“Daddy, please,” Hermione said pleadingly, “be polite—and do behave, Mum. I don't want you `entertaining' us with `amusing' tales from my childhood.”

“Really, Hermione, the way you speak about it, you'd think we lived for your embarrassment,” Mrs. Granger said airily, “we'll do our best, won't we?”

Hermione's father merely grunted.

“Oh, stop it, Howard!” Mrs. Granger said, swatting her husband's shoulder, “You look like Neanderthal, glowering like that.”

There was a loud crack, and Mrs. Granger squealed shrilly, cowering behind her husband, who was looking around wildly, fists clenched and raised, as if he were expecting a madman to jump out and attack him.

“Oh… hello.” Harry said awkwardly, and Mr. Granger jumped, whipping around and raising his fists higher. Mrs. Granger peered around his shoulder nervously, her hands trembling on his arms.

“Sorry,” he said apologetically, “I… didn't mean to—“

“He just—he just—“ stammered Mrs. Granger, pointing a shaking finger at Harry.

“Where's your gun?” Mr. Granger demanded loudly, glaring at Harry with an almost relieved sort of fury, as if he had wanted Harry to prove himself an experienced and thoroughly evil serial killer.

Hermione covered her face with her hands with a groan.

“He hasn't got a gun, Daddy,” she whispered through her fingers, “this is Harry.”

“Oh—right—I… I didn't recognize you!” Mrs. Granger said in a very high-pitched voice, “Well—it's certainly nice to… to see you—“

“Hello, Mrs. Granger,” Harry said uncertainly, “Er… how are you?”

“Very well, thank you!” Mrs. Granger squeaked, “And do you like appearing and disappearing? Is it a hobby?”

“Er… no. It's… the way I get around,” Harry said, casting Hermione an uncertain glance. Hermione still had her hands over her face, shaking her head slowly.

“Oh! Well, isn't that lovely!” Mrs. Granger looked rather unsteady; she clutched Mr. Granger's arm and took a few shaky steps out from behind him and forced a tremulous smile. “And… and is this a talent of yours?”

“Not really,” Harry said, “Hermione can do it, too. Er… most wizards learn how to do it at school.”

“Oh! Really!” Mrs. Granger said, looking very white, “That's… that's very nice, isn't it Howard?”

“Why don't you come and sit down in the kitchen, Mum?” Hermione said wearily, finally lowering her hands, “Come on, Harry—“

Harry started to follow her into the kitchen, then noticed the Grangers staring at him with pale, expectant faces.

“Aren't you going to… to do that… thing?” Mrs. Granger questioned nervously. Harry shook his head.

“It's a bit like driving,” he explained kindly, “you don't have to Apparate everywhere; it's only if it's too far to walk.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Granger looked very relieved and managed another smile, “that makes sense.”

“Do sit down, Mum—you look as though you're about to faint,” Hermione said, and Mrs. Granger sank into a chair at the kitchen table. Seconds later, she had let out a squeak and jumped up, grabbing her husband's arm again.

“Oh—Crookshanks!” Mrs. Granger said shakily, bending down and stroking the old cat's back. Hermione shook her head, sighing.

“Sit down, Daddy. Harry's not going to pull out a gun,” she said patiently, “When you Apparate, it makes a sound. That's all.”

She placed a glass of butterbeer on the table beside her mother.

“Here. Drink this.”

Mrs. Granger eyed it nervously. “This isn't a… a potion or anything, is it?”

“No, Mum,” Hermione said with a sigh, “It's butterbeer.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Granger smiled with relief, “I've had this before, haven't I?”

She sipped at it cautiously, gave another smile, and put it down on the table.

“Well, Hermione,” she said in a voice of a woman interrogating a naughty child, “I must say it surprised us when you called about this… about your… engagement. I certainly didn't see it coming! And Howard didn't either—for goodness' sake, Howard, sit down—and you're so young! But I'm sure you realize what you're doing…?”

She looked at Hermione expectantly, and she cringed, casting Harry an apologetic look.

“Yes, I do, Mum,” she said firmly.

“I mean to say,” Mrs. Granger said with an airy laugh, “you haven't got any reason to rush…?” and she allowed another expectant pause.

Hermione turned pink.

“I'm not pregnant, Mum,” she said, keeping her voice even and pleasant with a great effort, “Harry asked and I said yes. That's all there is to it.”

“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Granger said, though she seemed to sigh with relief. “And I'm sure you gave it thought? Goodness knows when Howard asked me…”

“It was,” Hermione said evenly, “possibly the best decision I have ever made.”

There was a pause.

“Well, I'm sure Harry is very glad that you agreed.” Mrs. Granger said at last, with an expectant smile in Harry's direction.

“Glad doesn't tell half of it, Mrs. Granger,” he said softly, and Hermione felt herself blush pleasantly as his green eyes settled on hers. Neither noticed the Grangers exchanging glances.

“And what is your line of work, Harry?” Mrs. Granger said, breaking the silence. “I seem to remember Hermione mentioning some sort of… organization?”

“The Defense Association, also known as `Dumbledore's Army'.” Harry said, grinning at Hermione, “Hermione and I started it back in our fifth year, actually. It was her idea.”

“Oh, yes, I remember that,” Mrs. Granger said, sipping her butterbeer appreciatively, “and what exactly does it do?”

“It's meant to teach wizards how to defend themselves from Dark Magic,” Harry said, “as well as educate them on basic… first aid, sort of. Things you might need in a pinch.”

“And what does that entail, exactly?” Mrs. Granger seemed genuinely interested, and Harry good-naturedly answered her questions. As he did, Mr. Granger motioned to Hermione, and she followed him into the foyer.

He pulled open the front door. Obediently, Hermione followed him out onto the front porch, and having shut the door, he turned to face her.

“Do you have any idea what you're doing?” he demanded in a low voice, his gaze fierce, “Do you know what this means?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Hermione said quietly, “I do.”

He gripped her shoulders and drew her closer to him, his eyes still fixed on hers. “I don't think you do, Hermione. I honestly don't think you do.”

“Daddy—“

He turned away, pacing back and forth on the porch, obviously struggling for words. He was running his hand through his thin, graying brown hair, his lips pressed together tightly, and Hermione felt tears rise to her eyes.

She could still see the dark birthmark on his neck, the one she had traced with a small finger as she sat on his lap in the evening, and she could still smell that distinctly minty smell on him, the one that came from working all day in a dentist's office. She could see him rubbing his chin as he worked on the crossword, the way he would fix her with a serious look and let her help… and how he would sit and listen to her guess and reason at the answers to the crosswords he had made especially for her, and how he would leave a riddle on her dresser in the morning and come home to see if she had solved it. And how he would listen to her explain her reasoning, how she had solved it, every word.

And she wanted to explain. She wanted so much to explain the ring on her finger, the way she loved Harry, why she had said yes.

But all she could whisper was a plea.

“Daddy, please.”

“Do you realize there is a young man in that house who thinks you are going to be his wife?” he said, the words coming hard and sharp, “Do you even realize what that means for you?”

“Daddy—“

“He thinks he is going to marry you! Do you know what that means?”

“Yes!” she burst out, her voice breaking as she moved in front of her father, stopping his pacing, “I know, Daddy. I know.”

“Marriage is forever, Hermione,” he said through gritted teeth, stepping back from her and gazing at her, and she was appalled to see his eyes were wet, “Forever. What does that mean to you, Hermione? Do you even realize…”

He broke off and whirled away.

Hermione gazed helplessly at his back, and she felt tears trickle down her cheeks.

“Daddy?” she whispered, “Daddy, please.”
The words made her feel much, much younger, and she suddenly recalled a memory from long ago. There had been a storm, a long, powerful, dark thunderstorm, and lightning had slashed the sky, and the howling wind had rattled the windowpanes so strongly that Hermione had fled to her parents' room. At first they had only murmured assurance, then told her to go back to bed, but she had begged and pleaded, directing her pleas toward her father—and finally he had relented, and swept her up into his arms, and let her snuggle into him until the storm had passed.

His jaw was working hard, and she could see him struggling… with words? It couldn't be tears. It couldn't be. Her father never cried. Her stoic, quiet father. The one she loved so much.

Suddenly, he had turned around, and his arms went around her roughly, tightly, and she was crying into his neck as an autumn wind swept around them. He was stroking her hair, holding her tightly, as though she were about to fall.

“I didn't realize that when I let you go on that train—I was losing you forever,” he whispered hoarsely, “My little Hermione…”

“You're not losing me, Daddy,” Hermione whispered, “You're not.”

“But I am—I did. The moment you stepped onto that train... you had left us behind for a different… a different world,” he tightened his embrace around her, “We were the world you left behind, Hermione, and I always wanted to run to that train and pull you back—I knew as long as you were at school, I still could. I could bring you back to being the little girl reading books at the corner of my office, the little scholar who pored over the crossword and loved riddles—but that ring on your finger has made sure that I can never get that beautiful little girl back.”

He drew back and gently wiped the tears from her face.

“Instead,” he said softly, “I have a fiery, intelligent, strong, beautiful woman who has given herself away to a world that I can never understand.” He paused, pressing his lips together and obviously attempting to restrain the tears in his eyes, “And devoted herself to a young man who will keep her there.”

He bent and kissed her forehead.

“Forever may not scare you, young as you are,” he paused, and with great difficulty, he said quietly, “but it terrifies me.”

“Daddy,” Hermione whispered into his sweater, “Oh, Daddy. I love you so much—I love you—“

And as he bent and cradled her against him, she could feel him shaking. She clutched at his sweater—the green wool sweater that he always wore on visits, the one that she had always said was too itchy to wear more than a minute or so—and she cried.

“You'll have to forgive me if I… don't always act kindly toward your… toward Harry. It's a very difficult thing to realize that you're no longer the only man in your daughter's life,” he said at last, drawing back and using a handkerchief to wipe the tears away from his eyes. Hermione laughed tearfully and scrubbed at her eyes.

“You'll like him. I know you will.”

“Perhaps after a good long while,” he said, with a forced smile, “You love him, don't you? There has to be something good about him for you to deem him worthy of your attention.”

“I'm surprise he deems me worthy of his,” she laughed, twisting her ring around her finger.

“Hermione?” Harry opened the front door, “Your mother wants you and your dad inside.” He paused, “Er… specifically, Mr. Granger, she said that if you were trying to steal Hermione back, she would personally ensure that dinner included turnips and beets for the next month.”

Mr. Granger cringed.

“Madwoman,” he said dryly, “Turnips and beets aren't fit for human consumption.”

“They're good for you,” Hermione said sternly, and Mr. Granger snorted.

“Steal this one back?” he said with a mock scowl, “You can have her. She's learned too much from her mother.”

Harry grinned.

“Don't you start grinning at me, Potter,” Hermione scolded, “I know exactly why Katy never finishes her vegetables, and if I catch you slipping asparagus onto her plate again—“

“Katy hates asparagus,” Harry said innocently, “I've talked to her and she just won't eat it. Maybe we should try a different vegetable, Hermione…”

“Not a chance,” Hermione said, marching past him and into the kitchen.

“Granger women are a very stubborn lot. I hope you realize that.” Mr. Granger said wryly, “Though judging by the look on your face, it's come as a bit of a shock.”

“Oh, I knew she was stubborn,” Harry said, “I just didn't realize that extended to making me miserable.”

“Welcome to the life of a married man, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Granger said, “and it gets better… or worse. I hope you're ready for it. Hermione has it in her mind that she's going to marry you, and unfortunately, that means I can't stop her. So marry her you will. If you make it to the altar, that is.”

He gave Harry a very cheerful smile.

“And you had better hope I let you get there.”

He clapped him on the shoulder and hurried back into the house, “Yes, Helen! I'm coming!”

Moments later, Ron had Apparated to the front of the house, and he found Harry staring blankly out onto the lawn, which was covered in bright scarlet and gold leaves.

“What's up with you, mate? I expected you to be a bit more… cheerful.”

“Well, Mr. Granger is, and I have no idea why. And for some reason, that terrifies me.” Harry said blankly. Ron shook his head sympathetically.

“The in-laws. I've heard they're awful.”

“Mood swings. He has mood swings.” Harry said miserably just as Hermione came back out of the house. “Hermione, your dad is going to murder me before you make it down the aisle.”

“He does not have mood swings.” Hermione said defensively, “He's just… temperamental.”

“That's the same thing.” Harry said pointedly.

“Oh, all right, so he's a bit cross,” Hermione relented, looking as though she were about to launch into a defense of her father's behavior, but Harry interrupted her.

“No, he's not, and that's just it. He was… smiling at me.”

Hermione blinked.

“He—was?” she blurted out in surprise. Then she gathered herself and said briskly, “Of course he was; you're marrying me. Why wouldn't he smile at you?”

“Because he kept trying to kill me with his eyes for the first hour that I knew him?” Harry said, and Hermione shook her head.

“Well, perhaps he had a change of heart,” she said, “Ron, what are you doing here?”

“Wow, Hermione, it's great to see you too!” Ron said sarcastically, “It was so good of you to invite me to dinner yesterday!”

“Oh. Right. And… and Ginny.” Hermione looked oddly unsettled, “With my parents. Right. That's no trouble at all… I'll just… right. Come on in, you two… and Ginny, is she coming?”

“Are you kidding? She was driving me mad, asking me to tell her if you'd proposed.”

“And you told her?” Hermione demanded, looking horrified.

“What do you take me for? `Course I didn't tell her!” Ron said, offended, “You can tell her yourself!”

“Speaking of which,” Harry said, “what would you say to letting Ginny brood over it for a good month or two?”

“I'm all for it.” Ron said happily.

“I'd love to let her curiosity fester for months,” Hermione said, “But really, she wouldn't give up. And… well…. I'm sure she—means well. Deep down.”

“Very deep down,” Ron said, and the other two nodded in agreement.

“She's going to get very hurt someday.” Hermione said with weary concern.

“That's right, she will—someday my resolve is going to crack,” Ron said, “And I'll Bat-Bogey her out the window—“

“I meant,” Hermione said with a rather annoyed look at Ron, “she's going to be wounded emotionally. She's lonely.”

“Ginny? Lonely?” Ron said, raising an eyebrow, “I dunno. That's pretty far-fetched.”

Hermione snorted.

“This coming from the man who is dating Luna Lovegood.”

“There's nothing wrong with—“

“There's nothing wrong with Luna,” Hermione finished with a sigh, “of course there isn't. She's just… very—gullible sometimes. Or most of the time,” she added under her breath.

“Nah. It's Neville that's gullible.” Ron said, snorting with laughter, “Fantastic bloke, him, but sometimes…”

“He's not like that anymore,” Hermione said hotly, “and he was always very intelligent and kind. Even before the war. He was just…”

“Dead clumsy.” Ron said bluntly, “Looks like you have competition, Harry—ouch!”

Hermione smiled sweetly as Ron nursed his shoulder.

“Oops. How clumsy of me,” she said innocently, “I was aiming for your nose.”

“Ha ha.” Ron said grumpily, gingerly rolling his shoulder. “Where did you learn to punch like that?”

“Neville,” Hermione said simply, “He's in charge of the hand-to-hand combat division of the D.A.”

“Really?” Ron looked at Harry in disbelief. “Neville?”

“He killed Nagini, mate. He's no coward.” Harry said reasonably, “Fact is, he can take Kingsley and I put together when it comes to hand-to-hand stuff. Wizards usually neglect that area, so it would pay to have some training there.”

“Wow. Who would have thought? Neville.” Ron said, looking impressed, “I'm going to have to come to more of those meetings.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“You mean you're going to have to come to your first meeting,” she said dryly, and Ron looked defensive.

“I've been in conditioning all summer. Now that the autumn is here…”

“You'll be traveling around England going to matches.” Hermione finished, making Ron's ears go a bit red. “Oh, honestly, Ron. We're not going to kill you for not coming. We know you've been busy.”

“Well, yeah,” Ron looked slightly relieved, “Though I dunno how many matches I'll have to go to, seeing as the team hasn't won more than six matches in any given season since… a long time.”

“We'll be rooting for the Cannons anyway,” Harry said, “There's nothing like losing together—ouch! Hermione!”

“I think Harry means that we're sure you'll go far beyond what anyone expected,” Hermione said, nudging Harry in the side. Harry rubbed his shoulder ruefully.

“Yeah. Of course I did.”

Ron chuckled. “It's okay, Hermione. Harry's got it right.”

He scratched his nose and came to stand beside the other two.

“Nothing like losing together,” he said, leaning up against the railing. Harry slid an arm around Hermione's waist and kissed her hair.

“Together,” Ron repeated, “We've got it all down, mate. I win games, you fight evil, and Hermione makes sure neither of us die in the process.”

Harry and Hermione laughed.

“Just like always.” Harry said, and there was a moment of comfortable silence. The leaves rustled as they swirled to the grass in bright swirls of color.

“It's funny,” Ron said, with a thoughtful look at the other two, “I would have thought you two getting married would change a lot. But I don't think it will.”

“Oh, it will,” Hermione said reflectively, “it's just that we're changing all at once, and we're doing it together. It's less noticeable like that.”

“You're right, of course,” Harry said. “When were you ever wrong?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Ron said, “Maybe when she told me that you thought of her like a sister.”

“You did?” Harry said, and she shrugged.

“It was true, then.”

“Well… not really. You were my best friend, so I suppose the potential was always there… you still are my best friend.”

She smiled, and he kissed her softly, quickly.

“Better that best friend than this one,” Ron quipped, making them laugh again.

“Come on in, both of you.” Hermione said, opening the door and motioning them inside. “The food is almost ready.”

“Brilliant! I'm starving.” Ron said eagerly, and Hermione shook her head, smiling.

“Some things never change.”

He bent and kissed her softly, brushing his hand against her cheek lightly as he did.

“And some things change for the better,” he said softly, and she smiled, closing her eyes briefly.

“Yes. For the best.”

A/N (2): I hope you enjoyed getting to know Mr. and Mrs. Granger! And there are little hints of what's coming next. They aren't exactly subtle, though. Feel free to speculate!

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A/N: I'd like to apologize for the long wait. RL has been hectic and I haven't had a lot of time for writing. I hope that it didn't end up making the chapter seem a bit disjointed, but… anyway. Do let me know what you think, and enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Doesn't it make you feel like a real witch, walking through a solid wall?” Yasmine cried rapturously, squeezing Katy's arm excitedly. “Look at all the people! Can you imagine actually going?”

“Look at the train!” Katy said, her eyes bright with enthusiasm, pointing at the gleaming scarlet engine, “It must have magic workings on it! Oh, Ben, you must find out how it works and write me! I promise I'll write back!”

Ben managed a smile.

“Look at the owls!” Jackie chirped, hugging Hermione's neck and peering at the birds with wide eyes, “Look!”

“Oh, but they're all so grown-up,” Yasmine said, her voice hushing as she watched a group of chattering seventh years pass by, “Some look nearly as old as you and Hermione, Harry.”

“Some of them are,” Harry said, grinning, “Come on, Ben, let's get your trunk packed away.”

As the two of them hurried away, someone called out to them.

“Hermione! Over here!”

She looked up and half-sighed, an exasperated smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She waved her free hand and indicated that she had to stay put.

Undeterred, Ginny pushed her way through the crowd and beamed at them. “How on earth do you think you're going to make it through the wedding plans without me?”

“With great difficulty, I'm sure,' Hermione said dryly, “but we'll make do somehow.”

Ginny offered a quick smile.

“You know you're going to miss me. All that time I put into shoving you two together—“

“The time that I will never thank you for wasting—“

“…all the subtle hints—“

“You have the subtlety of a foghorn, Ginny Weasley, and you know it.”

“…and all my free baby-sitting was a massive help. Soon you'll be wishing Mum had let me drop out. I forgot you were coming to Hogwarts this year, Ben!”

Ben shrugged.

“Well, I can't promise I won't take the mickey out of you and your mates every now and then—“

“Yes, she can.” Hermione interrupted, with a rather dangerous look in Ginny's direction. “She'll do everything she can to help you, isn't that right?”

“Right,” Ginny said brightly, “Though you'd probably do best to avoid me altogether—find a Hufflepuff; they're nearly always willing to help a first year out. Well, have a good time planning the wedding, you two, I'd best go find a compartment!”

With a wave, Ginny disappeared into the crowd. Hermione sighed and smiled at Ben, who was looking around the platform with trepidation.

“You should probably be going soon as well, Ben.”

He nodded and swallowed visibly.

“Good-bye, Ben,” Katy was the first to break the silence. She hurried up and hugged him. “Don't forget to write me about the train—oh, and find out how the staircases move! I'll write back if you write me.”

Yasmine hugged him next.

“Write about everything! I want to know what everything looks like!”

He smiled then and shrugged.

“I'll try.”

As soon as Hermione put her down, Jackie scampered up and hugged him around the waist. “Bye, Ben!”

“Good-bye, Jackie,” he said, and obediently hugged Oats as well. Jackie beamed.

“Well,” Jack said, standing in front of him and sticking out a hand, “have a good time, I guess.”

Ben returned the handshake solemnly.

“See you.”

“Yeah.”

Dusty appeared behind Jack. His dark eyes settled on Ben's face, and he gave a smile, the small, kind smile that gave his lip the slightest curl and revealed his crooked front teeth.

“Pictures,” he said, and he handed him a small, framed picture. “For memories.”

Ben swallowed and looked down at the small, black-and-white sketch of the entire group, even Harry.

“Thanks, Dusty.”

Dusty shrugged and smiled again.

He looked at Adrian, who was looking unusually subdued, and his stomach dropped. His little brother was staring at him morosely, and suddenly Ben felt rather guilty. He couldn't just leave Adrian here. It didn't seem right.

He couldn't run again.

Half of him wanted to declare that he was coming back, and that Hogwarts just wasn't for him, but he found himself strangely tongue-tied.

“Bye, Adrian,” he said softly, and Adrian looked up at him. Ben forced a smile, and Adrian returned it. “I'll see you over Christmas holidays.”

Adrian brightened slightly.

“Yeah. I'll see you then,” he said, and they hugged quickly. “Jack and Harry and I will finish the tree fort by the time you get back.”

“Don't forget the trapdoor!” Ben reminded him.

“I won't.” Adrian promised, and they grinned at each other. Ben suddenly felt better about leaving, though a dull ache in his chest had yet to go away.

Then Ben stood in front of Harry and Hermione. Harry clapped him on the shoulder good-naturedly.

“Have a good time, mate. You'll be fine.” He winked, and Ben grinned.

“Thanks, Harry.”

Hermione knelt beside him and placed her hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye. As she did, Ben suddenly felt afraid. He looked straight back into her brown eyes, and realized just then how grateful he was to her. Especially for the nights after his nightmares, which, he realized, he would now have to deal with alone. There would be no one to comfort him after they happened, no one to dispel the dark fear that cloaked him even when he woke.

“You'll be fine,” she whispered, seeing the fear in his face, pushing aside his bangs and kissing his forehead. “Be sure to write us.”

His throat suddenly felt mysteriously tight.

“I will.”

She studied him carefully.

“I'm proud of you, Ben,” she said softly, “we all are.”

He nodded. Then, before he could stop himself, he had thrown his arms around her and hugged her tightly.

“Thank you, Hermione.”

She drew back and smiled.

“You'd best go and get on the train. Remember to write.”

Ben flashed her the first real smile she had seen all day. “I will!”

Moments later, he had gone, disappeared in a cloud of steam and the steady chugging of the Hogwarts Express.

~*~

Dear Hermione and Harry, Jack, Yasmine, Katy, Dusty, Adrian, and Jackie,

So far it's been a really good year. I've met a lot of new people and I like my teachers, and I've had my first official flying lesson. Madame Hooch says that I might be able to make the team eventually, but I didn't try out this year.

Ginny and Luna have been very good about helping me find my way around, but I still get lost. I've walked into about twenty trick doors and Peeves managed to hit me with a paint balloon. I've got paint all over my hair again (and it's pink), but Professor Slughorn says that he might be able to find a way to get it off. I went and asked. He doesn't really pay attention to me otherwise, though he says you (Hermione) and Harry were two of his best students. But I think he says that about a lot of people.

I visit Hagrid sometimes, like he says you, Harry, and Ron used to. He gave me a stoat sandwich, and I took a bite, just to be friendly, but they looked horrible and tasted worse.

I really like Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall gave me three points for Ravenclaw. I think she was a bit disappointed that I wasn't in Gryffindor, though. I don't mind. Ravenclaw is a good house, too.

I haven't been able to find out how the staircases move yet, Katy. I read Hogwarts, a History, like Hermione said I should, but there's nothing really detailed about the staircases, only that there's a sensory charm that lets it be able to tell where it should go.

The food here is really good, though no one's been able to make a chocolate cake that tastes quite as good as Hermione's. And they don't frost it. I did try the treacle tart; it was excellent, just like Harry said it would be.

Bye!

Ben

P.S. Hermione, what's a wrackspurt? Luna says my head is full of them, but I haven't been able to find anything in the library about them, and Professor McGonagall just stared at me when I asked. I felt a little uncomfortable when she just sort of mouthed things at me (she didn't really make any noise), so I left. Was that rude? I hope not. She's my favorite teacher.

~*~

“It feels odd, doesn't it? Not having Ben home.” Katy said as Hermione handed her a sweater. “It feels like we've lived here forever!”

“It does feel strange,” Hermione agreed, holding out Jackie's sweater and helping her button it up, “But he'll have a wonderful year at Hogwarts—learning all kinds of things.”

“That's good, too.” Katy agreed reasonably, as Yasmine hurried down the stairs.

“I'm coming, too! Is Harry going to be there?”

“I think so—he said he'd be coming—Yasmine, is that all you're going to wear? You should probably put on a sweater; it's a bit chilly out.”

As Yasmine obediently slipped into her sweater, Dusty dashed into the foyer, and Hermione noticed his face was streaked with tears. Startled and alarmed, she dropped to her knees beside him and said quickly, “Dusty, whatever's the matter? Are you hurt?”

Dusty's normally complacent face was screwed up with the effort of trying to keep from crying, and his dark eyes were flooded with tears. He allowed Hermione to hug him, and soon he had thrown his arms around her neck and started crying quietly into her shoulder.

“What's wrong?” Hermione asked anxiously, stroking his soft, dark hair and rubbing his back, “What's wrong?”

“It's… it's…” Dusty choked and hiccupped; and Hermione felt her stomach clench with fear. Dusty rarely cried, and he was hard to upset. “It's… he's still. I found him just still. He… he… all alone—just lying there…”

She felt a pang of worry as she gazed into Dusty's tear-filled eyes.

“Who is it?” she asked in a soft voice.

He shook his head, his lip trembling, and he hid his face in her sweater. She felt him shudder and held him closer. The others were standing silent and frightened in the foyer, looking at each other with frightened, pale faces.

“I know it must have been scary, Dusty,” she said gently, “But who is it? Can you take me to him?”
Dusty only held her tighter. “He's still—he's so still…”

“Where is he, Dusty?” Hermione asked quietly, trying to keep her voice even and calm. In the back of her mind, today's headline blared—“Ten Death Eaters on the Loose: Potter, Longbottom, and Kingsley Prepare!” Don't be ridiculous; why on earth would they attack here? Who would they attack? Instinctively, she counted the number of children in the foyer—all present, thank heavens.

“Backyard,” Dusty sobbed after a long pause, “Backyard.”

Hermione lifted Dusty into her arms, and he clung to her, hiding his eyes in her sweater.

“Stay here,” she told the others quietly, “Don't come out unless I tell you that you can.”

Better safe than sorry.

They nodded solemnly, looking frightened.

Hermione held Dusty in one arm as she walked slowly through the kitchen to the back porch door. She pushed it open, and a nippy autumn breeze brushed past her. Scarlet and gold leaves swirled about in the wind as she took a cautious step outside, using her free hand to hold her wand.

She walked down the porch steps into the backyard, crushing leaves underfoot. She pushed aside wayward curls of hair from her face.

She looked around cautiously, raising her wand and holding the still-sobbing Dusty close. She was still willing herself to believe that this couldn't have been what she thought it was.

She took another step out into the backyard, moving toward the trees. The leaves had gotten thicker now, and let out an audible crunch with her every step.

As she reached the tree in the corner of the yard, she approached the stack of wood the boys had been planning to use for the fort. Dusty liked to draw there with colored pencils and a sketchpad. She could see his supplies lying abandoned among the leaves. And as she came up next to them, she stopped.

The first emotion she felt was an overwhelming sense of relief, but then her hand trembled, and she felt an ache come over her as she looked down at her feet.

There, lying still and peaceful in the autumn sunshine, lay the prone, bright orange form of Crookshanks. He was still curled up contentedly against the stack of wood, but Hermione knew that her first pet, her favorite cat, was no longer with them.

“Oh, Dusty,” she whispered, and Dusty burst into a fresh wave of unusually noisy tears.

“My picture—he just… he curled up and he…” he sobbed, shuddering and burying his face in her neck. Hermione put her wand in her sweater pocket and wrapped both arms around him, kneeling beside Crookshanks.

“At least he wasn't alone when he—“ her throat constricted, and she shut her eyes, trying very hard not to let tears escape. “We can bury him right here—his favorite spot…”

“Hermione, what's wrong? The kids said that—“ Harry stopped short when he saw Dusty sobbing in Hermione's arms. She looked up, and he saw her holding back her own tears.

“Crookshanks,” she said, forcing a feeble, miserable smile. He bent beside her on one knee. “Dusty was with him.”

Harry gazed down at the ginger cat's complacent squashed face and felt a wave of sadness come over him. He reached out and put an arm around them both, leaning his cheek against Hermione's hair.

“Good old Crookshanks,” he said quietly. Leaves drifted down from the trees, and a cool breeze swept them away from Crookshanks' thick coat.

By this time, the other children were creeping cautiously out of the house. As soon as Jackie came up on the sight, she too burst into tears, and soon she was crying in Harry's arms. The older three stood silently, looking pale and stricken.

“Shall we bury him?” Harry suggested gently, after a while. He stood up and looked at Hermione. Hermione quickly swiped tears off of her face and nodded her permission.

He slipped inside the house, and soon reappeared with a spade in hand.

“He looks peaceful, at least,” Yasmine whispered to Katy in a voice that told everyone she was struggling not to cry, “he almost looks like he could get up and start playing again.”

Katy nodded and rubbed her eyes tearfully.

“Do you suppose he's happy now?” she asked Yasmine sadly, “Wherever he is?”

“He must be.” Yasmine whispered softly, her eyes swimming with tears, “Can't you see him playing about in the clouds like he always did in the grass? Except now he won't get in trouble for ruining our scarves with his claws.”

Hermione lifted Crookshanks into her arms and gently stroked him one more time. She looked up, and saw Harry standing with the spade in one hand, a fresh pile of earth beside the hole he had made.

Harry came and stood beside her, patting Crookshanks' head one more time.

“Goodbye, Crookshanks,” he said, “thank you for everything.”

“Yes, thank you, and good-bye,” Katy repeated, and the others, even Jack, repeated the farewell. Hermione looked down at her pet, and felt tears rise to her eyes again.

“You dear old thing,” she whispered, kissing his fur, “I'll miss you. And thank you for everything—even pouncing on Ron's head. I never did thank you for that.”

She choked on the last few words, letting out a watery laugh. She gently laid the cat down in the grave, wiping away the tears trickling down her cheeks. Harry covered the grave carefully, and stepped back.

“He needs a grave marker, doesn't he?” Adrian said quietly, “Here, Dusty and Jack and I will go find a rock or something—there should be some in the patch of woods right outside the backyard.”

The three boys hurried out of the yard, even Dusty, whose face was puffy and wet.

Harry rubbed Hermione's shoulder and held her close, as Hermione finally let out a sob. She wrapped her arms around his torso and hid her face in his shoulder.

“He was just a cat, I don't know why—“ she choked and Harry wrapped his other arm around her, resting his chin in her hair.

“He was special, and we both know that,” Harry said quietly, stroking her hair, “Remember the night he saved us from the Whomping Willow? He was good friends with Sirius…”

She laughed tearfully and leaned up against him. “How could I forget? And Ron hated him so much—“

“I don't think he ever liked Ron much, either,” Harry said, with a quiet chuckle, “Remember when you brought him over, when Ron and I first rented that flat? He kept hiding all of Ron's things—one sock from every pair Ron owned.”

Hermione laughed, and Harry used his thumb to wipe away her tears. “I didn't know that.”

“Ron didn't want anyone to know. It doesn't do anyone's pride much good when a cat can outsmart you.”

“Crookshanks was different,” Hermione said wistfully, and Harry smiled.

“Yeah, he was.”

Hermione sighed and hid her face in his sweater.

“It's been a month of good-byes,” she said softly, “Ben, Crookshanks—“

Harry kissed her softly.

“You won't be saying goodbye to me anytime soon,,” he promised. She smiled softly.

“Not if I can help it.”

Together, they walked slowly back into the house.

Leaves drifted softly down onto the small mound of fresh earth, covering it in a blanket of scarlet and gold. Soon, the only trace left of the small grave was a small, flat stone, with a small chalk drawing of a flat-faced, sleeping cat on the front.

~*~

Dear Hermione, Harry, Adrian, Jack, Dusty, Yasmine, Katy, and Jackie,

Thank you (to Harry) for the gift. It's come in very handy when I need to find my way around. I'm always quite sure to put it away properly when I've managed to finish what I started.

Hermione, if wrackspurts don't exist, then I suppose heliopaths don't either? I'm never sure when to take Luna seriously.

I was very sorry to hear about Crookshanks, and Hagrid sends his condolences. So does Witherwings. I think Witherwings likes me, but he wouldn't let me ride him.

My hair is still pink. Professor McGonagall says that Peeves found a way to keep in touch with George Weasley, so I've been taking a lot of baths like I did the last time.

I've made a couple of friends here, some in all of the houses. My friend Jacob (he's in Slytherin) is showing me some tips for playing chess. He says it's all a matter of knowing what you want and making sure that you can always pull yourself back. Samantha (yes, she's a girl, so what? She's fun.) is in Gryffindor and doesn't mind breaking the rules—actually, I think she enjoys it—and she's figured out a way to get into the kitchens. Nathan's really funny and really hard-working (he's in Hufflepuff for a reason) and all the girls fancy him, I think. Sam thinks he's good-looking.. How would I know? I'm a boy. Kendell is in Ravenclaw and she's very clever, a bit too clever, if you know what I mean, but she's nice.

Yours truly,

Ben

~*~

“Remind me,” Hermione said dryly to Harry one evening, “to elope.”

“Bit late for that one,” he said apologetically, gently tapping her nose, “What's wrong?”

“I can't get through a single phone call with Mum without at least one mention of the wedding,” she said as Harry checked the steaks. “As if my Healer's training wasn't enough.”

Harry prodded the steaks, closed the grill, and turned to face Hermione. “We did send out the invitations.”

“Yes, I know,” Hermione said, rather wearily, “But Mum is already talking about bridesmaid dresses and color schemes. `Pink doesn't suit you or Ginny very well, but what about a blue and white color scheme?',” she mimicked, and Harry laughed.

“You're her only daughter, Hermione. I suppose it's natural that she wants to make this the best wedding it could be.”

“Well, yes, that does make sense, I suppose, but sometimes I just wish I could hang up and do all the arrangements myself. Honestly.”

Harry pulled the steaks off the grill and slid them onto a plate. Hermione sniffed them appreciatively.

“Those look absolutely delicious, Harry.”

He grinned.

“Don't forget to save one for me, Hermione!” he teased, and she swatted him with a hand.

“Oh, shut up.”

He carried them inside to the kitchen table.

“I don't envy Molly at the moment.”

“She loves having them over. I suppose now that her house is empty it's nice to have children in the house every once in a while.”

“Lucky for us.” Harry commented as Hermione filled two glasses with pumpkin juice. “We don't have as much time together as I'd like.”

She paused.

“I know,” she said softly. “We've both been so busy. It's been a long time since we've been able to just have dinner together.”

She moved a bowl of fresh green salad to the table. He watched her contentedly. Her hair had eased its way out of her ponytail, falling about her face and shining in the soft candlelight.

“I wish I could have taken you out somewhere, Hermione. I know this isn't very romantic or anything, eating dinner at my flat.”

She looked up and smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. The diamonds on her ring caught the light, glittering brightly and sending dozens of tiny, silvery flashes of light across her cheek.

“I don't mind. Lucky for us, my love for you doesn't depend on romance.”

She leaned over and kissed him softly, laughing and changing the subject easily. “So how was work today?”

He started. This was what he loved about her—well, one thing he loved about her. She could make the simplest things feel special and important, without needing frills or sonnets or fancy clothing. Love was a subject they discussed as easily as they discussed their jobs, their days… each other.

He took the fork she handed him and waiting for her to sit down before started to cut up his steak.

“Fine. The Level One classes have been… interesting.”

“How so?”

“It's amazing how many full-grown wizards can't perform a decent Shield charm.” He shook his head and took another bite of hot steak. “One wizard actually caused the Shield charm to reverse. He went flying to the other end of Padfoot Hall! He was the laughingstock of the class.”

“You changed that, of course?” Hermione questioned shrewdly.

“Well, yeah, I tried. They at least stopped making fun of him to his face—I think.”

She nibbled at her steak thoughtfully.
“Kingsley's taken Level Four, and Neville's taken combat classes. Who's going to teach Potions now that Professor Slughorn has gone back to Hogwarts?”

Harry paused, pretending to finish chewing a bite of steak. He took a swing of pumpkin juice, and looked up at her. The soft candlelight flickered across her face as she frowned.

“Harry? Didn't you hear me?”

“Yeah, I heard you.” He put down his fork. “Well, Neville and I were hoping… well, all right, I was hoping—that you would.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Harry!”

“Look, you wouldn't have to start right away,” he said quickly, seeing the look on her face, “I know you have training and the wedding—“

“I have the wedding?”

“You know I meant we, Hermione—I just thought…”

“Harry, you never told me about this. You can't just volunteer me for something!”

“Look, I'm sorry, all right?” he said irritably, “If it sounds so awful, I'll just tell Neville to call it off.”

“You've already planned classes?” she said in disbelief, “Harry, I can't just drop everything to teach!”

“Yeah, okay, I know! Forget I said anything.”

There was a thick silence.

“Hermione, I'm sorry,” Harry said after a while, reaching out and taking her hand. “I didn't mean to bring this up tonight. And I should have asked you. I just sort of automatically thought of you when the position came up.”

She relaxed finally.

“I'm sorry I got so upset. But Harry, we really have to work on talking to each other before we automatically make plans. I think we've both taken for granted that the other will be there all the time.”

“Yeah, that's probably it.” Harry said, smiling, “Trust you to come up with an explanation right away.”

She smiled back.

“Why don't you tell me what you had in mind—later. I might be able to work something out until you find a replacement.”

“Thanks,” Harry said gratefully. He paused.

“So how was your day?”

“Oh, you know—training lasted longer than it was meant to, but that's all right. The children went to the park with Arthur today while we worked. Apparently I'm much farther along in training than I should be; in fact, Healer Pruitt says I might be done in another two years or so, rather than in four or five.”

“That's great!” Harry praised her warmly, “'Course, I shouldn't have expected anything else from you, Hermione. Did the kids have a good time?”

“Well, Yasmine ended up with a nosebleed, and Jack had a black eye. But those were easy enough to mend. They both swear that they hadn't been fighting. Apparently Yasmine gets nosebleeds on the carousal, and Jack hit his eye while he and Adrian were playing catch. They seemed happy enough, though, so I let it go.”

“It's a good enough story for me,” he said, shrugging and grinning. “What else?”

“I received a letter from Ginny today—apparently she's the one who's been sending me those bridal magazines. Oh, and Harry?”

“Yeah?”

Hermione looked straight at him, her eyes softening. The candlelight gave her eyes a golden tinge.

“You gave Ben your Marauder's Map, didn't you?” she said quietly. He smiled.

“Yeah. I don't need it anymore. Besides, I wanted to pass it on to one of my sons, and well…” he shrugged. “Ben's as good as.”

Her eyes suddenly glimmered with tears, and he grinned softly, gently brushing them away.

“Don't start crying on me,” he teased softly, “It's another Marauder in the making, and none of the Hogwarts professors are going to thank us.”

She wiped her eyes.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, shaking her head, “that was so good of you, and you don't even realize it.”

He paused.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

He thought, then seemed to change his mind.

“Never mind. Maybe I'll ask you… after we're married.” He looked up, and his eyes lit up.

“That sounds amazing, doesn't it?”

She smiled rather dreamily.

“Yes. It does. It sounds wonderful.”

There was a comfortable silence, and Harry gazed at her in what he could only call awe. It was really quite fantastic, how far they had come. The candles cast a soft, golden glow onto her features, illuminating her eyes and giving her hair an almost amber sheen.

And Harry realized then how grateful he was to have her—someone who could look so entirely lovely in a cluttered flat lit by flickering candles, someone who could sit comfortably in silence and carry a heated debate with equal ease, someone who was so entirely… her.

“But there's a reason for the engagement period, I suppose,” Hermione said quietly, sipping her pumpkin juice thoughtfully.

“It gives you time to back out before it's too late--”

“Really, Harry,” she chided, and he grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry. What's the reason, then?”

“Waiting makes everything so much more special,” she said, and he nodded in agreement.

“Like friendship.”

She looked up, and when their gazes met, Harry knew she needed no explanation.

“Friendship does tend to make love sweeter, doesn't it?”

They smiled at each other and finished the meal in candlelit silence.

As Harry finished the dishes and Hermione went briskly about organizing his papers, he realized that although he knew Hermione was right, he'd never considered why.

But as he watched her out of the corner of his eyes, muttering and stacking his papers in alphabetical order, he finally figured it out. No, that wasn't the right way of putting it—he remembered. It wasn't as if he hadn't known already. He had just forgotten.

Friendship made him remember all the things they had done together, all the joy they'd shared, all the times they'd brought each other through yet another struggle. It made him want to make the next moments the best she'd ever had.

He had two roles—one as her best friend, and one as her future husband.

His love would have to be deep and wide and strong enough for both of those.

As he opened the door to let her leave the flat, he reached out and stopped her with a soft touch on the cheek.

“What is it?”

He ducked his head and kissed her gently.

“I won't be perfect at this, you know,” he whispered in her ear, and she looped her arms around his chest, smiling. He held her tightly.

“I know. But we'll learn. We'll learn together.”

He breathed in the scent of her hair, suddenly unwilling to let her leave. She sighed and relaxed against him momentarily.

“I love you,” he said softly, “as well as I can.”

She laughed softly.

“That's much more special that you make it sound, Harry.” She squeezed him gently, then released him. “I have to go. Heaven knows what will be left of the Burrow by the time I arrive.”

When he didn't let go, she pushed at him lightly.

“Harry, I really do have to go.”

He let his arms fall back to his sides.

“I know. I'm sorry,” he said in a low voice.

She paused and looked up. Suddenly, her eyes looked wet and unusually tender.

“Only eight more months, Harry—just a few.”

She pressed a hand softly against his jaw. Instinctively, he reached up and grasped her wrist. She smiled, her eyes softening.

“I promise,” she whispered, and he closed his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

A gentle kiss against his smile, and a sharp crack.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone. He sagged against the door, suddenly overwhelmed, though he wasn't sure what it was that was overwhelming him. Her absence, perhaps?

“I hope you know,” said a quavering, thin voice, “that some things are worth the wait.”

He looked up, and saw old Mrs. McConroy hobbling out of the flat beside his.

She smiled toothily.

“She promised you forever, didn't she? Forever will still be there tomorrow.” She shook her head. “You young people have such a strange way of rushing the clocks. A moment like that is worth a good couple of months at least.”

She patted his arm with a gnarled hand.

“Good Godric,” she said, chuckling and wheezing, “She's well and truly taken you, hasn't she? Well, enjoy a good night. After all, good nights don't come along as often as you think they do.”

With that, she plodded happily down the hallway and disappeared around the corner.

A/N (2): Well, there you are! I hope this wasn't too saccharine. :D As always, feel free to ask me any questions you might have. (I can't promise any answers, though.)

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A/N: Ahem. So, after a very long break, I return to the happy confines of this old house. I hope to bring you back into the swing of things. Enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Wet.”

“Rain.”

Yasmine pulled the covers tightly over the bed and looked at it in satisfaction.

“Green.”

“Cucumbers.”

Katy tossed the pillows into their place as Yasmine said, “Funny.”

“Ron.”

They both laughed.

“Go on,” Katy said, “another word.”

“Blue.”

“Ice.”

Yasmine arranged the books on her bedside table (in the order she wanted to read them as soon as she and Katy finished their chores.)

She paused.

“Orange.”

“Crookshanks.”

“Me too!” Yasmine said with a smile, “I miss him still, don't you?”

“Yes,” Katy said, “But it's a happy sort of sadness now.”

“Yes,” Yasmine agreed, “a bit strange, isn't it?”

“Maybe. Are we going to keep playing?”

“Yes,” Yasmine said, “ask me one, go on.”

Katy thought.

“Warm,” she said.

“Hermione,” Yasmine said immediately, and Katy nodded in agreement, tugging her braid.

“Me too. Ask me one.”

“Erm… loud.”

“Mrs. Granger,” Katy and Yasmine stifled laughter.

“All right, I'll ask you one now.” Yasmine said, “Strong.”

“Harry.” Katy said, and Yasmine nodded.

“He's a lot of words for me,” she said thoughtfully, “Hermione, too. The more you know someone, the more they come up in this game.”

Katy shrugged her shoulders. “It makes sense, though, doesn't it?”

They surveyed the bed for a moment, satisfied with its neat situation. After a moment, Katy spoke up again.

“Safe.”

“Family.” Yasmine said, and Katy fell silent.

After a pause, Katy said tentatively, “Family?”

Yasmine reached out and squeezed Katy's hands.

“Us.”

Smiles broke out on both girls' faces. Suddenly, the silence seemed brighter, more delicate, and neither of them spoke. Instead, they hurried downstairs in silence to finish their chores.

~*~

“I got a letter from Ben today,” Adrian said, in a slightly too casual tone. Hermione glanced up briefly, fixing her face into a mildly interested expression. It was dangerous to act too interested when Adrian spoke that way, or before you knew it, you had agreed to something without even knowing what it was.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Adrian said, passing her the dishes, “and he said that everyone is getting ready for Halloween there.”

Suddenly, Adrian's purpose seemed crystal clear. Hermione held up a plate, pretending to check it for spots.

“That's exciting,” was all she said, “careful with those cups, Adrian!”

“I'm careful,” Adrian said brightly, “you see? I haven't dropped a single one.”

“Let's hope it stays that way,” Hermione said, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief. Perhaps she had diverted him.

“It will,” Adrian promised with a dangerously bright smile, “if I don't drop any dishes from now until dinner, will you…?”

“No, Adrian,” Hermione said exasperatedly, and his face fell in a comically pitiful expression.

“Please, please plee—eeze!” he begged, clasping his hands dramatically under his chin (Hermione supposed living with Yasmine almost half a year did have its effects), “I won't tell anyone!”

He widened his eyes and Hermione clapped a wet hand to her mouth, stifling laughter.

“Drop that ridiculous expression from your face, Adrian,” she said, trying to look stern but only managing an affectionate smile, “The answer is and will remain a firm `no'.”

Adrian stuck out his lip and Hermione snorted with laughter, tapping his nose with a damp finger; he wrinkled his nose and dried it with his sleeve.

“Always?”

“You'll just have to wait and see,” Hermione said very briskly, “in the meantime, you can help me finish these dishes.”

Adrian groaned exaggeratedly but cheerfully helped finish the remainder of the dirty dishes.

“Halloween is six whole days away,” Adrian said with the expression of someone suffering severe torture, “Six whole days!”

“Oh, I know,” Hermione said dryly, “I'm sure you'll just die from the suspense.”

“We'll find his wasted body draped across the bed,” Yasmine said in a deep, very loud voice, entering the kitchen with a laughing Katy in tow, “and you'll regret never telling him what we're doing for Halloween.”

She paused.

“What are we doing for—“

“Oh, honestly, you three,” Hermione said as Yasmine, Katy, and Adrian looked at her hopefully, “it's not even a week away. Can't you wait?”

“It's not that we can't,” Katy said at last, speaking for all of them, “But it's very hard to wait, and besides, Harry said—“

“I didn't say anything!” Harry's voice called suddenly from outside as the kitchen door swung open. He entered the kitchen looking ruddy and windswept, Jackie clinging to his back. “Honest to Merlin, I didn't.”

“He said the wait would be worth it,” Katy finished as Harry leaned over the kitchen table and placed a quick kiss on Hermione's cheek. “Which made everything worse.”

“That was the intention,” Harry quipped, making the three children groan. “Where's Dusty and Jack?”

“They went to the park with Ron.”

“Oh, that's right,” Harry said, “did you hear from Molly by any chance, Hermione?”

“No, why?” Hermione said, acutely aware that Katy, Adrian, and Yasmine were listening intently. Harry grinned impishly.

“Oh, just something about Halloween…”

“Tell us!” the three children shouted in unison, crowding around them anxiously.

“Oh, I'll go mad,” Yasmine said rather agitatedly, “I really can't wait anymore!”

“Please?” Katy begged, and Adrian began to chant, “Tell us, tell us, tell us!”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look.

“They're going to tell us!” Yasmine danced around them happily, “Look, she's telling him it's all right!”

Harry grinned and let a dramatic pause ensue.

“Oooh, stop it!” Katy said, breaking the silence and tugging his hand, “Go on, go on!”

Harry paused.

“How do you four,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “feel about meeting Ben in Hogsmeade this weekend?”

Delighted smiles and shouts filled the room, as Harry attempted to explain.

“We'll meet the Weasleys and Ben at the Three Broomsticks and do some sightseeing—“

“We'll be learning about the Shrieking Shack and Hogsmeade history in lessons this week—“ Hermione interjected.

“And then Floo to the Burrow for dinner.” Harry finished, but he may as well have been speaking to the wall, for now the eldest three were trying to explain to Jackie, not at all pleased at having been left out on the excitement. Harry looked over at Hermione, who smiled and shrugged.

“We tried,” was all she said, laughing, “we tried.”

~*~

Yasmine crept to the top of the stairs and curled up tightly against the banister. Harry and Hermione had emerged from the kitchen. She could just make out Hermione's arm wound tightly around Harry's waist, and she couldn't help but smile.

Everything seemed right.

She curled her fist around one of the banister's posts, peering through the shadowy foyer and watching Harry kiss Hermione good night. She hugged herself, suddenly feeling herself shiver. It was a bit drafty now, though Harry had said he was going to see what he could do about it.

Suddenly she realized Hermione had spoken.

“Come on down, Yaz.”

She jumped. Hermione smiled and held out an arm.

Her heart skipped a beat and she caught her breath, suddenly feeling rather shaky. She stumbled down the stairs, and soon she was running, and moments later she was in between Harry and Hermione, and they were holding her in a warm joint embrace.

She rested her cheek against Harry's middle as he put an arm around her.

“You shouldn't be up, you know, Yaz,” he said, gently patting her shoulder. She smiled, suddenly feeling shy.

“Look, Hermione, she's got a book,” a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest, “Well, no one's going to have any trouble seeing whose she is, now are they?”

And Yasmine's eyes suddenly felt very hot and very wet as Hermione laughed and kissed her forehead.

“No, I suppose not.”

Some wall seemed to burst open as a flood of terror and happiness rushed through her.

“Am I?” Yasmine heard herself choke, “Am I?”

There was a pause, and if Yasmine had been brave enough to look up, she would have seen Harry and Hermione hold each other's gazes, an unspoken, tender, almost frightened agreement flitting across those scant inches between them. But she didn't look up. Her heart was beating fast in her throat and her hands held fistfuls of Harry's shirt, and for one horrible moment she could swear that heard them say `no'. Then her knees gave way and she curled up on the floor between them and cried into her knees. There was movement above her and she was sure they had left her on the floor to cry—

“Yes, Yazzy.”

Hermione was on her knees beside her, and when Yasmine looked up, barely daring to breathe, she saw tears streaking down Hermione's cheeks.

“Yes, you are. You're ours.”

Yasmine had never held anyone as tightly as she held Hermione that night. She threw her arms around Hermione and sobbed into her neck, unable to breathe or say anything.

And then Harry was holding them both, and he was stroking her hair gently, not speaking, and this time Yasmine looked up at him, and he smiled his crooked smile.

“Am I?” she blurted out again, just wanting to hear them both say it. His smile widened.

“Reckon you are, Yaz.” He patted her cheek with his hand.

She let go of Hermione and curled up in his embrace, his warm, strong embrace, and she closed her eyes and rested her chin on his shoulder… everything was as it should have been.

Hermione gazed at Yasmine's face and felt herself quiver suddenly—for it struck her then, the enormity of what she had just done. She clapped her hand over her mouth and stifled the last of her sobs.

“I'll take her to bed, eh?” Harry said after a pause, in a very low voice. His eyes met hers, and Hermione lowered her hand, feeling as though he was holding her again.

“Yes, you'd best take her to bed,” she agreed after a pause, hearing her voice shake, “Don't wake the others; especially Jackie—“

“Don't worry,” was all he said, and he offered a tender smile that made her blush. He paused again, and repeated reassuringly, “Don't worry.”

As he took Yasmine up the stairs, Hermione sat on the bottom step, gazing into the dark foyer.

What was she doing? She asked herself for the millionth time in the past few months, what was she thinking?

“I thought I told you not to worry.” His arm went around her shoulders and she leaned into him.

“Not worrying,” she heard herself protest softly. He laughed and rested his chin in her hair.

“So you're not worrying… but you are a terrible liar.”

She elbowed him and he laughed again, squeezing her shoulder with his hand.

“We both know it was only a matter of time.”

She closed her eyes.

“Did you know you're the most beautiful woman in the whole world?” his whisper came comfortingly close to her ear. She smirked softly.

“I don't recall learning that before.”

“I suppose I'll have to teach you, then,” he said in a low voice, and Hermione felt herself shiver suddenly, and she realized then his lips had found her neck—very shyly, very tentatively. Her heart fluttered and she took several deep breaths, curling her fingers; his lips began to wander with more confidence, and she took a deep gulp of cool air as she felt her cheeks warm.

“Red light,” she whispered, and he drew back slowly.

There was a heavy pause.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat and coughed. “I… erm… sorry.”

“You're the only one who would know what that meant, I suppose,” she tried to joke feebly, and he laughed awkwardly.

“I didn't mean to… I—“

She squeezed his hand, holding on tightly when he seemed to pull back.

“I know.” She leaned against him. “I know.”

“I should have married you the moment you said yes,” he said, making her laugh. “We could have invited the kids down and Crookshanks could have presided over the—“

“Really, Harry,” Hermione said, laughing, “sometimes, you just aren't amusing in the slightest.”

“No one would think any less of us if we didn't wait,” Harry said after another pause. Hermione bit her lip and took a deep breath.

“Nevertheless,” she said with difficulty, “we're going to. We can.”

“Only you,” Harry said, laughing softly, “Only you, Hermione Jane Granger.”

“Only for you, Harry James Potter,” she said, relieved to hear him laughing, “only for you.”

A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope the characters didn't seem too off the mark, as I'm just getting back into my writing mode again. Please let me know what you think!

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A/N: So, yes. This is quite late. Here's something for you to read while you down the remains of your Halloween candy (or, if you have kids, the remains of your children's candy). I do warn you that there's not a lot of Halloween in here, oddly enough. If it's a bit choppy, forgive me. It's what happens when you work in short bursts of time.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Bertie Botts, Chocolate Frogs, Licorice Wands, Droobles' Best Chewing Gum, Fizzing Whizbees, Sugar Quills… ouch!”

Katy and Yasmine exchanged smirks as Jack, lost in thought of the imaginary mountains of sweets awaiting them in Hogsmeade, managed to walk straight into the closet door.

“All right, there, mate?” Harry clapped Jack on the shoulder with a grin. Jack shrugged and muttered an embarrassed, “Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.”

“I hope you realize that all three of you will be given a limited amount of money,” Hermione said as she pulled Jackie's sweater over her head. She frowned. “Jackie, you'll have to let Oats go for a moment—he can't fit into the sweater with you.”

Gently detaching Jackie's hand from the bear's paw, she tugged the sweater the rest of the way down. Jackie snatched Oats back as Hermione went on, “I won't have you spoiling your appetites—and teeth—with sugary snacks. Three Galleons each.”

“That's al— ouch!“

Jack glared at the two girls, who had each stamped one of his feet simultaneously.

“Girls,” Hermione chided absently, who obviously hadn't heard what Jack had almost said. This was partially due to the fact that Jackie was (rather plaintively) requesting a trip to the toilet, “Harry, what's the time?”

“Nearly four,” Harry said, checking his watch, “We should be fine.”

“Yes, well, it is Professor McGonagall; I should hate to keep her waiting,” Hermione said, somewhat tersely, “Well, come along, Jackie—I suppose we're better off taking you now…”

“When were we supposed to get there?” Katy questioned as Harry motioned them toward the living room.

“About four fifteen,” Harry said with a touch of exasperation, “We'll be fine. Hermione likes to worry.”

Katy looked at Harry rather uncertainly; his expression suddenly seemed unusually worn. As Hermione hurried the rest of them to the Floo, she couldn't help but think that it was rather strange that Hermione wouldn't notice the look on Harry's face.

Although this worried her, it was soon lost in the flurry of activity that greeted her as she hurried out of the fireplace, joining the sooty group in the middle of Professor McGonagall's office.

“Well, Miss Granger,” said the woman briskly (it was then that Katy was reminded forcibly of Hermione's similar manner when teaching lessons), “I want to congratulate you two in person.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said, a flush creeping across her cheeks, “Thank you very much.”

“He's doing well, I hope you realize,” McGonagall went on, as Katy stared at Harry, who hadn't spoken, “Excellent Transfiguration student, although I do wonder… the boy's a bit gullible—“

“Yes, Ben's very clever,” Hermione said as she absently cleared the soot away from the children with a wave of her wand.

“Clever indeed, and well-behaved,” McGonagall said with a significant look at the two of them. To Katy's immense relief, both Harry and Hermione laughed out loud. It comforted her to see them laughing together again—the way that they always did. Hermione's eyes turned toward Harry's face and Harry's eyes danced with merriment as he returned her gaze.

“If there was ever any trouble—“ McGonagall began, her glasses quivering on the end of her nose, “I could always look for you two—and Ronald Weasley, of course—or the twins… the whole lot of you, the entire D. A.”

“We did what we had to,” Hermione said, and suddenly, Harry sobered again. There was an unusually tense pause; Hermione's eyes fell on Harry's face and darkened in worry. McGonagall gave them a single, significant look.

“Ben should be waiting down in the corridor right at the bottom of the staircase.” McGonagall said abruptly, “You seven could go meet him.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Hermione put in, and at the look on her face, Katy knew there was no use arguing. She and the others shuffled out the door down the staircase, past the gargoyles, and met an anxiously waiting Ben.

Of course after they told Ben what had happened, Jack and Yasmine immediately decided they ought to go back up and listen in.

~*~

“…worry too much,” was the first thing Yasmine managed to hear Hermione say. She pressed herself even harder against the door and nearly knocked Adrian over. They were all layered rather uncomfortably against the door.

“That's rich, coming from you,” Harry retorted in the angriest voice they had ever heard him use. Katy tugged on Yasmine's sleeve and they exchanged anxious looks.

“Potter,” McGonagall said warningly, and there was suddenly a very loud scraping noise from within, as if Harry had been sitting and had shoved his chair away from the desk.

“It's a real threat, Professor, and I'm not going to risk it. We're not going to risk it.”

“Don't try and make it sound like a collective decision, Harry,” Hermione snapped, and Yasmine felt her heart sink. She had never heard them argue like this before. “We'll be safe. It's Hogsmede, for Merlin's sake. What could possibly—“

“Hermione, you're getting off track,” Harry said rather shortly, “The fact of it is, I happen to have a better understanding of the severity of the situation—“

“This pessimistic, entirely unrealistic attitude was hardly attractive when we were in school, and it becomes you less and less as you get older, especially when you try to patronize me,” Hermione said rather shortly, “And don't try to scare me with facts, Harry.”

“I'm not trying to scare you!” Harry protested, and although the children could hear McGonagall clear her throat pointedly, he went on, “Hogsmede has been a location of consistent penetration, even since our third year, and I know that a group of those escaped Death Eaters—“

“…last sighted in South America—“

“…are apparently still after me—they think I'm still at Hogwarts, and they seem to be planning something for today-- “

“But you yourself told me you weren't sure,” Hermione said irritably, “It's secondhand information. It's guesswork. It's unlikely.”

“You don't trust me.”

“Harry,” Hermione said, her voice suddenly softer and sterner. There was another pause.

“Sorry,” said Harry in a very low voice.

“Harry,” Hermione said again, and Katy relaxed slightly at the tender tone of voice she used, “look at me.”

Another pause ensued.

Then Katy heard Harry sigh, as if he were casting some great burden from his shoulders.

“You're right,” he said at last, “I'm overreacting. We should… we should just have a fun Halloween. Together.”

“You'll enjoy yourselves, I'm sure,” McGonagall said crisply, “Obviously, you know it's a Hogsmeade weekend. So I expect it will be a bit more crowded than usual.”

“I think I prefer it that way,” Harry said, “Should we go get the others?”

Before any of the children could react, the doorknob turned, and soon all seven of them tumbled to the floor, with matching guilty expressions on their faces.

Harry looked down at them, shaking his head.

“You'd think we, of all people, would remember an anti-eavesdrop charm,” he said wryly.

For a moment, Katy wondered if they were going to be scolded, but then Harry's look softened, and he smiled.

“Ready to go to Hogsmede?”

~*~

“Bit higher, Jack--”

“I can't go higher—“ Jack snapped through his teeth, “Look, forget it—“

Yasmine stepped gingerly off Jack's back and looked up at the large raspberry chocolate bars waiting tantalizingly on the top shelf.

“That's what I get for trying to help you,” she said, rather crossly, “Let's go the book store, everyone.”

Adrian was rooting through the barrels of candy by the window.

“Cool,” he said happily, peering at the label, “Weasley Wizarding Wheezes—they sell them here, too!”

“What… does that sort of sweet… do?” Katy said warily, peering over Adrian's shoulder. “Weasley's Sour Shocks—`You're in for a shocking surprise! Isn't that… dangerous?”

“Nah,” said a voice behind them, “it's a really quick shock; it doesn't last long enough for it to really hurt you.”

Katy turned. The boy who had spoken looked to be about her age, dark-haired and freckled with a wide face and friendly smile.

“My name's Jason,” he said, sticking out a hand, “my brother's friends with your brother. He's in Hufflepuff.”

“Ben, you mean?” Katy said, shaking, “I'm Katy.”

“Yeah, him,” Jason said, “Is that really Harry Potter over there?”

“Yes,” Katy said, noticing that Jason was looking at Harry with an awed expression she found a bit odd, “and Ben isn't really my brother.”

“Isn't he?” Jason said in surprise, “I thought… well, never mind that. Is that your mother?”

He jerked his chin in Hermione's direction. Hermione was paying for Jackie's box of licorice wands, chatting easily with the cashier. Katy guessed it was someone she knew fairly well.

“Well…”

“That's your sister, isn't it?” Jason scrutinized Jackie closely, “You look alike.”

“We do?” Katy blurted out. Jason grinned.

“At least when people tell you that you look alike, it's a compliment,” he smirked, “People tell me I look like my brother all the time. You're Katy's sister, then?”

Yasmine had successfully persuaded Dusty into coming to the book store with her, and stopped short when Jason addressed her.

“Well.” Yasmine said slowly, “Well, yes.”

She hesitated.

“We're adopted,” Yasmine said in a rush, refusing to look at Jack, Dusty, Katy, and Adrian, who were all staring at her in silence. Fortunately Katy was accustomed to Yasmine's occasionally outrageous imaginings and was somewhat able to maintain a matter-of-fact, normal expression. Inwardly, she felt as though someone had just hit her over the head..

“Oh, so that's what you meant,” Jason said, looking at Katy, “so he is your brother.”

Katy managed a nod.

“Well, maybe I'll see you at Hogwarts next year,” Jason said, “I have to go; my mum's calling me. See you!”

He smiled and dashed off, yelling, “I know, I know, I'm coming!”

As soon as he had gone, Katy turned to face Yasmine.

“Why did you lie?” she demanded, “What if he finds out the truth?”

“That is the truth,” Yasmine said, looking rather pink and defiant, “Well, not yet, it isn't, but it is. Harry and Hermione are going to adopt us; they told me.”

“You're lying,” Jack said immediately. Yasmine went very red.

“I am not!” she said hotly, “You can ask them.”

“I don't need to,” Jack said furiously, “you just answered for all of us, then, is that it?”

“Well, I know what all of us want.” Yasmine defended herself, “Even you.”

“I don't want it,” Jack snapped in a low voice.

“That's a lie and you know it! You're just afraid to care, that's all!” Yasmine said, not bothering to lower her voice, “Just because you never want anything to change doesn't mean the rest of us don't.”

“Oh, come on,” Jack said, turning and appealing to others. None of them spoke. “Dusty, Katy—“

They didn't speak.

“Fine, then. Go ahead; see if I care.” Jack said, though Katy was appalled to see his eyes were suddenly filled with tears, “Don't complain to me when you hate it!”

He whipped around and stalked out of the shop.

“Oh, dear,” Hermione said worriedly, letting go of Jackie's hand, “Dean, would you mind—“

“Not at all,” said Dean, ringing up the remainder of Hermione's purchases and waving a friendly hand at Jackie, “I'll keep an eye on her. Oi! Harry! When's the next meeting?”

Before Hermione could move, she felt a hand on her arm. She looked down, and there Dusty stood, his scarf crooked around his neck and dark eyes fixed on hers.

“Let me,” was all he said. “I won't get lost.”

Hermione bit her lip. Dusty patted her arm and smiled slowly.

“He won't go far,” he assured her.

She took a deep breath.

“Be careful. Don't be gone long,” she cautioned.

Before she could say anything else, Dusty had gone.

~*~

Jack slumped down on a bench in front of Zonko's, his eyes swollen and hot.

This was stupid. Stupid, stupid. The whole thing. All of it.

He never cried.

He felt someone sit next to him and drew up his knees, hiding his eyes in his arms.

“It doesn't have to be the same,” Dusty's voice said very quietly from beside him. Jack sniffed and pretended not to hear. But, uncharacteristically, Dusty continued to talk.

“Harry and Hermione are very good and very kind. And everyone's happy. It wouldn't change much, us being family.”

“Yes it would.” Jack muttered, “It would change everything, stupid.”

He regretted the insult as soon as he heard himself say it, but he didn't move. The last thing he wanted to be right now was sorry.

“Family is just a word.” Dusty said, “Like any other name. It's only a bad thing when you make it that way.”

“It wasn't my fault!” Jack burst out, “It wasn't my fault that things went the way they did. I couldn't help it!”

“That's not what I meant,” Dusty said, still very quietly, “I meant that just because it was bad once doesn't mean it has to be bad this time.”

“I don't even remember it,” Jack said with bitter honesty, “Most of it, anyway. It was the magic that did it, I think, but I was small then.”

Dusty didn't say anything then. Jack sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Hermione's waiting at Honeyduke's,” was all he said. “Maybe we should go.”

Jack rubbed his eyes.

“What do you want, Dusty?” he blurted out. Dusty looked at him with his dark eyes, and Jack knew the answer before he even spoke.

“I want a picture full of people I love,” he said simply, “But this time, I want to be in it.”

~*~

“Cherry for cream-filled,” Adrian coaxed, “Come on, Jackie, they taste good.”

Jackie stuck out her lip and shook her head. As she thought, they could hear Molly bustling around in the Burrow's kitchen.

“I like the cream-filled ones.”

“Come on—please?” Adrian pleaded, as Harry and Hermione sank onto the couch in front of the fire, “Just one. The cherry ones have loads of the filling, the cream ones don't!”

“No,” Jackie said stubbornly, “Don't want it.”

Hermione shook her head as Adrian continued to bargain.

“I don't think I've ever come back from a Hogsmeade visit so exhausted.” She yawned, and Harry laughed, kissing her on the forehead.

“Still, I'm glad that we decided to go,” Harry said, as Hermione rested her head on his shoulder. She raised an eyebrow and he grinned sheepishly.

“I mean to say,” he amended, “I'm glad you talked me in to it.”

“That's right,” she said smugly, yawning again, “You're welcome.”

He rested his nose in her hair and closed his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “how long have we got now?”

When she didn't reply, he opened his eyes and smiled. Hermione had dozed off, her head on his shoulder and fingers entwined with his.

“Seven months,” he whispered, as Jackie and Adrian hurried out of the living room and into the kitchen. He pressed his free hand to her cheek softly. “Seven more months, Hermione.”

He paused.

“It's been eight years, Hermione,” he said, watching the fire die down slowly, “Eight years ago, I saved your life and you entered mine. Fair trade off, wasn't it? Or not quite. I'm not sure I deserved that.”

He traced an absent pattern on her cheek with his fingertips.

“Saving your life is probably the smartest thing I'll ever do, save marrying you. I hope you didn't think you were marrying an intellectual.”

He sighed and rubbed her engagement ring with his thumb.

“It took a troll for me to notice you, didn't it?”

It took him a moment for him to realize that she was laughing.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, shaking her head and laughing, “I love you.”

“I think I know that one,” he quipped. She twisted around slightly, tilting her head back and letting him kiss her gently.

“Happy Halloween, Harry.”

~*~

“'Mione!”

Hermione was jerked rather abruptly awake. Jackie was bouncing eagerly on her bed.

“Come see, come see!”

Hermione raised a hand to her head sleepily, running her fingers through her hair. “What? What is it? Jackie, it's early!”

“Come see!” Jackie pulled at her hand persistently until Hermione stumbled out of the bed, still in her pajamas, blinking rapidly to adjust to the early morning light. The whole house was still slumbering, save for the grandfather clock. Hermione hid a groan when she saw the time.

“Jackie, dear, it's only four o—“

“Out here!” Jackie interrupted, dancing about her. She pushed the porch door open a fraction, and frosty air hit the already shivering Hermione almost immediately.

“Jackie—“

“Please, `Mione,” Jackie begged, pulling insistently at her hand, “otherwise he might leave.”

“He?” Hermione repeated warily, still rubbing her forehead, and shivering the frosty air. “Jackie, I'm not sure this is a good ide—ouch!”

A very wet, furry, matted something flew at her as Jackie flung the door wide open, and Hermione stumbled backwards, her arms flying up over her face. Something warm, wet, and rather smelly was whipping at her cheeks as she fell to her knees in the kitchen floor.

“He likes you!” Jackie declared hopefully, “Good boy!”

Hermione drew backwards with difficulty and found herself staring at a big sensitive brown nose, now sniffing her rather tangled hair.

“Oh, my,” was all she could manage, “it's a—“

“…puppy!” Jackie cried gleefully, “I came down to get a drink and there he was at the door!”

“A puppy,” Hermione repeated blankly, realizing her cheeks were now covered in saliva. The only alert part of her mind was blaring dire predictions—this spells trouble topped off with soiled floors and spoiled shoes and all that fur!

“May I get him some food? May I?” Jackie was positively exuberant as she gathered the squirming creature in her arms, “I think I'll name him—“

“Jackie,” Hermione said hastily (after the creature was named, there would be no taking the dog away), “this puppy might belong to someone else.”

“No, he doesn't; he hasn't got a collar,” Jackie indicated this by tickling the puppy on his neck. (Hermione was now painfully aware that her kitchen smelled distinctly of wet dog fur.)

She made her way to the fridge and opened it. “What should I feed him?”

“Well,” Hermione hedged, “I… well—“

“Maybe this?” Jackie raised a bag of some leftover chicken; the dog's tail lashed the air happily as he nipped at the bag with sharp, slightly yellowed teeth.

“Oh… well—“ Hermione was desperately attempting to find a way out of this; there simply had to be a way to convince Jackie to let the puppy go. “I… well, all right—best remove the bones—but don't feed them to him in here! Jackie, did you hear what I—“

She groaned. Jackie had already pulled some chicken off the bone and dropped it into the puppy's mouth.

Hermione cringed as the puppy managed to pry the chicken from Jackie's hand.

A dog. No, she simply couldn't handle a dog. At least cats had some level of self-sufficiency, but dogs needed attention. And they were twice as big—this one was clearly some sort of Labrador—and the noise!

“Is that a dog?”

“Look, Katy, it's a puppy!”

“He's my puppy, and his name is—“

“Now, wait a moment,” Hermione began desperately, as the rest of the children crowded around Jackie. It was going to be enough trying to detach Jackie from the dog, even without a name—

“…Gulliver!” Jackie announced triumphantly.

“Gulliver,” Hermione repeated weakly, as the dog bounded about the kitchen, leaving muddy paw-prints on the tile.

Jackie rolled about on the tile, laughing as the dog planted his paws on her stomach and lapped happily at her face.

Well, there was no use arguing, Hermione thought, shaking her head. It was easy enough to take a nameless dog to a pound, but to do so to a dog with a name... that was a different matter altogether.

“May I keep him?” Jackie said, presenting her with the wet, panting puppy. Gingerly taking the squirming creature in her arms, Hermione looked into the puppy's big, liquid eyes and managed a smile.

“If you'll take care of him—“

“I will!” Jackie said eagerly, turning her blue eyes to hers. Hermione sighed.

“Then we'll give him a chance.” Gulliver gifted Hermione with another big, sloppy kiss. With a rueful laugh, Hermione set the puppy down on the tile and cleaned the mud from the puppy's coat with a sweep of her wand.

Jackie threw her arms around Hermione's waist. “I love you!”

Suddenly the older five went very quiet; Hermione, however, pretended not to notice, and bent to kiss Jackie's head.

“I love you, too, Jackie.”

Jackie beamed. “Can he sleep in my room?”

“I think he'd better sleep in the bathroom, actually, just in case,” Hermione said gently, “All of you should go back to sleep.”

But when she straightened expectantly, only Jackie hurried out of the room with Gulliver in her arms. The older five stood in the kitchen in silence.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione said with as much of a casual tone as she could manage. They looked around at each other significantly.

“Nothing,” they said in unison, and together, they trooped upstairs.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her forehead wearily.

This was one of the worst parts of being an adult. Suddenly, children decide that you simply can't understand.

And so you never know.

At least, Hermione thought ruefully, as she returned to her room, that's what it felt like.

A/N: Much as I would like to believe that Harry could get over his `he must be after me' complex, I do think it would take longer than what's been written. Up until this point, however, he's managed to keep his work away from the old house. His worries, unfortunately, are not entirely unfounded. So… yes. There is my little teaser/defense/apology. Please let me know what you thought!

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A/N: So yes, I'm back. Having somewhat conquered writer's block and total lack of inspiration, I have finally produced… this. It's taken—obviously—quite a bit of time, and my only excuse is that I have rewritten it about a dozen times. As a warning, I deal with a sensitive issue in this chapter. It is, perhaps, the first time I've ever attempted to deal with an issue of its kind. That being said, please charge any insensitivity you find to my head—not my heart. I'll be glad to listen to your thoughts about it, as always. Enjoy!

Chapter Thirty

“How long has it been since you and Hermione have gone on a proper date?”

Harry didn't turn around, dropping several applications into a filing cabinet and taking a long sip of coffee.

“And how is that your business?”

“Just answer the question, Harry,” Ginny said, crumpling up an empty Chocolate Frog wrapper and tossing it into the trash bin. Harry put down his mug and picked up another thick stack of applications, sitting down at his desk with a quill in hand.

“What are you doing here, Ginny?” he said without looking up, marking up the application and putting it aside. “I thought you were at home with Molly.”

“I was,” she said, “until she told me to find someone else to bother, as I was obviously no help at home.”

The corners of Harry's mouth twitched.

“And you chose me,” he said, twirling the quill absently, “I'm honored.”

“You should be, you prat,” she said with dignity, “but you still haven't answered me. How long as it been?”

Harry shrugged.

“Two weeks? Three weeks? I don't know. Ouch!”

Ginny sat back in her chair, having delivered her smack successfully.

“Merlin, Ginny!” he said, glaring at her, “what was that for?”

“For neglecting your fiancée,” she said fiercely, “I knew this would happen when I left for school.”

The door creaked open, and Neville poked his head into the office. When he saw the two glowering at each other, he raised his eyebrow and said, rather dryly, “Should I come back?”

“Nah,” Harry said, still scowling at Ginny, “come on in, Nev.”

“I just have a question-are we postponing private tutoring sessions until after Christmas?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, pointing at the calendar behind his desk, “second week in January is when they start back up.”

“Thanks,” Neville glanced at Ginny, “How's it going, Ginny?”

She astonished Harry by turning a fierce shade of scarlet.

“Fine, thank you, Neville,” she said rather coldly. Neville's jaw tightened slightly, and he nodded coolly.

“I'll see you later.” With that, he shut the door with slightly more force than usual. In the silence that followed, Harry stared at a very flustered Ginny in bewilderment.

“Ginny?”

“Forget him,” she said tersely, “how could you neglect Hermione like that?”

“I see her every day,” he said quietly, though her words managed to trouble him. Ginny shook her head slowly.

“Men!” she said, with more passion than Harry thought his confession merited, “You're all selfish, clueless, idiotic, distrustful gits!”

There was a pause.

“Right,” Harry said, clearing his throat awkwardly and beginning to stand, “now that you're through insulting me, I'm going to go and-“

“Oh, no, you don't!” Ginny snapped, pushing Harry back into his chair, “You and I are going to plan a night for you and your fiancée. She'll never complain, but I will! You men are-“

“…selfish, clueless, idiotic, distrustful gits,” Harry recited, grinning. “This git is planning his own date, thanks very much. But I might need some help…”

~*~

“Close your eyes!”

Obediently, Jackie squeezed her eyes shut tightly while Hermione lathered shampoo into her soft blond hair.

“It smells good,” Jackie commented happily.

“It does, doesn't it?” Hermione agreed, “Ready? Here comes the water!”

Jackie laughed as Hermione waved her wand, producing a jet of warm water that sent soapsuds flooding down Jackie's back into the tub.

“I like that,” she informed Hermione, who was sitting beside the tub on a small stool, “Will I learn how to do that at school?”

“Yes, you will,” Hermione said, smiling, “Ready for the conditioner? Gully!”

Jackie giggled as a curious Gulliver came padding into the bathroom, putting his head on Hermione's lap.

“I thought I'd shut the door-“ Hermione said exasperatedly, giving him a gentle shove toward the doorway, “Yasmine? Can you come get Gulliver for me?”

“Got him,” said a voice behind her. She started in surprise.

“Harry!”

Harry picked Gulliver up and handed him to Yasmine, who carried him off down the hallway. Harry leaned up against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey, Hermione and Jackie,” he said, “looks like you're busy.”

“Look what I got, Harry!” Jackie held up a polished wooden hippogriff currently dripping with soapy bathwater.

“Cool,” Harry said, grinning. He glanced over at Hermione, who explained, “Hagrid sent them to us for Christmas. Jackie only recently discovered they make good bath toys.”

“That's cool,” Harry said again, this time rather absently. “Hey, Hermione-I've arranged something for us tonight… tonight at seven?”

She looked surprised.

“I mean, you don't have to come,” he fumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, “I just thought it's been a long time since we've-“

A smile swept across Hermione's face as she picked up the conditioner.

“That sounds nice, Harry,” she said, “I… well, thank Ginny for me.”

“What?”

Hermione looked over at him and smirked softly. “I said, thank Ginny for me.”

He grinned sheepishly.

“Can't wait for tonight, then,” he said, coming forward and dropping a kiss in her hair. “I'll let her know.”

Before he could pull away, Hermione turned and cupped his cheek with her soapy hand, kissing him fully on the mouth. He closed his eyes briefly, until Jackie's stifled giggle forced them to break apart.

Hermione blushed and cleared her throat. “Here.”

She reached around him and pulled a towel off the rack and dried Harry's cheek with a brisk, gentle movement.

“She's really pink!” Jackie crowed, making both Harry and Hermione laugh sheepishly.

“She is, isn't she?” Harry said, winking at Jackie, “I wonder why?”

Jackie attempted to wink back, but ended up squinting one eye and widening the other.

“All right, Jack-Jack,” Hermione said, laughing and beginning to condition Jackie's hair, “Let's let Harry go back to work.”

Jackie tilted her head under Hermione's gentle administrations and let out a long, loud sigh.

“Go back to work, Harry!” she said, and Harry, with a very straight face, sprang to attention and saluted, making her laugh.

“Right away!” he said, and with that, he marched away, shutting the door behind him.

Hermione smiled quietly as she began to rinse the conditioner from Jackie's hair.

“What's going to happen to us while you're gone, Hermione?” Jackie questioned curiously.

“I'll have to see who's available to take care of you tonight.” Hermione said, “We'll see.”

Jackie sent her hippogriff diving into the bath.

“Okay. I hope it's someone fun.”

~*~

“Percy?”

Seven voices chorused a single expression of disappointment. Hermione sighed and checked her reflection in the window.

“I know he's not…particularly interesting, but he offered, and it was very kind of him. Be on your best behavior.”

Adrian flopped into a kitchen chair, pulling a face.

“That's the worst part of it, really,” he said, “when Percy's here, we've got to be.”

Hermione eyed him sternly.

“Don't think I've forgotten what you did to poor Mr. and Mrs. Boot, young man. Hannah and Terry were covered in purple polka dots for the rest of the night!”

“Just the rest of the night,” Adrian said defensively, “And they were decent sports about it all. They thought it was funny! And you did, too!”

Hermione allowed herself a smile. “Nevertheless, Adrian, I don't particularly enjoy bidding goodbye to sitters who look as though they've caught a variety of ghastly illnesses. It doesn't help me find a sitter for the next time. Ginny still swears she sees a distinctly blue tint to her complexion.”

She raised an eyebrow when several sniggers rippled among the seven children crowded around her. “And don't think I've forgotten that Ginny looked like that for the rest of the week.”

“You could always bring George over.” Adrian suggested hopefully.

“The day I leave George alone with you is the day I wish havoc and chaos upon the whole of the wizarding world,” Hermione said very dryly, “besides, George is out with Katie-“

“His girlfriend,” Adrian snickered, as he and Jack looked meaningfully in Katy's direction. Katy looked annoyed.

“It's not me, Adrian! It's Katie Bell!”

“…so he was unavailable anyway.” Hermione finished wearily, pulling on her gloves and looking at the clock. “Where is he? He's not-usually-late.”

“Hello, Hermione!” said a familiar voice, “How are you this fine evening?”

“Oh, hello, Percy,” Hermione said distractedly, shaking his hand without actually looking at him, “thank you for coming at such late notice.”

“No trouble at all, no trouble at all,” Percy said heartily, “I brought Penelope along, I hope you don't mind-Penny, my girl, you remember Hermione.”

“How could I forget you?” Penelope said, smiling, “You saved my life from that snake, remember?”

“Oh, yes,” Hermione said, looking startled, “I suppose I did. Thank you for coming, Penelope.”

“I don't mind,” said Penelope, smiling at the children, “You deserve a night off.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Well, have a good night, children,” Hermione said, hugging each one gently and whispering a firm, “Behave,” in every ear. “Thank you for being such good sports.”

Adrian held onto Hermione one extra moment and pleaded, “Just one trick, Hermione, please?” Hermione pulled back, laughed, and shook her head.

“Promise me you'll be good, Adrian,” she whispered, “for me?”

His shoulders slumped as he nodded.

“All right. I promise,” he mumbled rather unhappily, “but just 'cause it's important to you.”

“Thank you, Adrian,” Hermione said gratefully, kissing his forehead, “you might have fun. Give it a chance.”

She ruffled his hair and bid Percy and Penelope goodnight before rushing out into the foyer to open the door. There Harry stood, bearing a single scarlet rose awkwardly in his hand, his hair windswept and sprinkled with snow.

“Oh, Harry-“

“Hi, Hermione,” he said, looking up and handed her the rose. She breathed in the distinct, sweet scent. “I thought you might like it.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, reaching up and kissing him. “That was very sweet of you.”

“So I haven't managed to butcher this date yet?” he quipped, making her laugh.

“No, not yet,” she said, taking his hand, “Do you want to come in, or are you ready to sweep me off to goodness knows where?”

“Oh, is that what I'm supposed to do?” he said with an impish smile, sweeping her up in his arms and making her laugh again. “I thought we saved that for after we got married.”

She lay her head on his shoulder, smiling.

“Normally you do, but we're not particularly normal, are we?”

“No, we're not, thank Merlin,” Harry said, kissing her forehead lightly. She closed her eyes, and he bent. His lips brushed her ear as he breathed, “Now hold tight to me.”

She had just enough time to throw her arm around his neck before he whipped around, whisking both of them into tight, pulsing darkness.

When they finally arrived at their destination, Hermione was clutching at Harry's sweater for dear life. He laughed.

“Er… Hermione, you can let go now,” he gently disengaged her arm from around his neck. “No,” his hand pressed over her eyes, “keep those curious eyes of yours closed.”

She smiled as he took away his hand, gently putting her on her feet. A telltale soft crunch made her aware that not only was she outside, but there was snow underfoot. She frowned slightly as soft snowflakes dissolved on her cheeks and clung to her eyelashes.

“Harry, where-“

“Shh…” he whispered, putting a finger on her lips. “Listen.”

She tilted her head, listening carefully. Soon a soft, silvery noise reached her ears. Her brow furrowed.

“Bells?”

“Shh…” he said again, this time taking her hand, “keep your eyes closed-hold out your hand.”

He guided her out, and soon she felt her fingers rest on something alive, something sensitive and warm. Soon the sound of snuffles and snorts became apparent.

“Open your eyes,” Harry said, and Hermione did. What she saw took her breath away.

“Harry!”

The horses nickered softly at her exclamation, stomping their hooves and tossing their heads under their harnesses. Hermione moved to her right, running a hand along the slender white sleigh in disbelief and awe.

“Well?” he said, laughing, “what do you think?”

Hermione took a step, taking it all in. Two chocolate brown horses stood stomping and neighing in the snow, their breath fogging up in front of them. A sleigh-a long white sleigh with decked with red bows and sprigs of holly-stood waiting for its riders. She frowned.

“Harry, what's that for?” she pointed at the long sled hooked up to the back of the sleigh. He grinned mischievously.

“Questions, questions. One at a time.” He twined his fingers around hers. “Ready to go for a ride?”

“Yes!” Hermione said, so excitedly that he laughed a delighted, full laugh she'd heard only a few times before.

“All right, then.” He helped her onto the sleigh and sat beside her, covering their laps with a thick, knitted blanket Hermione guessed to be of Weasley origin. “Let's go.”

He tapped the sleigh with his wand and the horses responded immediately, starting off at a brisk trot. Hermione leaned up against Harry as he put an arm around her shoulders.

“Harry, aren't you worried about… about the security?” she whispered. He shook his head, smiling.

“Already taken care of, Hermione, in more than fifteen ways,” he replied, suddenly looking serious, “If we are attacked, I have exactly eighteen ways we can get away quickly and safely. We also have about ten back-up plans, eight of whom are about a mile away enjoying some dinner at the Longbottoms'.”

She gaped at him in astonishment.

“It did make finding a sitter difficult, didn't it?” he said good-naturedly, making her laugh. “Trust me. I'm not taking any risks.”

She closed her eyes and leaned up against him. He rested his chin in her hair and murmured, “You're the one thing I can't risk, Hermione.”

She sighed and opened her eyes, watching the white countryside drift lazily by, listening to the sound of Harry's breathing, the horses' brisk hooves, and the jangle of the bells on their harnesses. Harry's fingers held hers tightly as they sat in comfortable, sweet silence.

“Where are we going?”

The question came slowly, drowsily. Harry's lips pressed against her hair, just brushing against her skin.

“You'll see.”

She tilted a brow at him and he laughed quietly. “Be patient. It'll be worth it.”

She sighed and settled back, closing her eyes again and breathing in the frosty air, snuggling into Harry's side. A few moments later, an unfamiliar sound greeted her ears, one that made a smile play across her face.

Harry was humming. Rather badly at that, but Hermione personally thought that it was the sweetest rendition of Silver Bells she had ever heard. She tilted her head toward the sound, squeezing his hand.

The sleigh ride seemed beautifully, serenely endless. Harry attempted to appreciate the scenery around them, but his gaze always wandered back to Hermione's peaceful face, the content half-smile creating a dimple in her rosy cheeks and the small snowflakes clinging tenaciously to her lashes.

“Hermione?”

“Hmmm?”

He smiled and bent close to her ear, letting the words dance into her ear with playful accuracy. “We're here.”

The content instantly dissolved into a look of eager excitement; she sat up and opened her eyes, which immediately widened in delight. She grabbed his arm and laughed.

“You knew! How on earth did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” he said honestly, grinning as she kissed him swiftly on the cheek, “but I see I guessed right.”

She laughed as a small boy approached the sleigh, rubbing his small mittens together and questioning, “A Christmas tree for you and your wife, sir?”

A flush of pleasure rose to Hermione's cheeks at the word 'wife'-or, Hermione reflected with a slight smile, perhaps it was the fact that Harry didn't bother to correct him.

“Yes, thanks,” Harry said, tugging at Hermione's hand, “come on, Hermione. I'll let you pick.”

She laughed again and hurried out of the sleigh, pulling him along behind her.

“The children are going to be so thrilled!”

~*~

“How did it go?” Hermione whispered anxiously, peering at the two babysitters in the dim candlelight and trying, as subtly as she could, to detect any outward signs of alteration. “Did they behave?”

“Perfectly,” Penelope assured her, smiling, “We read the girls a book, Percy played cards with the boys, and they've all gone to bed.”

“Oh, don't look so disappointed,” Hermione said exasperatedly, lightly whacking Harry on the shoulder, “I'm glad.”

Harry smirked. “Percy, you're officially the only member of the Weasley family-excepting, of course, your mum-to escape the house without a complete makeover.”

“Did you have a good time?” Penelope asked. Hermione smiled softly.

“We had a lovely time,” she said, smiling, “thank you again for watching the children.”

“It was our pleasure. They're such well-behaved children; it was no trouble at all.” Penelope took Percy's arm, “Shall we go, Perce?”

“So we shall, Penny,” Percy said, patting her hand, “We'll leave you two now-let us know if there's anything we can do to help with the wedding.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, shaking Percy's hand, “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Hermione shut the door behind them as they stepped out onto the porch.

“The tree should be in the living room, if I did the spell right,” Harry said, “Let's hope I did.”

“I'm sure you did,” Hermione said, tugging off her gloves and leading the way to the living room. “We hardly use this room at all; it's a wonder we remembered where it was.”

They walked past the staircase into the rarely used living room, where the tree stood waiting and bundled up. Harry opened the stand they had bought from the vendors and managed to set the tree up, while Hermione took out her wand and began to decorate the tree.

Having set the tree up properly, Harry stood back at a distance and watched Hermione decorate. Tiny, twinkling little lights flew out of the tip of Hermione's wand and hovered about the tree's boughs like stars; red and white velvet ribbons wound around it and sprouted dozens of silver bells. Hermione's wand flourished in the air, and suddenly, several tiny white Christmas lilies sprouted around the tree, adding a soft touch to the twinkling tree.

“It's missing something,” Harry said softly, and Hermione smiled.

“Wait here,” she said, then she hurried out of the room, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

Harry came closer to the tree, touching one of the lilies with a finger.

He knew Hermione too well to think that the lilies had been a casual addition. She knew what the flower meant to him-and had somehow let him know what it meant to her.

“Here, I-Harry?” She came near to him and touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at her with slightly moist eyes, “just admiring your flower choice.”

She bit her lip and looked down.

“Does it bother you?” she asked, rather anxiously, “I can take it down, you know. I just… I thought-I wanted to remember her. What she did for you, for me-for all of us. And not just her-your father, Fred, Dora, Remus… everyone who made this possible.”

He took a step back and put his arm around her.

“I think it's brilliant,” he said quietly, “thanks, Hermione.”

She smiled, twisting her head around and kissing him. “Look.”

She held up a simple paper star splashed with gold glitter and red and green beads. “Jackie made it.”

She raised her wand and gave it a quick wave. The star fluttered in her hand; then, extending its arms like tiny wings, it flew to the top of the tree, fastening itself to the very tip.

Harry smiled, pulling her closer to him. He looked at the humble handmade creation crowning the Christmas tree dusted with magic and let out a long, content sigh.

“Yeah. That's about right.”

~*~

“Anyway, you're more or less legends at Hogwarts now, you and Harry and Ron,” Ginny dipped a finger into the bowl of frosting and tasted it, licking her lips appreciatively, “good frosting, Jack-Jack.”

Jackie beamed. “Thank you!”

Hermione transferred the last reindeer from the cookie sheet onto the wax paper placed out on the counter. “I can't imagine we're as legendary as you and Neville are now, at least at Hogwarts.”

Ginny snorted. “Seriously, Hermione. You three were out there- no teachers or anything to fall back on. We had McGonagall and Flitwick and the others.”

“Nevertheless- Jackie, careful with the sprinkles- you were leaders. Leaders that I imagine the students needed.”

Ginny pinched a bit of cookie dough from the bowl and popped it into her mouth. She paused, then said- with a rather odd look on her face- “It was mostly Neville.”

“Ginny Weasley, I do believe you're being humble!” Hermione said with mock shock. Ginny scowled.

“Just honest, Hermione,” was all she said, as she began to roll out another batch of sugar cookies, “do you really think your parents are going to appreciate these?”

“They can handle the horror,” Hermione said dismissively, “the children's teeth are perfect, thank you very much. Well, excepting Dusty's, though I'm fairly certain that getting that crooked tooth adjusted won't be difficult.”

“He probably won't have to trick the school nurse into doing it for him,” Ginny said pointedly.

Hermione chose to ignore the comment by sliding a plate of cookies directly in front of Ginny. “Here, take those home to your mum. Jackie made the Christmas tree for her especially.”

“That was sweet,” Ginny said, studying the Christmas tree with a smile. “Thanks, Jackie.”

“You're welcome,” Jackie said absently, spreading red frosting across a cookie star. “Hermione, I need more red frosting.”

“How do you ask?”

“Please can I have more frosting?” Jackie amended, holding out the bowl.

“Yes, you may,” Hermione said, taking the bowl and putting measures of confectioner's sugar, cream cheese, and red food coloring into the bowl. “Here, why don't you mix that up?”

Jackie took to mixing the frosting with gusto. “Look at the swirls it makes!”

Moments later, the front door swung open. Gulliver was heard bounding down the stairs, giving one loud bark of welcome, and Jackie dropped the spoon into the bowl, jumping off the stool. “Harry's back!”

“Jackie, don't drop the--” Hermione managed to steady the teetering bowl of frosting just before it fell from the edge of the counter. As she did, a very ruddy Harry and Yasmine came trooping into the kitchen, peeling off their coats and gloves and scattering them unceremoniously across the kitchen table.

“Honestly, you two,” Hermione scolded, “where do those go?”

“Good to see you, too,” Harry said cheerfully, collecting the articles of clothing obediently and grinning at her, “Hey, Ginny, I didn't know you were here.”

“Excellent!” Jack, Adrian, and Ben were heard whooping at once from behind Harry.

“We needed another person for our snowball fight!” Adrian said, popping his head in the doorway of the kitchen, “Come on, Harry!”

“It wasn't fair with just three of us,” Ben said, with a pointed look at Jack. Jack shrugged.

“You got the tree fort and we built our own,” Jack said, slapping a high five with Adrian. Ben's face flushed slightly, and an oddly irritated look crossed his face. Briefly Hermione wondered if that look ought to concern her. Upon further reflection, she decided to let it go. Surely it was simple irritation. It would go away once the second snow fight started.

“Remember to wear your scarves, boys,” she reminded them as they all hurried out of the kitchen, “and be safe!”

“Safe?” Ginny scoffed. “What's fun about a snowball fight if there isn't a bit of risk?”

Hermione gave her a warning look.

“The risk of being hit by a snowball on the shoulder or chest is quite different from the risk of ending up with a broken skull.”

As Hermione finished her sentence, Harry and all seven of the children paraded through the kitchen and hurried out the back door. Moments later, shouts and yells filled the yard, filtering through the window.

“What were Harry and Yaz doing, anyway?” Ginny asked as Hermione glanced out the kitchen window, watching the boys battle each other with flying white missiles. The girls busied themselves with snow angels and snowforts on the other side of the yard.

“They went Christmas shopping. Harry and I have been taking each of them out separately so that they can purchase gifts for each other.”

“That's a lot of gifts,” Ginny remarked. Hermione looked surprised.

“I thought your family would...”

“Well, we each got a sweater every Christmas, a box of sweets, and then our parents got the whole family a gift. We didn't often buy gifts for each person in our family.”

Hermione looked thoughtful.

“I assigned each of the kids another person in the family that they were responsible for. Harry and I are getting them each a gift- he wanted to shop for the girls, and I'm shopping for the boys. I'm filling the stockings. And my parents are probably going to give the whole family a gift.”

Ginny smiled.

“Lucky kids,” she said, with unusual gentleness, “you're doing something really good, Hermione, taking them in like this.”

“Thank you, Ginny, but you're giving me too much credit. It was an impulsive decision- I only realized what I was doing after I had offered.”

Hermione leaned against the counter, hugging herself with one arm and pressing one floury hand against her cheek, smiling at the backyard with a contentedness that made Ginny feel as though she were in the presence of someone much older than herself.

“When I was at Hogwarts,” Hermione began after a long pause, “if you had asked me what I wanted for the future, I would have said-- a successful career in something important and relevant. Perhaps-- law or defense or research.”

She looked down, fiddling with her engagement ring.

“All Harry wanted was for the ones he loved to be safe and happy- and I think-- though he'd never admit it to me or anyone during the war-- he wanted to be a part of that. A family.”

She sighed, her shoulders dropping and her soft smile lingering on her lips.

“And lately I've started to wonder if-- maybe-- Harry was right.”

~*~

“Duck!” Adrian howled, as several snowballs sailed past him. Jack crouched obediently behind their snowy fortress, clutching several snowballs in his fists. “Missed me!”

Jack grinned, handing him another snowball. “Here, get Harry-- I've got Ben.”

Harry ducked, his hands over his head as the snowball flew over his head. Ben, however, toppled to his back with a grunt. Jack's snowball had hit its mark. Harry pulled him up good-naturedly.

“All right, mate?”

Ben didn't say a word; his narrowed blue eyes were fixed on Jack and Adrian, who were slapping high-fives and laughing. His lips thinned as he nodded slowly, taking several snowballs from the stack. He stood up, drawing back his arm and pelting the two wildly with his ammunition.

Not one snowball hit its target.

When the two other boys merely stared at him, puzzlement mingling with their smiles, Ben kicked over the snowfort and stormed into the house, his angry face turned toward the ground.

“What's with him?” Jack said, looking at Adrian. Adrian shook his head, looking troubled.

“I don't know.”

“Hello, Ben,” Hermione said in surprise as he opened the kitchen door, “is the snowball fight--”

“It's over,” Ben muttered as he stalked out of the kitchen, his scarf askew. Hermione glanced at Ginny, who shook her head in puzzlement.

“Just one moment,” Hermione excused herself and hurried after Ben. Just as she reached the foyer, the front door slammed shut. Biting her lip in concern, Hermione opened the door and gazed out on the porch. Ben sat on the front steps, his elbows on his knees and face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook as he sniffled and curled up tighter, obviously wishing to be left alone.

“Ben?” Hermione closed the front door behind her and took a seat beside him on the porch steps. “Are you all right?”

“I'm-- I'm fine,” he mumbled with a hiccup, scrubbing at his eyes, “I'm not hurt or anything, if that's what you're wondering.”

She wet her lips and sighed.

“What happened?” she asked quietly. He hiccupped again and shuddered.

“Nothing happened, really, I just... it's only...” he sniffed again and scrubbed his face with his mittens, “Nothing happened.”

She let out a breath and nodded.

“All right,” she said patiently, “if you say so.”

He looked up, staring at the snowy landscape and blinking quickly. The red flush on his cheeks had drained away, and he shivered. Concerned, Hermione slid an arm around him and pulled him close, rubbing his shoulder with a hand.

“It's... it's just that I thought Adrian and I would be like we were before,” he blurted at long last, looking away, “you know-- close, like we were. But since I've come back, he's-- it seems like Adrian likes Jack more. They're always on the same team for snowball fights, and we never play Monopoly anymore. All they do is play chess. And they've worked out a secret handshake and they won't let me in on it, and they're always playing games off by themselves and they don't invite me unless I ask-- nothing's the same and I-- I'm...”

Hermione rested her cheek in his hair and completed the sentence quietly.

“You're lonely.”

He trembled, obviously fighting back tears and refusing to look at her, his eyes averted in embarrassment. Hermione squeezed him gently as he gave in and cried into her shoulder.

“Adrian and Jack have become good friends,” she said after a while, “but Adrian still loves you. I promise. You're not being replaced by any means. There's only one of you, and Adrian knows that.”

He looked up, his eyes tinged with red and, Hermione noticed with relief, assurance. He hesitated, then said, “Is it true? What Adrian wrote me about?”

He put his mittens on his knees and stared determinedly away.

“You're going to adopt us?”

“If-- and only if-- you agree.” Hermione touched his hand. “I'm not going to force any of you. Jack hasn't given us an answer yet either.”

There was a silence, then she added, “And I'm not going to ask you to call me `Mum' or call Harry `Dad'. The adoption will give us the permission to assume guardianship of you and nothing more, if that's the way you want it to be.”

Ben pulled off his mittens and clasped his hands together, his brows lowering over his eyes in thought. Hermione was just about to tell him that she would let him think about it when he said, “I stopped calling my father `Dad' when I was five.”

He let out a long breath and rested his elbows on his knees again, leaning his chin in his hand.

“I didn't think he deserved it.” He stopped and suddenly turned a fierce gaze on Hermione. Taken aback, she pulled away slightly, locking her gaze upon his. “You're not to tell Adrian this, all right? He doesn't need to know; I don't want him to know.”

“Ben--”

“If he ever asks me, I'll tell him. But it has to be me to tell him,” he said forcefully, “Do you promise?”

“Ben--”

“Please, Hermione,” he implored, his voice wavering upon her name, “please, you've got to.”

“I-- I promise,” she whispered, and his face relaxed visibly.

“You... you can tell Harry, if you like,” he said softly, “but no one else. I trust you and Harry to keep it secret. I don't want the others to know, but I suppose you ought to, and since you're getting married-- I don't think you should keep it a secret from him.”

He drew up his knees and hugged them, taking a deep breath and letting it slide out of him in a soft hiss. “I think I always lived with my mum and my grandfather and... my father in that house. That's the only place me and Adrian ever remember living. My mum... she was beautiful, with golden hair and eyes like mine, but she fell ill after Adrian was born and never got better. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined the way she used to be before she... became the way she was. She couldn't ever see how bad things were at home. We didn't have enough money to fetch a doctor, and my grandfather did his best, but Grandfather... he wasn't quite... right. He always told us about wizards and witches and magic, but... that's all he seemed to remember, after a while. And he would mix up these awful things he said would make Mum better, but I know now that it made it worse. They weren't potions. I've seen you make them with Healer Pruitt.”

He shuddered and closed his eyes, pulling his arm away and letting his chin drop on his knees. “I think Grandfather remembered something. But there was a blank in his mind somewhere, as if someone-- something-- had taken a sponge and wiped something clean. But I trusted him; he was a grown-up and I wasn't. I didn't know to stop him. And my father--” his lips tightened, “the only time my father ever came home was when he wanted money.”

Suddenly tears welled up in Ben's eyes and his trembling increased. He looked up into Hermione's eyes and choked, “I knew we needed money, so I took Adrian to the farmhouses every week so that we could work. We chopped firewood and washed dishes and sometimes weeded the garden, and when we left, the boys who lived there would give us food that they had saved for us. That's the only thing my father let us keep was the food; if I tried to keep the money by hiding it, he would take me outside pretending that we were going on a walk. Thenhe said that if it wasn't for the money we made-- and there wasn't much of it-- he could kill me and if I hid it again, he would-- and I couldn't fight him and he'd beat me if I cried and sometimes he beat me anyway and we would go inside and he would laugh and pat Adrian on the head and leave and my mother would just smile and I... I just...”

Hermione gathered Ben up in her arms, holding him close and tight and rocking him back and forth as he sobbed, tears streaming down his face and soaking her coat.

“Ben... oh, Ben...” was all Hermione could say in an agonized whisper as he clung to her tightly, “oh, Ben...”

“I know you'd never hurt me, I know you wouldn't, but I'm still so afraid!” The words came out broken and raw and gutteral. “Because I ran and I... he'd always find me if I ran, he'd always find me, and then he'd--”

“Ben, Ben-- Ben, listen to me!” Hermione took his face firmly in her hands, fixing her eyes upon his, desperately trying to draw him out of the hysteria he seemed to have worked himself into, “He's not coming back. He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone. Do you understand me?”

She wrapped her arms around him tightly, rocking him back and forth.

“You're with me and I love you. Do you hear me, Ben? I love you. I love you. I would do anything to keep you safe. “ She kissed his forehead and whispered directly into his ear, “Listen. Listen to me.”

He leaned his cheek against her neck, still sobbing breathlessly into her shoulder and gripping her tightly with his arms.

“There is nothing-- absolutely nothing-- that you can do or say that is going to make me stop loving you and protecting you. Nothing. Do you understand, Ben? There's nothing you have to do to make me love you, and there's nothing you can do that will make me stop. And Adrian can say the exact same thing. This entire family would say the exact same thing.”

She stroked his hair and rested her chin in his hair, rocking him slowly back and forth and repeating the same thing over and over again. “There's nothing you have to do to make me love you, and there's nothing you can do that will make me stop.”

Gradually, his tears subsided and he merely held onto her, his eyes closed and his embrace tight. Hermione stroked his back and quickly wiped her eyes, still holding him close. Several minutes passed before Ben spoke again, in a thick, shaky voice.

“I... thank you, Hermione.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in her shoulder. Before she could reply, he mumbled-- so tremulously she almost missed it-- “Mama.”

And suddenly, Hermione couldn't say anything. He looked up, his eyes intensely fearful once more, waiting for confirmation. She bent her head and kissed his forehead, her arms still encircling him unwaveringly.

“I know I shouldn't have-- I didn't mean to--” Ben fumbled in a quivering voice. “I don't know why I...”

“Shh,” she said very quietly, putting a hand on the back of his head, “it's all right.”

He closed his eyes.

“We can go inside now, Mama,” he murmured, and for the first time, Hermione recognized, his voice was truly peaceful.

A/N (2): To say this chapter took an unexpected turn is possibly the largest understatement you could make. I had created Ben's history long before this—there are hints of it in previous chapters—but was I planning on revealing it? No. Not really. Not at all. If it appears Ben's character moved too quickly, I would love to know. I'm still learning. Anyway, thank you very much for sticking it out, and I hope you found something you enjoyed. Happy New Year to all!

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A/N: After several drafts and an untimely computer crash, here's the next chapter of That Old House. It's probably a little jumpy, and you'd do best to make an appointment with your dentist soon after reading this. I hope you enjoy it, and do let me know what you thought!

Chapter Thirty-One

“Please don't bounce that in the house,” Hermione said as she passed through the foyer. Jack stopped and Ben snagged the tennis ball out of the air.

“Where can we play catch?” he asked, tossing the ball back and forth in his hands, “The workroom? All right, not there, then-- my room?”

“Try `outside',” Hermione supplied dryly, “Be sure to wear your coats and mittens, scarves and boots, and if Harry and Neville happen to finally show up, send them to the kitchen.”

“Yes, Mama,” Ben said as Hermione disappeared into the kitchen. Jack snorted.

“Now we have to go outside,” he complained, “why do you do that, anyway?”

“Do what?” Ben tossed Jack his coat and began buttoning up his own, “Oh, well, we won't get snow all year--”

“Seems like we do,” Jack muttered, pulling on his mittens, “I can't even catch with these on. I meant, why do you call her that?”

“Well, I might as well get used to it,” he said, reddening slightly about the face. “She's adopting us, isn't she?”

“Still.” Jack clapped his mittened hands together with a soft thump. “So what's Harry? Dad?”

“I hadn't thought about it,” Ben said after a pause, “I only just started it yesterday.”

“Adrian, too?”

“You've heard him,” Ben said as they trooped toward the front door, “it wasn't a big jump for him anyway. He.... he didn't really know our first mother very well.”

They had reached the yard by now, standing in the snow about three yards apart. As Ben threw him the ball, Jack said, “Besides, they might not adopt us-- I mean, me and the others. I haven't said yes yet.”

When Ben didn't reply, Jack rolled the ball around in his hand before chucking it back.

“I mean, what's so special about having parents anyway?”

Jack's throw fell a bit short; Ben jerked forward and just barely caught it before it fell into the snow.

“Well,” he said at last, straightening and backing up. He looked at the ground and shrugged his shoulders, letting out a deep breath and watching the air fog up in front of him. “I thought you might have figured that out, having lived here for so long.”

They fell into a contemplative silence as their game reached a comfortable rhythm, then Jack spoke again.

“It's been fun, I guess. Better than before.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, an odd look coming over his face. “A lot better.”

“But,” Jack said, throwing the ball back, “things could get worse, too.”

Ben surprised himby letting out a skeptical laugh. Slightly nettled, Jack stiffened and dropped his throwing arm, his hand still clutched around the ball.

He wasn't used to being laughed at. Ignored, insulted, yes, but simply laughed at? He could feel his cheeks heat up, even in the cold.

“What are you laughing at?” he demanded. Ben crossed his arm and tilted his chin up, looking him up and down with an amused stare. “Cut it out!”

When Ben didn't move and a stifled laugh broke the silence between them, Jack scowled and dropped the tennis ball in the snow, stalking up to Ben until they stood about half a foot apart.

“Cut it out!” Jack demanded again, when Ben still refused to break his silence or his stance. Ben's look of mixed amusement and disbelief irked Jack further, and Jack briefly considered knocking him down.

But he was vaguely aware that if he did, Ben won.

He really hated losing.

“What's so funny?”

Ben quirked an eyebrow, a movement that so obviously mimicked Harry that Jack was suddenly taken aback.

But, at last, Ben spoke.

“You always have to think the worst of things, don't you?” he said, “if I offered you a biscuit, you'd think I'd poisoned it.”

“I would not!”

“Probably not, because it was food,” Ben amended, “but you know what I mean. I mean, really, Jack, come on.”

He dropped an arm to his side and used the other to motion to the house behind him. “They've given us food, new clothes, our own rooms, and have you seen all of those presents? All seven of us, and trust me, that's a lot of money. Hermione gave up the chance to have her training at the hospital like everyone else, just to take care of us, and Harry comes home on his lunch breaks to spend time with us every day, not to mention all the times he's come to dinner when he could be out with Ron and Neville, even if they were going to professional Quidditch games.” Ben paused for breath, then finished, “They've given all that up, and you still think they're just doing it out of pity? That's completely mad!”

This time Jack abandoned thoughts of winning or losing; he had been thoroughly shamed and he would not allow it. He gave Ben a solid shove, but he had obviously been anticipating it. Ben maintained his balance even in the snow.

“You're mad!” Jack snapped finally, woefully aware of how flat his retort had been. “Not me!”

Ben merely shrugged, picking up the ball and tossing it in the air. Though Jack made a move to intercept it, he caught it first.

“Go on thinking like that, then,” he said, “but you'll see I'm right tomorrow.”

He tucked the ball in his coat pocket and turned, as if to return to the house. Unwilling to let Ben end the conversation, Jack said, “You're wrong, you know, Ben!”

“OK.” Ben began to whistle, sticking his hands in his coat pockets and trudging away. Jack scowled. He was copying Harry again.

Jack couldn't see any advantage in letting him walk away, so he caught up with him and went on, “I don't think they're doing all this out of pity.”

“Sure.” Ben said, putting one boot on the bottom porch step, “Mmm... I smell pot roast.”

“Just listen to me, would you?” Jack finally snapped, “I'm trying to tell you something!”

Ben looked over at him expectantly, and Jack took a deep breath.

Well. He had finally managed to get a bit of leverage in what he deemed as a full-fledged battle, but now he had no idea how to keep it. Make something up? Jack considered it carefully. He was usually a very convincing liar, but he couldn't think of anything that would sound remotely plausible. There were, after all, very few points in his favor.

Or he could back out. As soon as the idea came into his mind, Jack dismissed it. He'd come this far. He had to take it all the way or he'd never live it down.

He had to tell the truth. He'd worked himself into a corner and there was only one way out of it.

“I didn't think I wanted a family,” Jack said at last, “because they're too easy to take away.”

Ben's look of casual disinterest had disappeared. Busy inwardly celebrating his victory, Jack didn't realized Ben had asked him a question.

“What did you say?”

“Where'd you get that idea?” Ben repeated. Jack froze.

“What?”

“Who told you that families--?”

“I wasn't told,” Jack snapped, “it doesn't matter. Now you know. Forget it.”

Ben let out a breath.

“Well, all right, I won't push it,” he said, “but they-- Harry and Hermione, I mean-- they've kept their word, haven't they? They haven't separated you. They're only going to make the adoption happen if you say yes. They've done a lot to keep you together. They wouldn't just split you all of the sudden.”

“They're not the only ones who could separate us,” Jack retorted in a low voice, “and the other kids aren't the only ones I could be separated from.”

Ben sighed.

“But don't you want to have a family?”

“Yeah, I want one!” The words burst from him before he could stop them, “That's what scares me!”

There was a long silence.

“I think,” Ben said very quietly, “if you just took a chance-- you would make Yasmine-- and yourself-- really, really happy.”

With that, Ben climbed the steps to the porch and hurried inside, leaving a very troubled Jack behind him.

~*~

“Look at all of those!” Adrian took a step back and admired the shiny packages under the tree, grinning. Jackie circled the larger packages in agitated excitement.

“Don't you two have rooms to clean?” Hermione chided, coming into the room with her arms full of gifts. She smiled at the hopeful looks on their faces.

“These aren't for you,” she said, not unkindly, “they're Harry's. Evidently the whole of the wizarding world is determined to thank him.”

“But Harry doesn't live here,” Adrian said, a puzzled look replacing his disappointment. Hermione sighed and put the gifts down on the couch, tucking a stray curl of hair behind her ear.

“I can't exactly explain that to the delivery owls, can I?” she said wearily, “Normally they're quite good at following directions, but...” she shook her head, “Never mind that. Go clean your rooms, please. We're having guests tonight.”

Adrian took one last look at the stack of gifts on the couch, then said, “If this is what Harry gets for Christmas, I can't wait to see what they get you for your wedding!”

“I don't even want to think about it,” Hermione muttered, dropping into an armchair with a sigh. A cry of surprise from the foyer told her that Adrian had discovered the mountain of gifts waiting for Harry in the foyer.

“I see you've been shopping,” quipped a voice behind her. Hermione twisted her neck around to see Harry grinning at her, Neville just behind him.

“I can barely sort through all of them!” Hermione stood and turned to face the two men, “I can't imagine actually going through the trouble to shop for them.”

“Good thing, too,” Harry said, laughing, “I hate to think about the person who paid for them.”

“Pity the owls!” Hermione said, “They must be exhausted! Surely there are more post owls than the ones that keep flying through our front door!”

Harry picked up one of the packages with mild interest, then let out a bark of laughter.

“This one is addressed to you, Hermione!”

“Really?”

“Unless there's another Hermione Potter living here that I don't know about--”

Before he could finish, Hermione snatched the package away from him, scanning the address.

“But we're not married!” she said in exapseration.

“Well,” Harry said, “that depends.”

When Hermione cast Harry an annoyed glance, he hastened to explain.

“We stopped in Diagon Alley just before we came-- we brought a cake, by the way-- and this caught my eye.”

He reached into the grocery bag he was carrying and handed her a magazine.

“Where did they get that picture?” was Hermione's first response. Harry shrugged helplessly.

“It wasn't a private place, Hermione.”

“But we were dressed like Muggles! We were in a Muggle park!” Hermione held up the magazine to prove her point. “How on earth did they find us?”

“It had to happen sometime,” Harry said, squeezing her gently, “At least there's nothing in that photo to be ashamed of. The ring... well, it's a bit misleading, isn't it?”

Hermione took one long look at the photo.

“I just don't see how they managed to take a picture that was so close. And it's not moving!”

“I suppose they wanted to keep the pose,” Harry said, “it's a bit more... eye-catching-- if it's zoomed in on our faces and the sunset and--”

“The ring,” Hermione finished, touching the picture with a finger. “I suppose magical lenses have that ability.”

The picture, Hermione realized as she scanned it, was taken during one of their first dates after the engagement. She and Harry had been watching the sunset, and as they had leaned in for a soft kiss, Hermione's hands had framed Harry's face, providing the photographer with an excellent view of her glittering ring. In flashing letters beneath the picture, the magazine simply declared: “Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter: Their Secret Finally Revealed!”

“If it helps,” Harry said, “Ginny told me that the picture was `absolutely adorable', and I'm told that it's been pinned up in the Gryffindor common room.”

He paused. “Except they've made the picture move.”

He stopped again, and grinned at the horrified look on Hermione's face.

“According to what I've heard, we've been a rather boring poster couple.”

She sighed, smiling relun0ctantly as Harry and Neville laughed.

“Aren't you upset?”

Harry smiled at her and kissed her forehead.

“I've had far worse things written about me. In fact, this is probably the best thing they could have ever written,” he grinned at her softly, “I'm tired of waiting for the wedding, Hermione, so if they want to marry us early-- that's excellent. That's all I want.”

He sobered slightly.

“I will be paying a visit to Witch Weekly, though. They should be able to clear this mix up fairly quickly, so if it bothers you...”

“Well, if it doesn't bother you,” Hermione said, “then I certainly won't let it bother me. Won't you two come into the kitchen? There's tea on the stove waiting for us.”

~*~

“Happy Christmas Eve, Hermione,” Harry whispered, peering down at Hermione's smiling face in the darkness. He kissed her slowly, running his fingers lightly down her cheek. “I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

“I know,” she murmured, tightening her hold around his waist and hiding her face in his chest, “Be sure to get a lot of sleep; I'm sure you'll need it.”

He closed his eyes and buried his nose in her hair.

“I'll survive.”

“I'm proud of you for helping with the Reconstruction,” she whispered, sighing, “but you have to sleep like the rest of us.”

“I know, Hermione,” he said, with a soft laugh, “you too.”

He paused.

“Don't forget to put up the wards at night, just as I told you. Now that our engagement is officially common knowledge--”

“I'm in twice as much danger as before,” Hermione finished, looking up and quirking a wry half-smile, “How many times have I heard that one?”

When Harry looked at her sternly, she sobered.

“Don't worry about us, Harry. I'll put them up as soon as you leave.”

He sighed and looked away.

“Harry, we'll be fine. I promise.”

He looked at her and smiled quietly. “Never mind me, Hermione. I'm a natural pessimist.”

He sent his fingers skittering down her cheek, then sent them skating up the bridge of her nose, and along her cheekbone. She frowned in puzzlement, feeling tingles travel down her back as his eyes fixed intently on hers.

“What are you doing, Harry?”

He let his fingers dance in a gentle circle around her mouth. “I… I've been thinking recently-- no, don't make any clever remarks, Miss Granger,” he placed one finger on her parted lips. “I've been thinking. About being married.”

He bent his forehead forward, his eyes closed. Then he spoke in a barely audbile whisper, his voice thoughtful, slow.

“Do you think we can do it?”

She tilted her chin and kissed him again, with quick, gentle warmth.

“I don't think that's the proper question.”

He opened his eyes, studying her face carefully.

“What should I be asking then?” he murmured. Her eyes were suddenly caught by a flicker of light as she smiled softly.

“The question is whether or not you're willing to try in the first place.”

She squeezed his waist with her arm.

“I think we've already answered that question.”

He smiled and lowered his eyes, pulling her close and taking in a deep breath.

“I know I have.”

She pulled back slightly.

“And I have too, if you haven't forgotten. But just in case you have--” she took his hand and lifted it to her lips, kissing one finger with each word.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

He wiggled his fingers under her lips, elliciting a laugh. “I don't think you've quite made your point yet, Hermione.”

She dropped his hand and wrapped both arms tightly around his waist, kissing him steadily on the lips.

“Yes,” she murmured, “forever and ever.”

“That's quite a few Christmas Eves,” Harry teased. She swatted him.

“Have I ever told you that you take too much enjoyment in spoiling the mood?”

“I'm just reminding you of what you've just gotten yourself into,” he said. Hermione laughed.

“I've spent seven years saying `yes', Harry. There's no going back now.”

She sighed and dropped her head on his chest.

“I love you,” she whispered. He wrapped his arms around her tightly.

“You've already made my Christmas,” he whispered, stroking her hair gently. “I'd best let you go.”

“Not yet. Just a little bit longer.”

“All right. Just a little.”

Just as the clock began chiming the hour, Harry realized just how much he wished that he could stay forever.

He smiled as he kissed Hermione's hair.

And the day was coming. Five more months and he would never have to leave her again.

~*~

“Hermione?”

Somewhere faraway, something had given her a gentle poke on the shoulder. Her dream-- whatever remained of it-- faded away into warm darkness. But the sounds didn't stop.

“Hermione!”

Another jab on the shoulder. Slowly, Hermione opened her eyes to see three pairs of eyes staring back at her.

“Oh,” she sighed, shutting her eyes wearily, “really, you three.”

“Happy Christmas, Hermione!” Jackie scrambled onto the bed and perched happily on her legs. “Can we open presents now?”

Hermione made a muffled noise into her pillow.

“I'm not sure I even want to know what time it is,” she mumbled to herself, clutching a fistful of the comforter. “Back to bed with you. It's only.... what? Three o'clock?”

“Three thirty,” Adrian corrected hopefully. “Please, Mama? It's Christmas.”

Another weight landed on the bed.

“Gully,” Hermione moaned. “No, honestly-- Adrian, Jackie-- Katy-- I'm sorry, I really did mean Yasmine-- I... can't you wait four more hours at least?”

There was a pause.

“All right,” said Yasmine at last. “Can we wait with you?”

“Well...”

Before Hermione could reply, the three children had scrambled into the bed. Jackie burrowed under the covers, snuggling under Hermione's arm, and Yasmine slipped in on Hermione's other side. Adrian stretched himself out at their feet, covering himself with a blanket he had apparently dragged with him, using the dozing Gulliver as a pillow.

Hermione blinked. Jackie's bear was squashed up against her cheek, and Jackie was cuddled comfortably into her side. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her whole face concentrated on sleeping. She looked to her other side, where Yasmine's bright, darkeyes were beginning to droop shut at last. Her arms were essentially pinned to her side as she adjusted herself to fit the cramped new space she had been alotted in her bed. Then, with a long sigh, she smiled and shut her eyes, finally allowing herself to relax.

It was Christmas, after all.

~*~

“Dusty?”

Jack rapped softly on the door of the workroom. When there was (predictably) no reply, he pushed the door open and crept inside. Dusty was standing at the easel, a paintbrush nestled in between his fingers and a large canvas spread out in front of him.

“Happy Christmas, Dusty,” Jack said, and Dusty nodded, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Did you see everyone in Hermione's room?”

Another bob of his head.

“What are you working on?”

Dusty shrugged eloquently, making a quick, bold stroke of red across the canvas. Jack edged a bit closer, squinting at the painting cautiously. In the faint morning light splashed across the room, four faceless people, positioned on an old red velvet couch he recognized as the one from the downstairs living room. “Is it a Christmas present?”

He nodded, dipping his brush in a jar of water and tapping it lightly against the side of the glass.

Jack watched the red cloud billow in the clear, cold water for a moment.

“You got up early.”

Dusty shrugged one shoulder. “I needed to.”

Nothing more. Jack sighed and pulled a chair out from one of the work tables, balancing on the back two legs and watching Dusty work.

Dusty didn't mind. Hiding his work would be silly; the picture had been there all along, hadn't it? He was just revealing it.

A dab of red paint. Then he plunged the brush into the smooth, glossy brown, mixing it easily into the red.

“That's a strange color,” Jack commented. Dusty smiled and added a bit of yellow to the mixture.

“Auburn,” he said simply. “Like red.”

With that, he raised his brush and made a long, smooth stroke on the canvass.

“Hair?”

A long auburn mane soon tumbled to the shoulders of one of the figures. Jack squinted at it in puzzlement. The hair was too dark to be Ginny's.

“Who is it?”

Dusty smiled that familiar lazy smile and shrugged again, his eyes bright and secretive. He plunged his brush into the water again, dying it red.

A swirl of glossy, chocolate brown, mixed with a splash of gold.

Soon another one of the figures, the one positioned one away from the red-head, had a long, curly mane of unruly brown curls. Jack recognized Hermione's hair immediately, and told Dusty so. Dusty just gave him another shrug and smile, continuing.

The other two figures earned identical jet black messes of hair. Jack frowned. There wouldn't be two of Harry in the same picture, would there? He knew one of the people had to be Harry; it just wouldn't make sense to have Hermione alone (in Dusty's mind, at least) but...

“There are the others.” Dusty said suddenly, as the telltale sound of movement came from the staircase. With that, he carefully turned the easel around, cleaned up his paints, and slipped out of the workroom.

~*~

Dusty entered a kitchen full of flurried excitement; as his gaze swept over the room, another smile crept to his face. Hermione was, of course, in the middle of the malay, starting the oven with her wand as she warned the others to stay in the kitchen and wait for Harry.

“Happy Christmas, Dusty!” Katy said happily, giving him a hug. Dusty squirmed, his smile widening. “We have to wait for Harry to get here to open presents! You have to open your present right away; I picked it out especially for you!”

Dusty nodded his agreement. He could see Katy was happy; her eyes kept flashing from a brilliant blue to a clear green, and his heart lifted.

The Christmas at St. Mungo's hadn't been much different from any other day; this excitement, anticipation-- it seemed foreign, pleasantly so, but strange all the same.

Yasmine was sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes bright with excitement and dark hair swishing back and forth as she followed the dancing Adrian around the kitchen with her eyes. Dusty smiled and sat next to her at the table, resting his chin on his hands and feeling content to watch. The room seemed filled with gold and light and smiles.

It was a bright picture; something he hadn't ever thought he'd ever see, much less live, but he wouldn't dwell on that.

He was too grateful to waste the morning dwelling on things.

~*~

“Wow!”

Adrian dropped the tissue paper to the ground in utter astonishment, his eyes widening in delight.

“Wow!” he said again, “Where did you get it?”

From her place on the couch, Hermione laughed at the look on Adrian's face. “Well, take it out, Adrian. You might as well start practicing right now.”

Adrian did as he was bidden. He stuck his hands in the box eagerly and lifted the gift reverently from the box.

“It's the best!” he said, placing the gleaming white snare on the rug gently. “Thank you!”

“It's a marching snare,” Hermione told him, “Hang it over your shoulders-- that's right-- and you can play it as you walk.”

Adrian beat a fast staccato roll on the drum's top, beaming at the crisp, loud noise it yielded. Hermione laughed again, leaning against Harry and saying over the noise, “I suppose we'll never have any quiet anymore.”

“No complaints,” Harry said, sliding his arm around her, “you gave it to him. That'll sound fantastic at a Quidditch match.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Hermione agreed, “Hogwarts needs a music program.”

“Look at Dusty,” Harry chuckled, “he hasn't budged from that puzzle since he opened it.”

“Katy made a good choice,” Hermione agreed, watching Dusty hold up one of the puzzle pieces. “Though I can't imagine putting together a moving picture is very easy at all. You did well with the girls, too, Harry. Look at Yaz. She's completely buried in her book.”

Harry grinned. “Just like you, isn't she?”

Hermione smiled softly. “Maybe a little. But Yaz has a bigger imagination than I'll ever have. I'm too practical.”

They watched the seven children play with their gifts for a moment in silence, until Harry spoke again.

“You know I haven't given you your present yet,”he said in a low voice. She looked up at him curiously.

“Here,” Harry reached into the bag beside his book, “it's... it's--- well, not that interesting, but...”

She touched the words scrawled across the simple red wrapping paper with a finger.

To my best friend:

Our wedding couldn't come fast enough, Hermione. I hope these help you wait... just like they helped me.

I love you.

Harry

He smiled at the puzzled frown on her face. “Go on, then.”

She gently pried the tape off the edge of the paper and opened it, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Harry!”

He laughed. “Well?”

“I can't believe you actually kept these!” She picked up one thick stack of old letters, tracing the neat handwriting covering the top letter, “And is this... no! You kept this, too?”

“I had to remind myself that you were real somehow,” he said softly, laughing, “Your dad's business card was as real as it gets. I kept your Christmas cards, too. Every letter, even the ones Dobby stole. All of them.”

Hermione put the business card down, shakin g her head.

“An old stack of letters isn't much a Christmas present, I know,” Harry began, but Hermione silenced him with a kiss. When he pulled away, he grinned rather sheepishly.

“So I've been forgiven?”

“Forgiven?” Hermione echoed, laughing, “Harry, it's a wonderful Christmas present. Thank you.”

“You're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?” he said rather anxiously, “I can get you something else, if you like...”

“Oh, stop it,” she chided, taking his hand, “I love it, Harry, I really do. After all, I kept all of your letters, too. Now I have both ends of the correspondence.”

“Though my end is definitely less interesting.”

“Oh, really,” she said in exasperation, “you never give yourself enough credit.”

She paused.

“Although I do have a number of scraps of parchment with only about eight words on them.”

He frowned. “What did they say?”

“Something along the lines of, `Hermione, I'm fine. Don't worry. Be safe. Harry.'”

He ducked his head sheepishly.

“Fifth year?” he guessed. She nodded.

“I suppose I should I have expected it. Still, I spent a good number of summer evenings reading those eight words over and over again and, to quote Ron, `going spare' about you.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry said immediately, feeling a pang of guilt, “I didn't mean to-- I mean, I was just...”

“You were grieving,” she finished, her eyes softening, “and I knew that. It just hurt to know that there was nothing I could do.”

“You did a lot. You put up with me,” he said. She smiled wryly.

“Or, more accurately, I refused to let you walk away.” She shook her head, smiling. “That was only three years ago. Strange, isn't it?”

“We've come a long way,” Harry said, letting out a deep breath and kissing her freohead again. She nodded.

“But I still haven't given you my present yet,” she said, “Here.”

She picked up a package by her feet and placed it nervously in his lap.

He picked up the card first. “I suppose I ought to have made one for you.”

“That's fine, Harry,” she said, “go on, open it.”

He opened the envelope quickly, taking out a piece of parchment covered in Hermione's neat handwriting.

Dear Harry,

It's strange, how far we've come in only a few years. And I've been thinking about that a lot recently. I mean, think about it, Harry. Only seven years ago, we were eleven years old, boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time.

Seven years ago today, you had your first Christmas at Hogwarts. You told me once that it was the first Christmas that you felt that-- perhaps-- the world might hold more hope for you than you thought it did.

This is my first Christmas that I know it does.

The first time we ate breakfast together-- you've probably forgotten. I know I never will.

That morning I wandered into the Great Hall looking for a place to sit-- preferably at the emptiest table-- just like I did every morning. I was used to eating as fast as I could, then running off to the library, where I wouldn't look odd sitting alone.

I was just about to pass you and Ron when you said, “There's a place here if you want it.”

And I looked up and saw you looking at me-- just looking. Not glaring or smirking or making faces or even being polite.

You may have saved my life from a troll the day before, but even I knew that you hadn't done it for me, not really. You would have saved anyone.

But this....

It was a choice. It was an offer. An offer I'd never had the chance to accept before you asked.

I'm so glad I did.

You could have picked anyone, Harry. You do realize that, don't you? Someone like you could have anyone in the world. Why did you pick me?

Ron used to say that I could answer any question at all.

I've had seven years to answer that question, and I still haven't come up with an answer.

So all I can do is say `yes' again and again and hope that someday, I'll be able to thank you properly.

With all my love,

Hermione

Harry put the letter down, clearing his throat and trying to speak, but nothing came out.

“Open the package,” she guided his hand to the ribbon around the package. “Here.”

He undid the ribbon and tore off the paper, tossing it aside.

He frowned in puzzlement at the cardboard box sitting in his lap, then carefully pulled off the top. His frown of confusion deepened.

“Hermione, what--”

She reached over his arms and gently lifted a tiny blue onesie out of the box. He stared at it, confused.

“Harry,” she said softly, “the first time your father introduced you to Sirius, this is what you were wearing.” She handed him a yellowed little tag and allowed him to read it.

His mother's handwriting.

Harry's outfit for a very special occasion-- meeting his godfather.

Harry's lips parted wordlessly as the tears began to trickle down his cheeks. He reached out and allowed Hermione to place it in his hands. He gazed at it through a teary haze, his hands trembling so much that the precious gift almost slipped out of his hands.

“Where... where did you...?”

“By the time your parents went into hiding, you were too big for it,” she said softly, “and they gave it to your grandparents to store away, along with some other extra things they couldn't take with them. When your grandparents were killed, Alice and Frank Longbottom rescued what was left of your parents' belongings. I'm sure they meant to give them back when they saw your parents, but... well... they can't remember now.”

Harry bowed his head.

“So how did you find all of this?” he said rather hoarsely.

“I was helping Neville's grandmother organize her attic-- goodness knows it needed it, and she said she couldn't do it herself-- and I found a box with your father's name on it. I don't think Mrs. Longbottomcan bear to look at those boxes anymore, and when I talked to Neville-- he didn't even know they were there. They were well-hidden.”

She looked up and said, very seriously, “Don't blame Mrs. Longbottom, Harry. She was extremely apologetic when I asked her about it. She remembered Frank and Alice telling her about the belongings they had rescued, but she assumed that they had been destroyed in the attack-- many of Frank and Alice's things had been destroyed when the Death Eaters came for them, and even when some Ministry wizards brought the things over, Mrs. Longbottom insisted that, with the exception of Frank's wand, all those belongings be placed in the furthest corner of the attic. Neville says the attic had always been off-limits for him, too, so there was no way of knowing.”

“I'm not upset with either of them,” Harry said, taking another deep breath and putting the baby outfit down. “Is there... there's more, then?”

He reached into the box and pulled a heavy piece of plaster from the box. He turned it over and felt himself smile.

There were his parents' handprints, just above a tiny handprint that he assumed was his own. He felt himself laugh tearfully as he traced his mother's hand with a finger.

He wondered what her hands had felt like, if he had clutched that finger with a tiny fist-- if his father had ever ruffled his hair with that hand...

“You made this while you were at Mr. and Mrs. Evan's house.” Hermione looked at him with a soft smile. “I don't think I can imagine you that small.”

“Can I see?”

They started, and Harry suddenly realized that all seven of the children had their eyes trained on them. Hermione lifted Jackie into her lap and allowed her to touch the plaster handprint.

“It's so small,” she said in awe, looking from Harry's hand to the plaster. “Smaller than mine.”

By this time, most of the children had crowded around them. Yasmine touched the baby clothes and giggled.

“I can't believe you fit in this!” Katy lifted one of the feet and laughed. “You were small!”

“We all were once,” Ben said, “Adrian was even smaller.”

“Well, I'm bigger now,” Adrian said rather defensively, “and I was not!”

Ben laughed.

“How would you know?”

Harry and Hermione laughed as Adrian turned red and shrugged. Jackie looked at Harry's face.

“Why do they make you sad?” she asked seriously, “Do you not like Hermione's present?”

“No, Jackie, I like it a lot,” Harry said, and Hermione relaxed visibly, “it's just... well, I've never had anything of my parents' before because I never knew them, and that's what makes me sad.”

Jackie reflected on this for a moment, then she looked Harry right in the eye and spoke with a gravity that took him aback.

“Are you my papa, Harry? Or is it someone else? Because I don't remember having anyone else.”

Harry took in a sharp breath, glancing at Hermione for help. A tense, heavy silence suddenly settled over the bright room, and all eyes turned to Jack, who was trembling visibly at the corner of the roomwhere he had been standing.

Then he came forward and lifted Jackie out of Hermione's lap, placing her on the ground and kneeling in front of her so that they were seeing eye to eye.

“Is... is that what you want, Jack-Jack?” he whispered shakily, “D'you... d'you want them to be?”

Jackie hugged Oats to her chest and looked at him with wide eyes.

“Will you be angry with me, Jack? You're so very white. Will you scold me?”

A great breath flooded from Jack as he put a hand on Jackie's shoulder.

“Only if you lie to me,” he said at last, “because you know that's wrong, like I always told you, remember?”

Jackie nodded solemnly.

“I'm s'posed to answer, aren't I?” she said in a whisper. Jack managed a smile, and nodded.

“That's right.”

Jackie looked over at Harry and Hermione, and a smile suddenly lit her face as she rocked back and forth on her heels.

“I want Harry to be my papa, Jack.”

Jack let out another breath, looking away.

“Because we love them, don't we, Jack? Don't we?”

Jack lowered his eyes.

“Why don't you go to your... your... papa, Jackie?” he said in a low voice, letting her go and standing up. Suddenly the air seemed to spark with energy, and the whole house seemed to sigh with relief. Jack would have loved to run out of the room and never look back, but before he could, someone had thrown their arms around him. He grunted and staggered, realizing that whoever was hugging him was sobbing so hard that he, too, was shaking.

“Yasmine?” he said awkwardly, “Er...?”

She pulled back, still sobbing, and gifted him with the brightest smile she had ever directed at him. Before he could say anything more, she let him go and backed away, scrubbing at her face with her sleeve and obviously attempting to calm down.

“Happy Christmas, Jack,” she said at last, her voice still trembling, “happy Christmas.”

“You said that already.”

“I know I did. I can say it twice if I--” Yasmine stopped and smiled, the annoyance disappearing from her face, “All I want to say is.. thank you.”

“Why is she crying?” Jackie whispered, clambering back into Hermione's lap. Hermione smiled.

“She's happy,” she whispered back, “so happy that it overflows.”

“Is that why you're crying?” Jackie said, catching Hermione's tears on her fingers. Hermione laughed and squeezed Jackie in a tight hug.

“Yes, it is.”

Suddenly Dusty, who had been very still through the whole event, spoke.

“One more thing.”

With that, he got to his feet and disappeared through the doorway. Everyone except Jack exchanged puzzled looks.

Moments later, Dusty reappeared, a large package under his arm. He placed it in Harry's lap and sat back down, curling his legs up against his chest and closing his eyes.

Harry tore the paper slowly, then smiled as he lifted the canvas up for everyone to see.

“It's you two and... who are they?” Katy said curiously, pointing.

Harry smiled at Dusty, then at the picture. He placed a finger on the couple seated next to he and Hermione on the couch.

“Those,” he said, very slowly and deliberately, “are your... grandparents, James and Lily.”

He looked over at Hermione, who was holding Jackie in her lap and beaming back at him, her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. He smiled back.

“We've got a bit of clean-up to do, don't we?” Hermione said after a few minutes. “All right, everyone pick up the wrapping paper first...”

As she ushered the children out the door with armfuls of wrapping paper, directing them to the kitchen, Harry leaned over and whispered in her ear, “So this is what it feels like?”

“What do you mean, Harry?” She bent and picked up a stray ribbon, twirling it around her finger.

He put an arm around her. His voice was thick and hoarse as he spoke very quietly.

“This is what it feels like to have a family.”

Hermione smiled and picked up Harry's gifts, folding the baby outfit and tucking the canvas under her arm. Then, she met his eyes, holding his gaze for a few long moments before she replied, her lips turning up in a sweet, tender smile.

“Best hang onto that, Harry,” she said softly, placing the baby blue onesie in Harry's outstretched hand.

Harry doubted that he would ever be able to describe the warm, strangely exhilarating feeling that swept over him as she turned and followed the children out the door.

A/N (2): Well, there you are. I'm hoping it didn't fall flat on its face. Thanks for taking the time to read it and please remember to keep the people of Haiti in your thoughts and prayers!

-->

A/N: So. This is going to be an... interesting chapter. Maybe a bit strange. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Leab me alone!” Yasmine sniffed and used a tissue to rub at her already red nose, “I'b sick and I'b tired and I'b got a headache!”

“You're not the only one!” Jack said, coughing and making a face at her, “You're just the only one moaning about it!”

“Go away!” Yasmine burrowed further under the covers and sniffing again, “Leab me alone!”

“Leab me alone!” Jack mimicked hoarsely, before a round of dry coughs overtook him and he was prevented from continuing.

“Now, honestly, you two,” Hermione said sharply, entering the room with two glasses full of steaming potions, “being sick doesn't mean you're allowed to be rude.”

“Yeah, Yasmine,” Jack said, wrinkling his nose at the black stuff in the glass, “Do I have to?”

“I'm assuming you'd prefer to get well,” Hermione said, “and I know perfectly well that both of you are at fault, so don't start, Yasmine. I'd like you both to apologize, then you, Jack, will go to bed.”

The two muttered half-hearted apologies and Jack shuffled off to bed, after draining the entire glass of Pepper-Up Potion under Hermione's watchful eye.

Hermione sighed and after tucking Jack back into bed, carried the glasses downstairs and placed them in the sink, where a sponge was cleaning dishes of its own accord. Then she hurried back to the living room, dropping into the couch in front of the fire.

“Now were we?” she said to the fireplace, where Ginny's head was bobbing up and down anxiously amid the flames, “I did tell you that I'm perfectly capable of planning this wedding, didn't I?”

“Not without me, you're not,” Ginny said matter-of-factly, “look, I've only got a few minutes before the time's up--I've got a free period but it's almost over. Have you got a dress?”

Hermione sighed.

“Ginny, I have three sick children upstairs, four weekly lessons with Healer Pruitt, housework, and three other bored children--under, I might add, your brother George's influence-- to look after. Now, why don't you ask me that again?”

“Well, don't you dare pick one out without me,” Ginny warned, “you only have one wedding day--- hopefully.”

Hermione snorted.

“I see you have the highest opinion of my relationship with Harry,” she commented dryly, “yes, I only have one, and thank Merlin for that.”

“It has nothing to do with your relationship!” Ginny protested, and Hermione smirked again. “Come on, Hermione, you know what I meant.”

Hermione sighed and threw up her hands.

“Ginny, there is absolutely no need for you to micromanage the wedding planning. I have my mother to do that. Furthermore, from what I hear, you've been having some relationship issues of your own, and in my opinion, you'd do best to dedicate your energy to resolving them.”

“I'm not having relationship problems!”

Hermione sobered, and hesitated before she replied.

“I daresay Neville would disagree,” she said, very gently, “I won't pry, Ginny, but I do think you should talk to him as soon as you can.”

Ginny scowled rather half-heartedly, a scarlet flush spreading across her freckled face. “How much-- how much has he told you?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said simply, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “and that's the most telling thing of all.”

“You've read it wrong,” Ginny insisted, “There's nothing going on. Nothing. At all.”

Hermione sighed and leaned back.

“Lie to me if you like, Ginny, but it's going to work against you eventually.”

“Valentine's Day,” Ginny said abruptly, “what are you doing for Valentine's Day?”

“Other than celebrating Jackie's birthday?” Hermione pulled her legs up onto the couch and shifted, stretching and yawning, “I'm not sure.”

“It's next week!” Ginny said in a scolding tone that made Hermione stiffen, “You and Harry ought to--”

“Honestly, Ginevra,” Hermione said in exasperation, “when will you stop bothering about Harry and I? When we're married? When I'm pregnant? When?”

“Are you?” Ginny demanded, her eyes suddenly lighting up. Hermione made an irritated noise at the back of her throat and threw up her hands.

“No, Ginny, I'm not. Was there anything at all in my tone that remotely implied that I'm--”

“You did eat a lot at dinner last Sunday,” Ginny said, “usually you eat like a bird. What have you and Harry been up to, Hermione?”

“I give up.” Hermione said for what felt like the hundredth time, “I'm wasting my breath and goodness knows I can't afford that. Go study. Stop bothering me.”

“Let's see... your wedding is in May, which means that I can set aside a day in early August to go baby shopping--” Ginny mused, “What day would work best for you, do you think? Monday? Let's say Monday--”

“I reiterate-- go study. Stop bothering me.”

“Stop bothering you or stop making you blush?” Ginny said, smirking, “Lovely Christmas present you gave Harry, by the way-- starting the hints a little early, though, aren't you?”

“I'm not blushing!” Hermione protested, her hands flying to her flushed cheeks nonetheless. Ginny snorted with laughter.

“So it was a hint!” she crowed, her head bobbing as she burst into laughter. “Godric, Hermione. I know you like to get work done early, but--”

“I didn't mean to-- it wasn't really a--” Hermione stammered, though a sheepish smile was slowly spreading across her face. “Oh, go away.”

Ginny sobered slightly, though her smile stayed firmly in place.

“You know,” she said in surprise, her eyes widening as though something had just dawned on her, “you really are perfect for him.”

Hermione frowned and tilted her head, studying Ginny's face. There was an oddly puzzled look crossing Ginny's face, the kind of bewilderment that comes with a revelation that you'd already had, but never really reflected on before.

“I mean-- when does it really happen?” Ginny murmured, staring at Hermione with a perplexed look. Hermione was suddenly aware that, even as Ginny gazed at her with an uncharacteristically childlike curiousity, Ginny's words weren't meant for her. “When does anyone really look at each other and think, `They're the one. They're the only one. They're different. She's different. There's no one else.''” Ginny's eyes fell upon Hermione's ring. “I didn't think it could happen. Not on its own.”

Hermione looked away from the fire, her eyes suddenly feeling moist in the silence that followed. She wet her lips and cleared her throat, looking back at Ginny and spoke with utmost sincerity.

“Much as I try to deny it,” she said, “it didn't happen on its own. I had help.”

She smiled.

“Thank you, Ginny.” She leaned forward. “From both of us.”

Ginny grinned back, her face flushing again. “As long as we're being honest, I didn't do much. You would have found your way there on your own. You two may be daft, but your hearts are too closely knit for you to ignore it forever.”

Hermione laughed.

“We might have,” she said, “we might have ignored it until it was too late.”

“Until when? Until Harry went and married me?” Ginny snorted, “I think I'm smart enough to know when I'm in the wrong.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Are you?”

Suddenly, Ginny's smile faded. She looked down.

“We're back there again, are we?”

“We are.” Hermione said, “Harry and I certainly didn't end up where we are by perpetuating an argument.”

“Thanks for the advice, Hermione,” Ginny said, “Look, I'll try, okay? But we're not like you. We don't finish each other's sentences or have conversations just by looking at each other--”

“Let's start with having a conversation, period.” Hermione said dryly, “To be completely, brutally honest, I'd rather not have a wedding where my maid of honor is glowering at the groomsman all the way down the aisle.”

Ginny sighed, glancing behind her quickly.

“I have to go, Hermione, but-- fine. I'll write to him. Satisfied?”

“Completely,” Hermione said, standing and stretching, “I'd best go check on Jackie.”

“Bye, Hermione.” Ginny smiled, the playful glint returning to her eye, “You and Harry behave yourselves, won't you? You've held out this long; four months shouldn't be too painful.”

“You've no idea,” Hermione muttered, sighing and fanning out her fingertips against her lips, “you have no idea.”

“Do I detect a hint of regret in your voice?” Ginny teased, “Set the bar a bit too high, have we?”

“Doubt, not regret,” Hermione corrected, “Didn't you say you had to go?”

“I can take a hint,” Ginny said, “Talk to you later, Hermione-- I'm coming, I'm coming!”

Pop.

Hermione smiled slightly, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head.

Four months left, she repeated to herself as she headed upstairs. Why does that sound so long?

~*~

“It's a heart!” Yasmine said in delight, “Look, Katy-- it's a chocolate cake heart!”

“And frosting,” Adrian added with relish, pulling a spoon from the silver drawer and scooping a generous spoonful from the bowl, “Green frosting-- with raspberries. It looks more like a Christmas cake to me.”

“Well, it's not. It's my birthday cake,” Jackie said imperiously, crossing her arms and glaring at Adrian fiercely, “Stop eating the frosting!”

“Adrian, don't eat the frosting until we've frosted the cake,” Hermione scolded, taking the bowl away and beginning to frost the cake, “will someone please take Gully out of the kitchen?”

“He's not that big,” said Katy reasonably, taking a hold of Gulliver's collar with both hands and dragging him away from the counter. Gulliver's tail whipped happily through the air as his paws dragged across the kitchen tile. “I can pull him all by myself, see?”

“I'm licking the bowl!” Jack said loudly, making Adrian complain loudly.

“You licked it the last time and I called it anyway!” he said heatedly, “Everyone heard me say it first, didn't you?”

“That's enough,” Hermione said firmly, before a full-blown argument could erupt, “Adrian was the first to ask, and I told him he could lick the frosting bowl. That's all there is to it, Jack. No arguing. We're all going to have cake tonight anyway.”

“I'm licking the frosting bowl from the wedding cake,” Jack said, “So there.”

“You can't call it that early!” Yasmine protested, “That's four whole months away!”

“So?” Jack said, “I called it and you all heard it! I'll even ask! Can't I have it, Hermione?”

“Well...”

“Mama!” Adrian complained, “It's four months away! It's just not fair!”

“Adrian, I don't want to hear you whining,” Hermione warned, and he fell silent. “Especially over something so silly. It's not as if we never have frosting. In fact, the amount of frosting we have in this house would make my parents throw a fit.”

There was a brief silence before it was broken by the sound of Katy stifling a fit of giggles with her fingers. Soon, all were laughing uncontrollably at the thought of the stern Mr. Granger and his rather excitable wife throwing temper tantrums.

“Here, we can share it,” Adrian said at last, handing Jack a spoon, “it's a lot of frosting anyway.”

Jack looked taken aback, then accepted the spoon.

“Thanks,” he said through a mouthful of frosting. Hermione smiled at the boys fondly, ruffling Adrian's hair and turning away to rinse the mixing bowl.

“When is Harry getting here?” Katy said as she and Yasmine crouched on the floor beside Gulliver, “Soon?”

“He said he'd come early,” Adrian said, “so that we could play a game of chess.”

“I don't know if he can make it early,” Hermione said kindly, “he's been positively swamped with work recently.”

“But it's Valentine's Day!” Yasmine said indignantly, “They wouldn't make him work on Valentine's Day!”

“On my birthday!” Jackie put in, looking equally nettled, “Papa ought to be here!”

“You'd like him to be here, Jackie,” Hermione said, “but he's got to work, too, you know. I'm sure he'll do his best.”

“Okay,” Jackie said, “but I want him to be here. Don't you?”

“Of course I do, Jack-Jack,” Hermione said, smiling, “but sometimes you have to try to understand that you don't always get what you want.”

Jackie considered this, then shrugged.

“I'll try, too, Mama,” she said with a sigh, “but it's hard.”

Hermione smiled and picked Jackie up, kissing her forehead gently.

“Good girl,” she said, “you really are growing up, you know. Four years old!”

Jackie beamed.

“Do I get to make a birthday wish, too? And blow out candles?”

“Four of them,” Hermione promised, “and don't forget presents!”

Jackie's smile widened and she buried her face in Hermione's shoulder.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack in the foyer, and Jackie's head snapped up.

“Papa's here!” she said as five other voices chorused, “Harry's here!”

Hermione hurried out into the foyer, where Harry was stripping off his coat and scarf and placing them carefully on the hooks by the door.

“Happy Valentine's Day to you,” he kissed Hermione soundly and brushed his fingers across her cheek, then kissed Jackie's forehead, “and happy birthday to you, Jack-Jack!”

He took Jackie from Hermione's arms and pretended to study her carefully, making Jackie giggle uncontrollably.

“Four whole years old!” he said, whistling, “That's older than me!”

“No, it isn't!” Jackie said, squirming and beaming at him, “I'm littler than you are!”

“You are?” Harry said, pretending to be confused, “Are you sure?”

“Papa, stop it!” Jackie said, hiding her face in his broad shoulder and giggling, “Don't be silly!”

A startled look crossed Harry's face, and he swallowed visibly as his gaze found Hermione's. She arched a brow just slightly and smiled encouragingly, seemingly in answer to the dozens of questions whirling in Harry's eyes.

“Jackie, why don't we show Papa your cake?”she said, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder and gently nudging him toward the kitchen. Harry managed to return Hermione's smile as he swallowed again, searching her gaze in confusion.

It was nearly an hour later when he and Hermione finally got a few brief moments to themselves. The children had hurried upstairs to get ready for the guests they were expecting-- Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ron, and Neville-- leaving them in the kitchen, preparing the table for dinner.

“When did it start?” Harry said at last, in a bewildered, low voice. “I mean... even after Christmas, I was always just... `Harry'.”

She paused and looked up, shaking her head and smiling at him tenderly.

“You've never been `just Harry'. Not to any of them, but especially not to Jackie.”

“But when did she start--”

“...this morning, Harry,” she said, reaching across the table for his hand, “and I didn't see any reason to stop her. The first thing she did this morning was ask where her papa was, and why you weren't here to sing her happy birthday.”

Hermione came around the table and stood in front of him, releasing his hand and wrapping her arms around his waist. She tilted her chin back, looking him directly in the eye and smiling, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

“To answer your next question,” she whispered, trailing her fingers across his cheek, “yes, you can.”

He looked down, leaning his nose against her hair and blinking rapidly.

“I don't know what prompted her,” Hermione went on, “only that she's finally realized that someone loves her enough to claim her.”

He let out a breath, smiling shakily and bending for another kiss.

Something on his face caught her eye as he did. She drew back and raised a hand to his forehead, pushing aside his hair and touching a purple gash just above his scar.

He was so taken aback that he didn't have time to stop himself from cringing.

She saw him flinch and suddenly her eyes clouded over with worry. She took one quick glance around the kitchen, then whispered angrily, “What have they been making you do?”

“Hermione...”

“Don't try to pretend that it's nothing,” she whispered vehemently, “I may not be a certified Healer yet, but even I can see that's a curse wound. What have they been making you do?”

“Hermione, I know how this looks, but--”

“Didn't they even stop to let you treat it?” Hermione's eyes flashed as she examined the wound, “That could become infected!”

“It's not that bad, Hermione, I swear--”

“Harry, if that gash in your forehead becomes infected, you could die!” she whispered fiercely as she pulled herself out of his embrace and began rummaging about in a kitchen cabinet. “They didn't even bandage it!”

“Hermione, listen to me!” Harry said as strongly as he could as she turned around with three bottles of potions in her hand, “Listen!”

He stopped her hand as she went to rub the thick potion into his wound, looking her in the eye and attempting to calm her with a firm look. He knew the fiery look in her eye-- that familiar look of indignance and anger that usually proceeded rapidly planned-- and rapidly executed-- action.

“Hermione, there is no `they'.” he said quietly, releasing her hand and allowing her to begin her administrations. Her eyes narrowed as his words sunk in.

“No one's asked us to do anything.”

“'Us', meaning you and Neville?”

He looked away.

She dropped her hand and drew her wand, waving it. A glass appeared in the air and a measure of potion dribbled into it.

“Open your mouth,” she said abruptly, lifting the glass to his lips. He drained the potion obediently, watching her nervously.

She lowered the glass, then placed it on the countertop behind her, looking away from him and looking anguished and angry all at once.

He licked his lips and started to say something, “Hermione--”

She cut him off, her voice sharp and trembling.

“How could you? How could you keep me in the dark?”

He cringed-- and this time, the gash had nothing to do with it. But it hurt-- perhaps twice as much-- to hear her say it in that tone.

“I... I don't know,” he whispered humbly, guiltily. “I'm... I'm sorry.”

But she wasn't done.

“You could have died!” she repeated forcefully, “In fact, you should have! It should have been fatal! It was meant to be! I could have lost you without knowing why!”

Tears had welled up her eyes as she glared at him, her lips trembling and face pale.

“I could have lost you,” she whispered again, her face crumpling. “Harry--”

His arms went around her at once. Harry could think of little else to say but, “I'm sorry, Hermione-- Merlin, I'm so sorry--”

She stifled a sob in his shoulder and wound her arms around him tightly.

“I'm sorry-- I suppose I'm just-- it was a shock-- seeing that-- oh, Harry, what would I have done? What would I have done?”

He pressed his hand against her head, stroking her hair and leaning his cheek against her head.

“You don't have to think about it now,” he said hoarsely, “You've taken care of it--”

She clutched at his shirt tightly and let out a deep breath.

“You've been after those Death-Eaters. You and Neville have been going at it alone--”

“The Aurors haven't been exactly doing a thorough job, Kingsley excepted.” Harry said sharply, “D'you know what happened last week, Hermione? They tortured a man's fiancee-- right in front of him-- dragged him out of the house, locked the doors, and set the house on fire. He tried to attack them with his bare hands. He had gone completely mad, trying to save her. Throwing himself at the flaming doorway and trying to pull her out.”

His voice shook as he cupped her cheek, locking his eyes on hers. His gaze was intensely vulnerable as he croaked, “I can't let that happen to you. To us. Because... I'd go mad, too-- if they took you--”

She dropped her gaze as he kissed her hair.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “that I didn't tell you. But I have to. I have to do everything I can to protect you.”

She hid her face in his chest and sighed shakily.

“Be careful,” she whispered, “don't do anything reckless.”

“I'll be careful.”

He stroked her hair softly.

“I have a way of making Valentine's Day interesting, don't I?” he said in a lighter tone, “The cake looks fantastic, by the way.”

“Jackie's very proud of it,” Hermione said, wiping her eyes and drawing back, “She wants to be in charge of the wedding cake.”

“I don't see why she shouldn't be.” Harry said, trying to smile, “Though she and Molly will have to fight for it.”

She smiled at last, her eyes brightening.

“I knew you'd say that,” she said as he squeezed her gently, “Even though the frosting will probably be bright green and purple and red.”

“Not the most traditional colors,” Harry agreed, “but I think I'll like it.”

“I think I will, too.”

Their smiles faded as they looked at each other. Hermione leaned forward and kissed him, her eyes moist and wistful.

“When we marry.”

He wrapped his arms around her tightly and sighed heavily.

“On the bright side, February's the shortest month of the year,” he said, making her smile. “The shortest month of the year for celebrating the strongest thing there is. Bit sad, isn't it?”

Hermione's smile softened.

“Perhaps it's to remind us that love ought to be celebrated through the entire year and not just once,” she said, “you tend to treasure something more, the shorter it becomes.”

“Still, it's supposed to last forever.”

“And it will,” she said, pulling him in for another kiss, “it has to.”

A/N (2): The last bit of the chapter was extremely difficult to write. I'm still not sure if I like it. Let me know what you think and thank you for reading!

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A/N: I'm back after several months—apologies for keeping everyone waiting! Unfortunately, school has to take priority where time is concerned, but writing this was quite a nice break. I hope you enjoy it! (With all these pauses, I'm never certain if the story is coming off fluidly.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The month of April brimmed over with rain, early morning walks, and wedding preparations, and Yasmine knew she had never been happier. She loved crawling into bed at night, relished the feeling of being beautifully, happily exhausted—treasured the whispered goodnight kisses and hugs Hermione gave so liberally.

She had started to write recently. Before she had come to live with Hermione, there was very little of her life that she would ever wish to record, but now, she wrote pages and pages each night.

A recent entry read:

April 2

This morning Katy and I got up early to watch the sunrise, since Katy loves them so much. She and I talked about—well, about nearly everything, I think. The other kids, the wedding—actually, I think we talked about the wedding the most. I've never been a wedding; not a real one, anyway. I know this one will be the best wedding there ever was, or ever will be. They love each other so much sometimes I wonder how on earth they have any love to spare. But they do, and I never feel I deserved it, but sometimes I think about it and I want to tremble and laugh and cry all at once.

After breakfast, we went outside to play hide-and-seek (Jack says I cheated, but I didn't, it's not my fault he can't run quietly, and besides everyone hides in the tree fort) and it started raining. Big, billowy clouds the color of a night shadow filled the sky, and suddenly a rumble of thunder cracked and shook the whole house! I think I may have screamed, or else Katy did, but it was such a big noise, a noise so big I think my heart shuddered and stopped—and I was… well, I was afraid, especially when lightning struck the sky a brilliant whie, and then I slipped and fell into the mud and then everyone (except the boys, so I suppose it was just Katy and Jackie and I) rushed inside the house. We got mud all over the floor and on the stairs—Jackie was crying and I was trembling and Katy looked white as a sheet—and we ran upstairs into Hermione's room. Mrs. Weasley was working on her dress, and we weren't supposed to go in, but we didn't think, and she asked us what was wrong, but all of us just fell into the room and clung to her, and I was ever so sorry when I realized I had gotten dirt and grass on her beautiful white dress, but she just held us tightly and told us, with a sort of laugh—but a kind laugh, the kind of laugh that's meant to feel safe—that she used to be afraid of storms, too.

That's certainly got my attention, because Ron's told us stories of what she's done, and I can't imagine someone as brave as all that being afraid of thunderstorms. And I think it made me love her more, to think she was sometimes afraid, too.

And now I've realized that she really can be afraid sometimes, because now when Harry comes to dinner, I see her let out a breath, as though she'd been holding it for the whole day, and she smiles and smiles for the rest of the night.

I think Harry is doing something dangerous, or else she wouldn't look so worried and anxious when he leaves. Besides, I've noticed that Harry's hands looked a bit swollen sometimes, as though he's been stung by something. I hope he'll be all right.

Harry looks happier every time we see him. I think he's thinking about the wedding. When I told him about seeing Hermione's dress, he looked over at her (she was trying to get Jackie to go to bed, I don't see why Jackie always to make such a fuss about it) and his eyes smiled so brightly I thought that he might start crying.

Well, it's nearly nine o'clock. Katy just came in to tell me I ought to go to bed. I'm not finished, but I might finish later. Goodness, I'm going to need another notebook soon.

Good night!

“I'm bored,” Jack announced, though by now the announcement had been made so many times that it was completely unnecessary. “I hate rain.”

“You might be bored, but we're not,” Yasmine said, without looking up from her cards, “Go fish.”

“Are you sure you don't have any threes?” Adrian said suspiciously, fanning out his cards and looking cross.

“Ask Jackie next time, and Adrian looked at Jackie rather unhappily.

“She's having a conversation with the person on the back of the card,” he said, “She keeps telling me it's rude to interrupt when I ask.”

A splutter of laughter issued from the chair where Katy was busy taking apart Harry's old watch.

"It's not funny," Adrian insisted, though the corners of his mouth twitched, "the pictures move, but they can't even talk!"

This piqued Dusty's interest, and he rolled over onto his stomach, looking over the edge of the bed to the draw pile on the floor.

"Chudley Cannons?"

"Newest edition," Adrian confirmed, motioning to the picture of Ron smiling from the back of the card he drew, "Ron sent them."

Dusty eyed the cards thoughtfully, then resumed his afternoon doze, using the sleepy Gulliver as a pillow.

Jack had decided to teach himself how to juggle with a few of the items he had found on Katy's desk--an old pink rubber, a paintbrush with most of the bristles missing, and a couple of beads.

“It's a good thing you didn't use any of the eggs,” Yasmine commented presently, as Adrian attempted to politely `interrupt' Jackie's conversation with the Cannons' Seeker, “or we wouldn't have anything for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Lay off,” Jack snapped, “It's not as if you could do any better;”

“Would you mind if I borrowed Jackie for a moment, Mr.—er….”

“Watermelon,” Jackie said in a cross whisper. Adrian raised his face to the ceiling, unable to believe he had been reduced to this, and finally said, “Mr. Watermelon, I've got to talk to Jackie for a moment—would you mind? No? Oh, good!”

“What do you want?” Jackie said irritably, “I was talking!”

“Will you just give me the threes?”

“Please.”

“May I have the threes, please?”

“Don't have any!” Jackie said happily, resuming her conversation. Adrian scowled.

“I give up!” he said, putting down the cards. “Let's do something else.”

“Like what?” Katy said without turning around.

“I don't know,” Adrian said, “let's go downstairs.”

When no one got up to follow him, Adrian got up and went downstairs. Maybe he could get a snack--or no, even better-- he'd get his drum.

He'd been practicing a lot recently (there hadn't been much to do due to the rain) and flattered himself in thinking he'd gotten rather good at it. In fact, he'd make up a song--as he began to snap the rhythm with his fingers, he wandered into the kitchen, lost in thought.

“Here you are,” said Hermione's voice in an amused tone, and Adrian's eyes snapped over to the workroom door.

Hermione was standing in the workroom door, potions book tucked under one arm, his snare and drumsticks in the other. She had tucked a quill behind her ear, and Adrian noted the ink smeared across her cheek. When she saw his quizzical expression, she smiled a bit wearily and said, “Writing my final paper for this year. Healer Pruitt decided we ought to finish early—before the wedding, I mean.”

She put his drum and sticks on the kitchen table beside him.

“I heard you coming.”

He grinned sheepishly.

“I didn't mean to bother you.”

“I know you didn't,” she said, smiling, “I needed a break anyway.” She paused. “What are the others up to?”

“Jackie and Yasmine are playing cards, Dusty's sleeping, Katy's taking apart Harry's watch, and Jack's teaching himself to juggling,” Adrian said, “I was bored.”

“Mmm…” Hermione's eyes had wandered again, as they were prone to do recently. Adrian wasn't bothered; she had a right to a bit of distraction. He glanced over his shoulder, following her gaze.

“isn't Harry coming at four?” he said, noticing the clock read four o'clock.

“What?” she started at the sound of Harry's name. She relaxed then, and offered another smile. “Yes, he should be. He might be—a little late.”

She chewed at her lower lip, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“Is something wrong?” Adrian asked, feeling a pang of worry,, “Is Harry okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course he is,” Hermione assured him, a little too quickly, “Don't mind me; I'm just tired, that's all.”

“Are you sure?” Adrian persisted, as his heart began to sink, “You look—worried.”

He had almost said `scared', but he couldn't bring himself to say it.

She paused and studied him carefully. There was comforting warmth to her expression, and that alleviated his fears slightly.

Reaching out and ruffling his hair, she answered, “Leave the worrying tome, Adrian. Enjoy your drum for now.”

“But…”

Before he could finish his protest, she bent and hugged him tightly.

“Just trust me,” she whispered in his ear, and he rested his chin momentarily against her neck, letting her stroke his hair.

After she released Adrian and watched him run upstairs, Hermione turned back to the workroom and glanced down at her potions book.

Wearily, she pulled out and kitchen chair and opened the book, knowing she would get very little done on a day like this. She even took the quill out from behind her ear, twirling it in between her fingers, but... she put it down. This was, perhaps, one of the times she felt least like focusing.

So much had changed. She sat back k in the chair and fanned her fingertips against her lips, gazing at the clock. Or perhaps... well, she had changed.

In her school days- only two years ago- she would have gotten up and insisted on accompanying Harry and Neville on what he called their `little project'. She sighed. He pretended to take things lightly, pretended for her sake, but they both knew the dangers involved. Once she reprimanded him for trying shelter her—she had been on that Horcrux hunt with him, after all—but he only smiled at her wryly and said, “I know you, Hermione, if I told you everything, you'd get up and try to finish this yourself.”

“With you,” she had insisted, “I'd finish it with you, like always.”

He'd kissed her then.

“I know,” he had said again, “but you're all they have.”

He had moved his gaze briefly from hers to the window, where the children were kicking around a football. Then his gaze had returned to hers, and he'd added softly, “You're all I have, Hermione.”

“You know that's not true,” she'd protested, “You have so much more than me, Harry.”

He'd laughed, brushing his fingers against her cheek with the fluid, tender familiarity of a painter with his brush. “I never wanted more. I thought you knew that.”

Prat.

She couldn't help but think it. His love was beautiful, thrilling—and on occasions such as these, utterly exasperating. Harry freed her and captivated her all at once, and she had spent many afternoons—often while doing an every day chore—she'd puzzled over it. It was the ultimate mystery, she always concluded, and that, more than anything, was what frustrated her. It was something she would never understand—a foreign thought for someone who had spent so many days in the library seeking to know and understand all she could.

Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door, along with a rather hoarse, “Hermione? Are you in there?”

Neville's voice.

She rushed out of the kitchen into the foyer, throwing the front door open. A flood of warm spring air flooded into the house as a battered, weary pair entered the house.

From his position at the top of the stairs, Adrian could just barely hear Hermione breathe Harry's name. She sounded, he thought, very much like he imagined she would sound Harry had just pulled her out of the waters meant to drown her.

Harry's arms were chapped and swollen, and as they wound tightly around Hermione's waist, Adrian was suddenly struck by how stiffly them seemed to move. He winced when he caught a glimpse of a long cut along the side of Harry's face, and as Harry leaned his cheek against Hermione's head, blood smeared across her hair.

“I'm okay,” he mumbled in assurance, “Godric, Hermione, I told you not to worry.”

“You idiot,” she retorted, though still in a low voice, “I should have worried more.”

She drew back, pale and relieved.

“Oh, Harry—your cheek.” She reached up with a hand, her fingers hovering gingerly above the gash. He flinched.

“Don't let the kids see me like this,” he said quickly, in an undertone alive with urgency, “I don't want them to—Adrian!”

“We were wondering why you were late,” Adrian said, though part of him could scarcely believe he had been bold enough to come down the stairs, “Mama was starting to scare me.”

As he looked at Harry's battered face, at the bruises covering his whole body, Adrian was startled by the sudden urge to cry. He couldn't explain it—but suddenly, he began to tremble.

“Adrian—“ Hermione reached out again, and when she drew him close, he tensed in her embrace for the first time. “Oh, Adrian—“

“I'm okay,” he lied, but his voice betrayed him, and he blinked rapidly to hide the tears quivering in his eyes.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered, “I didn't realize—oh, Adrian, it's all right—Harry's all right—“

“Barely!”

Adrian couldn't believe the word had come out of his mouth. But he was crying now; and he was not ashamed of it—he was too angry—inexplicably angry—

“You could have died!” he heard himself shout, “You might have died! You almost ruined everything!”

“I—“

“You almost abandoned us!” His bellow seemed to shake the whole house, or perhaps it was just him shaking…

“Adrian,” Harry began weakly, but Adrian only sobbed harder into Hermione's shoulder.

The magntitude of his fear and anger shocked Adrian to the core. He wasn't sure he'd ever been so certain about feeling something. It was the certainty of his terror that had overcome him—the certainty that was making his head reel and spin as if it had been caught up in a great storming wind.

Gradually the storm subsided, and Adrian, now much calmer and in control, realized how noisily he'd been crying. Embarrassed, he burrowed himself further within Hermione's embrace, hiding his burning face from Harry's quietly guilty expression.

She stroked his hair again, and though Adrian didn't see it, she looked up into Harry's face.

Her heart went out to him at once. A familiar, ashamed look had settled into his weary face. Letting out a shaky breath, he ran both hands through his hair, looking at her helplessly.

“I… er… I'll go clean myself up,” he said resignedly, in a low voice. “C'mon, Neville—I know where the healing stuff is…”

Adrian and Hermione stood in the center of the foyer for what seemed to be a very long time. A pool of hot guilt had found its way into Adrian's stomach as his words replayed in his mind.

How could he… had he really…?

“Do you want to go and lie down?”

“No—I mean, if I do—would you come with me?”

In answer, she lifted him into her arms, surprising him with her strength, and carried him up the stairs to him room. He was conscious of the others watching him from just inside Katy's room, and he hid his face, hoping they hadn't heard and knowing that they had.

The next thing he knew, she was tucking him into bed. As she pulled the sheets up under his chin, he looked into her face, knowing that his miserable eyes gave away his unspoken apology. In answer, she smiled softly, wistfully, and kissed him lightly on the nose.

“I'm sorry, Adrian,” she whispered, “for frightening you.”

He shook his head and swallowed hard, unable to speak. She grazed her fingers against his forehead lightly.

“Come and get me if you need me. I'll be downstairs with Harry and Neville, all right?”

He nodded and closed his eyes. He felt her weight leave the bed, heard the door close, and moments later, he was asleep.

“Don't rub that,” Harry nearly dropped the bottle of salve, and knocked a roll of bandages off the table with his elbow, “It'll only agitate it further.”

“Oh,” he said lamely, as Hermione took his arm in her hands and began to perform several quick, intricate spells on the particularly swollen parts of his arms and hands. He paused, then blurted, “How's Adrian?”

“Asleep,” she said, gently turning his arm over in her hands, “He was exhausted.”

“Don't blame him,” Harry mumbled, “All right, Neville?”

“I'll live,” Neville said dryly from the kitchen table, “I never thought I'd meet a plant I didn't like.”

“You've never met Devil's Snare, then, have you?” Harry said, sucking in a great breath that hissed quickly through his teeth. Hermione held up a small, talon-like thorn to the light. Nearly translucent, its faint outline glistened darkly with blood.

“This isn't Devil's Snare, Harry,” Hermione said sharply, “I would have thought that was obvious.”

“It was Devil's Snare,” Harry said, “until the plant completely transfigured and snared both of us in one fell swoop.”

“It's a nasty weed,” Neville added unnecessarily, cringing. “I'd hate to hear what anyone at St. Mungo's would have to say about it.”

“You were lucky,” Hermione commented, “that you were thoughtless enough to forget to hydrate.”

“Why's that?”

“One drop of water inside your system and the poison would have reacted instantly and… you wouldn't be here. Either of you.”

She moved over to Neville and began to work on his injuries with brisk, meticulous movements.

“What about sweat?” Neville said, rubbing a new scar on his chin with vague interest as he noticed its reflection in a pot drying on the counter, “Because both of us are sweating like flobberworms.”

“I don't know,” Hermione said, “But I'm grateful. As you should be. You just barely escaped with your lives… as usual.”

“Please, Hermione,” Harry groaned, “I feel terribly enough as it is. Kind of a strange plant for a Death Eater blockade, though—I would have thought they would have wanted something that would kill you instantly.”

“I imagine death by this particular poison is excruciatingly painful,” Hermione said, dropping the thorn into a bowl and looking sober, “That was a very foolish thing to do, Harry—charging at that blockade without researching properly. I mean, last week you met up with those… things…”

“Spiders-and-or-snakes,,” Neville supplied, “It was hard to tell when it was trying to eat—to eat me, I mean.”

She sent him a warning look.

“Don't kid, Neville. We all know how close you both came to…”

Her voice trailed off, and she looked away, visibly taking several deep breaths.

“But you survived, thank Merlin,” she said with a forced briskness, “and that's all that matters.”

“Hermione,” Harry said, moving toward her, “Hermione, I—“

She shook her head.

“Not right now,” she said quietly, as she wrapped a bandage around Neville's arm. Harry drew back, startled and a bit stung.

“You might be stuck with this one for a while,” Hermione told Neville, still very softly, “If it starts to swell at any time, come to the house right away—and I do mean right away, Neville, even if it doesn't hurt. Understand?”

“Thanks,” Neville said with a nod, “I'll do that.”

“You don't have a choice,” she said grimly, “Now go get some rest and drink plenty of water—I've removed the threat. No, Neville, I really have. You just have to trust me.”

“I just don't fancy dying an… what was it? An `excruciatingly painful death'. If I die—“

“Don't even joke.” She said sharply, “That's not funny at all, Neville. Now go and rest.”

He nodded.

“Thanks,” he said again, “Harry, I'll see you later.”

“Later, Neville.”

As soon as Neville disappeared, Harry turned toward Hermione. She was busily cleaning up her healing supplies, though as she stood up with the bowl of thorns in her hands, he quickly noticed how much she was trembling.

“Hermione,” he said as gently as he could, “talk to me.”

“I've been trying to,” she said, rather tersely, “but I've been a bit busy trying to keep you alive.”

Abashed, Harry moved to stand behind her.

“Hermione, I know you're upset—“

“You've always had a gift for understatement, Harry, but that was drastic even for you,” she said, her voice shaking.

He felt a flash of irritation.

“Merlin, Hermione, can't you see I'm trying?” he snapped, “I don't know what you want me to do; I can't just give up!”

“I'm not asking you to!” she flung back, whipping around and glaring at him, “But you're not a schoolboy any more, Harry!”

“And what's that supposed to mean?” he demanded, crossing his arms across his chest defensively.

“It means,” she said in a furiously low voice, “that you have no room for taking foolhardy risks and trusting your luck to get you out alive every time! Don't you see what that does to your family?”

“I have to take risks sometimes, Hermione—“

“Don't patronize me!” she cut across him, her eyes flashing, “You've been taking every risk that's come across your path, and don't you dare tell me that I don't understand! I've been with you every since you decided it was your job to find every single danger within your immediate reach and confront it I was with you when we were running around the country with nothing to back us up but a couple of books and a dead man's instructions! And Merlin knows how many times you left it to me to plan everything out, to prepare—well, Harry, by your own decision, I'm not there to do that for you, and it's up to you to make sure that you don't just charge into danger without thinking of the possible consequences!”

Having finished, Hermione brushed past him and started mopping at the table with a sponge, the kitchen still ringing with her reprimand.

“Are you done?” Harry said, very quietly. She stiffened.

“Yes, Harry,” she said coolly, “I am.”

Ignoring the lump in his throat, Harry turned and left the kitchen, he arms still stinging slightly and his heart heavy. He looked at the front door, but oddly unable to go and open it, he turned and sat on the bottom step, feeling very much as though he'd been thoroughly beaten. He bowed his head and rested his forehead on his knees, listening the sounds within the kitchen.

Suddenly, someone crept downstairs and sat beside him. He looked over and saw Dusty sitting quietly next to him, a sketchpad balanced on his knee and a streak of paint across his cheek. When Dusty noticed Harry looking at him, he merely scooted closer and opened his sketchpad, motioning toward a particular picture within.

“Crookshanks,” he explained with an expressive single word. Harry nodded, trying to look interested, but his eyes were trained on the kitchen door.

An insistent tap on his shoulder brought his gaze back to the sketchpad.

“Buckbeak,” Dusty said, this time with a wide, crooked smile, “I saw his picture.”

He tapped the pad with a satisfied finger.

“Hermione told me you rode him once,” he said, lightly pointing at the two figures on his back.

“Yeah.”

“I worked on it all afternoon,” Dusty said, “it came quickly, for a picture.”

He paused.

“I heard you and Hermione arguing.”

Harry let out a long sigh, hiding a groan threatening to escape him.

But Dusty had said it so simply it was almost comforting. It wasn't as though Dusty were surprised, frightened—even upset. He simply said it, like an observation, nothing more.

“Adrian's not angry.”

“Well, there's one person,” Harry muttered. He hadn't meant for Dusty to hear, but Dusty replied, “I'm not, either.”

“Thanks, Dusty.”

Dusty paused.

“Just because she yelled doesn't mean she doesn't love you anymore,” he reminded him. “I'm going to go finish.”

He picked himself up and crept upstairs. Harry half-laughed. Dusty had mastered the trick of running without making a sound. A few footsteps echoing in the empty foyer alerted him to another presence.

“I thought you'd left.”

“I don't like leaving you when you're upset,” he said shortly. Hermione hesitated, then took the place formerly occupied by Dusty.

“Half of me wishes I could apologize,” she said, “but the other half knows I needed to say what I did.”

She placed a hand on his knee, and though he didn't look up, some of the tension in his heart eased.

“I shouldn't have yelled,” she said, “but—oh, Harry.”

She took his hand and kissed one of his new scars lightly, with the warm familiarity of a friend and the tenderness of a new bride, “I won't ask you to stop being angry, but I do want to know if you understood what I said.”

He nodded.

“Good,” she said, “I suppose… I'll leave you to think.”

But she hesitated, remaining where she was beside him, looking uncertain.

He flexed his fingers within her hands, keenly aware of the scar her lips had just caressed, and when she moved closer to him, he moved his arm around her and held her close.

“I'm still angry,” he told her, “but I'm not about to let you leave me.”

She let out a long breath. The tension in the room dissolved, and she nestled closer to him on the step. He pulled her hand up to his lips and returned the kiss she had just given him, then rested her cheek against her hair.

“I would never leave you,” she murmured.

“I would die if you did,” he said seriously. She tilted her chin and allowed him to kiss her softly on the mouth.

“Yes, you would have,” she said quietly, “and that's what frightens me.”

He squeezed her tightly against his side.

“I didn't mean to.”

“I know you didn't,” she said, “and I didn't mean to frighten Adrian, either, but I did. I can't keep you a secret, Harry, I never could and I'll never be able to, and I think the children know that.”

He sighed.

“I still didn't mean for Adrian to see me like that- I didn't mean for…”

She cut him off with another kiss.

“Hush,” she said softly, “Enough of that. You can talk to Adrian later. We'll talk to all of them after dinner. We're not hiding this from one another any longer.

She squeezed his hand.

“I should start dinner,” she said, standing up. He smiled up at her and kissed each of her fingertips one last time.

“I'll come join you in a second,” he said, “let me go talk to Dusty for a second.”

When he turned to go upstairs, he nearly fell off the bottom step in surprise. Dusty didn't seem startled at his reaction, but merely smiled and offered him a piece of paper.

In clumsy handwriting, the note read:

Hi. I didn't mean to yell at you. I was just scared that you might die, and I didn't know how you got hurt. Hermione's been really worried, and (Harry had to squint here, as there was a very wet splotch over the next few words, which had been scrawled even faster and messier than the previous words) you're the closest thing I've ever had to a dad. I never said I'm sorry. So I'm sorry.

Bye.

Adrian

Moments later, Harry hurried—ran—upstairs and down the hallway to Adrian's room. He paused just outside the door, then hesitated. He opened the door, and was confronted by the sigh of a rumpled, tearful Adrian.

“C'mere,” Harry heard himself say hoarsely, and before he could say anything more, Adrian and thrown his arms around his waist and buried his face in his shirt.

“Don't die,” he heard Adrian mumble in a very small voice, “Don't die like everyone, please don't die—“

Harry bent and pulled Adrian into a tight hug, tears streaming unexpectedly down his cheeks.

“I know,” he said into Adrian's ear, “what it's like to lose everyone.”

Adrian hiccupped and let out a sob.

“You're not losing me anytime soon,” Harry promised him in a low voice, “I'm doing everything I can to get back to you--- to Hermione….”

“You promise?”

Harry pressed his hand at the back of Adrian's head, ruffling his hair lightly.

“I do now.”

Adrian shuddered and wiped his eyes on Harry's shoulder. He smiled tearfully but brightly back at him. Harry felt himself grin slowly as he stood up and clapped Adrian firmly on the shoulder.

“So did you beat them?” Adrian asked after a moment, scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve. “Did you win?”

Harry shook his head ruefully.

“We didn't get there yet,” he said. He paused and leaned forward, speaking in a whisper, “We got stuck in a hedge with talons.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Hermione smiled, closing her eyes and tilting her ear toward the sound of their laughter. As she did, someone put an arm around her and rested his head against her side.

She stroked Dusty's soft dark hair, and without opening her eyes, she could see that slow, crooked smile of contentment stretching across Dusty's face.

Finally, he spoke, with perfect satisfaction, his voice just barely audible over the sounds of Harry and Adrian's animated conversation.

“I finished the picture.”

A/N: (2) I hope this wasn't too sentimental for you… thank you for reading!

-->

A/N: These next two chapters were, actually, originally three or four different chapters. After a very long process, I managed to find a way to divide those three to four chapters into two different chapters. That being said, I'm not entirely sure this flows very well, as I've read over it too many times to have a fresh view of it myself. Please feel free to ask any questions where things get confusing!

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Dreadful weather we're having, isn't it?” commented a very damp Healer Pruitt as he ducked into the foyer, pulling a face and looking out at the sheets of rain pounding onto the grassy backyard. Hermione smiled and shut the front door.

“Oh, I don't know,” she said, “my family is making the most of it.”

He chuckled.

“So I noticed,” he said, “when they managed to splash a pail of water all over me.”

“Oh, Healer Pruitt, I'm terribly sorry!” Hermione apologized, “I thought I made it clear to the boys--”

“Oh, it wasn't the boys, they've been very good,” said Healer Pruitt dryly, “it seems the girls have picked up a bit of a mischievous streak-- don't look so embarrassed, Miss Granger, it's all in good fun.”

“I did tell them that they were only allowed to splash each other, all the same,” said Hermione firmly, “Just a moment; I should call them in...”

“You'll do nothing of the sort, Hermione,” said Healer Pruitt, staying her hand. “I believe I was the one to splash Katy first. She only responded in kind.”

He paused and chuckled.

“Very cleverly, too, if I do say so myself. Is that a pulley she's constructed in that tree? And out of bits of string and tins? Quite resourceful.”

He shrugged off his cloak and dried himself off with a flourish of his wand. Waving the resulting steam away, he went on, “I hope my late notice didn't inconvenience you? I know you've been busy--”

“Not at all,” Hermione said, taking his cloak from him and hanging it up on one of the hallway hooks, “I decided to let the children have a break from their lessons. They've been inside quite a bit recently; I thought they would enjoy a little holiday.”

She paused, and admitted, “And I needed some time to relax as well.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Healer Pruitt said, as she ushered him into the kitchen, “given your schedule. And now that we've approached the subject-- the reason for my visit. May I sit down? Thank you.”

He sat down at the kitchen table. Hermione took the seat across from him, looking attentive and curious. He smiled.

“I've been looking over your work recently. Don't look alarmed; it's excellent work,” he assured her hastily, and she relaxed. “And the ground we've covered just in a course of a year! In all honesty, Miss Granger,” and here he leaned forward, “you are several months ahead of the trainees at St. Mungo's-- and here again, I must be honest. I have set this rapid pace myself; I wished to test your dedication to the course you have chosen. When I first agreed to train you, I must admit I had my doubts. It's rather rare, in my experience, for a young witch or wizard to be completely set on a career-- many times, they change their minds when presented with a difficult course that would allow them to fulfill their original aspiration. You are, I'm pleased to report, quite an exception to the rule.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking flustered as he smiled at her, “thank you very much.”

“That being said,” he said, “I know we've agreed to postpone your lessons until after your wedding-- which, if you haven't received my owl, I will be attending, and most happily, thank you for the invitation-- but... well, first, let me ask you. How have you felt about the pace of study? Too rigorous?”

“Oh, no, I've enjoyed it!” Hermione said earnestly, “I really have, and it's been very useful recently--” she stopped abruptly, biting her lip as if she had said something wrong. Healer Pruitt pretended not to notice.

“And it hasn't strained your family?”

“Not at all,” Hermione said truthfully, “in fact, I think Jackie finds it fascinating.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, smiling fondly, “I think Potions appeals to Jackie-- it looks very much like a recipe-- which is more than I can say for her father.”

Healer Pruitt laughed.

“I must say even my skills at the cauldron have failed to translate to the stove.” he said, noting with delight the ease with which Hermione referred to Harry as Jackie's father. He paused, remembering the second reason for his visit. “Healer Smitt would like to have a meeting with you. Only recently news has gotten out about what you've done for these children, and already St. Mungo's has received letter upon letter calling for reform for children without homes.”

“Oh, has it?” Hermione looked surprised. “Well, thank you for passing that along; I'll be sure to owl her soon.”

“But Hermione,” Healer Pruitt said, trying to redirect the conversation, “I have to wonder if you haven't taken too much on-- which is why I wanted to discuss your training with you. Perhaps we ought to slow it down a bit...?”

“For a little while,” Hermione agreed, “until the wedding's over and everything has settled. But not too much, Healer Pruitt, I'm sure I'll be fine.”

He sighed.

“I don't want you to neglect your other duties, Hermione, and it concerns me.”

“Well, let it concern you no longer,” she said firmly, but kindly, “My family is my first priority, Healer Pruitt, and I would tell you if I thought my training hindered us from being happy. Besides,” she said playfully, “who would sneak the children sweets every Monday if we stopped?”

“Sweets?” Healer Pruitt said innocently, “I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course,” she said, grinning, “of course you don't.”

He shook his head.

“I don't know how you've done it,” he said with a sigh, “covering so much material with only five lessons a week.”

“I have a good memory,” Hermione said modestly, “it's quite useful for studying. And of course good time management,” she added, glancing at the clock, “which Harry has yet to learn.”

As if this had jogged her memory somewhere, she looked back at her tutor and said, rather casually, “You wouldn't happen to know of a good book on poisons, would you, Healer Pruitt?”

“I'd say I've given you the best and most acclaimed resources,” he said, mimicking her casual tone. He cast her a significant look that let her know he hadn't fallen for it. “Why? Did one of the children run into a snake lately?”

“Not one of the children, no,” Hermione murmured with a rueful look. In a more normal tone of voice, she said, “I've read through the books you gave me earlier this year, and-- well, I was wondering about the... lesser-known venoms, ones that might result from-- cross-breeding.”

He noted the pink creeping across her cheeks and smiled wryly.

“I'll have a look when Harry gets home,” he said, and smiled again when she looked defensive and relieved all at once. “You're a terrible liar, Miss Granger, I do hope you realize that. What exactly has that rascal of a husband-- I beg your pardon, fiance-- gotten himself mixed up in?”

“Nothing illegal,” she quickly reassured him.

“Something dangerous, no doubt,” he said carefully.

“Perhaps a little,” she said evasively. At that juncture, Healer Pruitt gave up. There was little point in pressing the matter. So he simply sighed, signaling his defeat, and redirected the conversation once again.

“And how have the wedding plans been coming?”

“Rather well,” she said, brightening, “but I won't be sad to see them go.”

“You have... let's see-- how many weeks?”

“Six weeks,” she said immediately. When he chuckled, she blushed and smiled sheepishly.

“No need to look embarrassed,” he said kindly, “you've been very patient.”

“Less than that, I'm afraid,” she confessed, twisting her ring around her finger-- as she was wont to do recently, Healer Pruitt thought in amusement, usually with an uncharacteristically absent, dreamy expression on her face. “I... well, I'm ready to be married, that's all.”

“If only all were so fortunate,” Healer Pruitt commented ironically.

“Half the time I think you bring up the wedding just so you can tease me, Healer Pruitt,” she said, sounding exasperated and blushing yet again. He smiled.

“Quite right,” he said, “But you are an unusual case, as I said before-- you are earnestly pursuing a career in Healing (which is, I'm sure you realize, a difficult course in itself), and yet... you haven't hesitated to dedicate yourself to a family. The two seldom go together.”

“Or so it used to be,” she said reasonably, “things have changed.”

“My time isn't half as far away from today as you think it is.,” Healer Pruitt said, accepting the glass of water she offered him, “even today, the convention remains: young witches choose a family or a career, not both. There are, of course,” he said, raising a hand, “notable exceptions, but mark my phrasing well-- notable exceptions. I would say the vast majority of our female leaders have chosen to remain single, or at least childless.”

“But even for the average witch and wizard, things are changing,” Hermione said, “they already have, in the Muggle world.”

He smiled.

“And that is one of the advantages of being Muggle-born, Miss Granger. Non-magical society has much to offer us. Indeed, I often think wizards who have been raised in the Muggle world come to us with an astonishing level of ingenuity that comes only from having been without-- and consequently, independent of-- magic.”

He paused and chuckled.

“I rarely have so rapt an audience,” he commented, “it seems I've distracted you... wasn't that the door?”

Hermione leaped to her feet, rushing eagerly out of the kitchen to the front door. Healer Pruitt rose from his chair, standing in the kitchen doorway and looking fondly at the scene unfolding before him.

Hermione had her arms looped around Harry's waist as he kissed her forehead and brushed his thumb across her cheek. Soon a wet blur of fur bounded into the kitchen, closely followed by a stampede of drenched and laughing children. Rain streamed in from the doorway as a gust of wind slanted the rain's course, and a sheepish Adrian pushed the door hastily closed. Amid a crowd of chattering, laughing children, Harry and Hermione held each other tightly, her arm around his waist and his around her shoulder. There they stood, listening attentively to tale after tale of Jack and Adrian's rainstorm escapades, Harry dripping wet and leaving a puddle of water on the floor.

Suddenly, someone tugged on Healer Pruitt's sleeve. It was an apologetic Katy, her red braids dark with water, her cheeks very pink from her play. She raised blue-green eyes up at him, tucking her foot behind her ankle nervously. “I'm sorry I dumped that water bucket on you, Healer Pruitt. I know I shouldn't have, but-- well, you did splash me first!” The last sentence, spoken in an indignant voice of someone calling for a fair trial, was cut off by a gasp. Katy had clapped her hand over her mouth, looking apalled that the thought had escaped her lips. “I'm sorry again-- I shouldn't have said that. Oh my goodness.” She swallowed. “I'm sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he said warmly, “and you're quite right to accuse me, Katy. I did splash you first. You were quite justified in splashing back.”

She smiled abashedly.

“Well, you are a grown-up.” she pointed out, tugging at a braid and looking furtively behind her. Healer Pruitt saw Hermione smile reassuringly, and she looked back, still pulling gently at her braid. “And an important one, too. A teacher.”

“I'm not half as important as all that,” he said, chuckling, “now why don't you go and let your mother dry you up?”

She blinked, and then a brilliant smile illuminated her pink face.

“I suppose she is now, isn't she?” she murmured, her eyes flashing from bright blue to sea-green. “My mother, I mean... Mama!”

“Don't run, Katy, you'll slip and break something--”

“I broke my arm once,” Yasmine put in conversationally, as Katy stood stock still in front of Hermione. “I was trying to jump from the swing set right onto the monkey bars, and I almost did it, too, but then the monkey bars transfigured into a different shape (it did that, you know, every five minutes, as long as there was no one on it) and I fell. Healer Smitt healed it right away, though, and it only hurt for a little while.”

Hermione frowned suddenly, pausing in the middle of drying Katy off. She stooped and put a hand on Katy's forehead.

“Katy, are you feeling all right? You're trembling. Do you think you have a fever?”

“No, I'm all right, I'm perfect-- you don't mind, do you, if I call you... Mama, too, like Ben and Adrian?”

Hermione smiled and hugged Katy, wet clothes and all.

“Of course not, Katy-girl,” she said softly, “In fact, I'd like that very much.”

She tugged lightly at one of Katy's braids, laughing and kissing her forehead.

“Now let me finish drying you off,” she said, “or you will catch a cold.”

Katy beamed, and suddenly realized that there were tears falling from her eyes, warm like the rain, and when Hermione had finished drying her off, she noticed the tears too. Without a word, she smiled and opened her arms, and Katy threw her arms around her and smiled radiantly.

“Phew,” Jack said, pinching his nose, “Gulliver stinks.”

“No he doesn't,” Jackie said loyally, hugging her friend and pretending not to notice the smell of wet dog that consequentally hit her nose. “You've hurt his feelings!”

“Here,” Harry said, “move a little, Jack-Jack-- let me dry him off a bit.”

Gulliver sat patiently amid the cloud of steam that followed Harry's drying charm, wagging his tail and nipping at the water curling up from his fur.

“There,” Harry said, “dry as ever.”

Gulliver panted happily.

“He said thank you,” Jackie translated helpfully. Harry grinned.

“You're welcome, boy,” he said, scratching Gulliver behind the ears.

“Why don't you all go to your rooms and change into something warm? Harry, Healer Pruitt has offered to look at that cut on your arm-- would you mind coming into the kitchen?”

As the children trooped dutifully upstairs, Harry and Hermione joined Healer Pruitt in the kitchen. Harry looked at Healer Pruitt warily.

“Er... if you don't mind me asking, Hermione-- how much does he know?”

“Very little,” Healer Pruitt assured him, “only that your wife thinks it has to do with some sort of hybrid venom.”

Healer Pruitt paused, as though waiting for some sort of correction. An oddly satisfied look crossed his face when none came.

“Yeah, Hermione mentioned that yesterday,” Harry said, obediently presenting his arm to Hermione. “Makes sense, given... the-- er... nature of the creature.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Harry said, without elaborating. He winced and glanced over at Hermione, who was gently unwrapping his bandaged arm. She felt his gaze and looked up, offering him a small smile. After a moment she looked away and put the bandages aside, motioning for him to show his arm to the Healer. It was unusually swollen and had an unhealthy yellow hue to it.

“Hmm...”

After several minutes of examination, the Healer sat back in his chair, stroking his chin in intense thought.

“Certainly,” he said at last, “this is quite unlike anything I've seen before. Have you had success with any antidotes, Miss Granger? I assume you've attempted to cure him.”

“Nothing's worked completely,” Hermione admitted, “Originally he couldn't move his arm.”

“Oh?” Healer Pruitt stopped and pivoted smartly, staring at Hermione intently. “Well, then, that's a start. Which antidote did you use?”

Hermione flushed.

“The Temple Solution, sir,” she said, very quietly. He raised his eyebrows.

“You are aware, of course, that the Temple Solution is considered out of date?”

“I was aware of that, Healer Pruitt,” Hermione said, “but prior to that it was considered the most effective cures available. It is still the foundation on which many modern ones are based.”

“Yes, I'll give you that,” Healer Pruitt conceded. “Well, Miss Granger, it appears you and I have a dilemma on our hands.”

She frowned, and a guarded look came across her face.

“I could insist that you take your wounded fiance to the hospital for proper examination,” he said, “but I see this suggestion bothers you. Very well, then, as he seems to be out of immediate danger for the moment, I gather it has been left to you and I to solve this little mystery. If you don't mind, Mr. Potter, I believe Miss Granger and I have some work to do.”

~*~

The moment Hermione walked into the kitchen, all thoughts of solving their `little mystery' were pushed to the back of her mind.

“What exactly--?”

“Hic.”

“Yasmine has the hiccups.” Katy scooped a spoonful of peanut butter out of the jar and offered it to a rather resigned Yasmine. “We read that hiccups are supposed to go away if you eat peanut butter.”

“I- hic- I liked the sugar better.” Yasmine made a face as she dutifully licked the peanut butter off the spoon.

Katy watched Yasmine's face intently, crossing her legs and gripping the edge of the kitchen chair. Hermione hid a smile.

“Hic.”

Katy sighed and screwed the lid back on the peanut butter jar.

“Sorry, Yaz,” she said, “I guess that one didn't work.”

“It's-- hic-- it's all right,” Yasmine assured her, “you -- hic-- you tried.”

“They should go away naturally,” Hermione said, taking the peanut butter from Katy, “if you can't find a cure.”

“She's had them since Harry got here,” Katy said dubiously, “Didn't you notice?”

“I haven't noticed much of anything today,” Hermione admitted. “But I suggest you give the food cures up for now, girls; we're having dinner in a little under an hour.”

Yasmine slid off the chair with another hiccup.

“Do you think-- hic-- Healer Pruitt might have a cure for...” she paused, her face brightening, “I think they may have st-- hic!”

Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh.

“I'm sorry, Yasmine,” she said quickly, seeing the miserable look on her face. “It's just--”

“I-- hic-- I know.” Yasmine smiled ruefully. “You can-- hic-- laugh.”

Hermione put an arm around Yasmine and squeezed her kindly.

“I can ask Healer Pruitt,” she promised, “I'm not sure even wizards have solved this little problem yet.”

“Still?” Harry's voice said from just outside the kitchen.

Clunk!

“Ouch!”

“Harry, if you're going to carry Adrian on your shoulders, you ought to be more careful! ”

“Hic!”

“That door frame is harder than it looks,” Adrian informed Hermione as she stood on tiptoe and wiped chocolate off his cheek. “Mama, I can do that myself!”

“Certainly you can, Adrian,” Hermione said dryly, “but left to your own devices, you never would.”

“Hic.”

“Try holding your breath and hanging upside down,” Harry suggested to Yasmine.

“No, don't,” Hermione said hastily, shooting Harry a look.

“It's what I've always heard,” said Harry, bending to let Adrian off of his shoulders.

“Where did you get those ideas, Katy?” Hermione asked, shaking her head at Harry.

“Harry took us to the library today,” Katy explained, “the librarian was very helpful.”

“Well, good for Harry, and good for you,” Hermione said, as Healer Pruitt hurried out of the workroom. “Well, Healer Pruitt, did the rose petals change anything?”

“I think you may have struck something,” said Healer Pruitt excitedly, “Those petals have completely altered the nature of the solution; I never would have thought-- hello, Yasmine. A case of the hiccups, I hear?”

She nodded.

“Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there,” Healer Pruitt said, looking at her apologetically, “Terribly annoying, aren't they? I'm going to have to take your mother back into the workroom with me-- Miss Granger?”

“Yes, of course.” Hermione followed Healer Pruitt back into the workroom.

“What are they doing?” Adrian asked, patting Yasmine sympathetically on the shoulder and adding, evidentally trying to make her feel better, “Hey, Yasmine, if you want I could play my drums along with your hiccups; they're sort of like a drum beat--”

“No,” said Yasmine, looking cross, “I-- hic-- just want them to go-- hic-- away!”

“They've got to go away sometime soon,” Katy said bracingly, “come on, we can go play cards or something.”

Adrian looked bewildered.

“What did I say?”

Harry shook his head. “She probably doesn't think her hiccups are very funny anymore. Hey, mate, why don't you and I start on dinner? That way Hermione'll have less to do.”

“Can I use the knives?” Adrian said, brightening and hurrying to the sink to wash his hands.“Besides, if I chop my finger off, there's two healers who can put it back on.”

As it turned out, Harry and the rest of the kids ate without Hermione that night. It was nearly nine o'clock when Harry came back downstairs, having put the children to bed, and, seeing the table setting still untouched, put together two sandwiches and carried them into the workroom.

He could see them crowded around a cauldron in Hermione's little potions corner. Candles flickered in abundance around the room, so their excited faces were clearly in view.

“... and if we're right about this, Miss Granger-- good Merlin, I doubt you'll be a trainee much longer!”

The excited whisper carried across the workroom, and as Harry cleared his throat, Hermione replied, “The credit hardly belongs to me-- oh, Harry, you didn't have to--”

“That's all right,” he said, handing her a plate, “take a break, Hermione. Here, Healer Pruitt, have a sandwich.”

Flushed and animated, the Healer took the sandwich gratefully.

“I take it everything is going well here, then?” Harry said. Hermione and Healer Pruitt beamed with pride and stood aside to let him view their cauldron. Harry gaped at it.

“It looks like--”

“Amortentia!” Hermione and Healer Pruitt finished gleefully.

“But it isn't, Mr. Potter, it most certainly isn't!” Healer Pruitt said, looking almost as though he were about to burst into song. “Note the marked differences-- the way the smoke spirals, the flashes of color it exhibits when disturbed, the smell of the fumes...”

“Meaning...” Harry said, secretly puzzled by the implications of the discovery.

“Never mind,” Hermione said quickly, “it's a bit confusing-- but in the end it means we've discovered a new sort of cure, a potent one if we're right-- it's extremely difficult to cure wounds inflicted by a venomous cross-breed. That's why the laws against cross-breeding are so severe.”

“And you think you can cure my arm.”

“We don't know for certain,” Hermione said, looking at Healer Pruitt, “but we've taken careful notes of what we've done, and if it works, dozens of people may be allowed to leave St. Mungo's.”

“How will you know if it works?” Harry asked.

“We test it,” said Healer Pruitt. Hermione suddenly looked severe and concerned.

“Healer Pruitt, I--”

“...have no reason to worry,” Healer Pruitt said soothingly, “I've been in this field for longer than you've been alive, Miss Granger, and I can assure you that-- even if this solution fails-- it will no more endanger your husband's health than a simple pepper-up potion brewed awry. Mr. Potter, your arm.”

Harry looked at Hermione, and she nodded slowly, looking very pale.

“Now, Miss Granger, I think Mr. Potter would prefer that you administrate this particular procedure.”

Hermione put down her plate on the workbench and washed her hands in the sink across the workroom. Returning, she gently took Harry's arm in one hand and dipped a cloth in the solution with the other. The cloth still steaming and smelling distinctly of rose, Hermione dabbed the tender wound on his arm with the cloth.

Harry set his teeth, bracing himself for some sort of sting or pain. None came.

He heard Hermione gasp and Healer Pruitt let out a cry of triumph. He looked down at his arm.

He flexed his arm and fingers.

“It's completely healed,” he said, “looks like you've done it.”

Hermione beamed and threw her arms around him, kissing Harry firmly on the mouth. Healer Pruitt was crowing in exultation, dancing in an undignified manner around the cauldron.

“You did it, you-- you-- genius!” Healer Pruitt was beside himself with joy, “Just wait until crusty old Healer Eli hears this, the scoundrel! The fellow never believed you capable of anything, and just given the chance, look what you've done!”

Hermione drew back, beaming at Harry. He grinned back, his heart swelling with pride.

“Well done, Hermione,” he said, nuzzling her hair with his nose, “I may be a complete dunce when it comes to potions, but if this makes Healer Pruitt dance like that, it must be brilliant!”

She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his chest, sighing and smiling.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she said, laughing, “I suppose it is.”

It was later that night that Harry and Hermione were finally alone. Healer Pruitt had hurried off to the hospital, promising to “make sure we do everything properly”. They were sitting at the kitchen table together, sipping at one last mug of tea and lost in their own thoughts.

It was one of the things Harry loved about their relationship. Hermione was perfectly happy to sit and think with him, and he never had to worry that he was boring her or disappointing her. She simply sat beside him, toying absently with his fingers with both of her hands.

“Hermione?”

They turned toward the kitchen door. Yasmine slipped into the kitchen and climbed into Hermione's lap.

“What is it, Yaz?” Hermione began, stroking her hair briefly. Yasmine raised desperate eyes to her and began to speak, but her words were cut off by a loud hiccup.

“Oh, dear,” Hermione said, smoothing over a smile and putting her arms around Yasmine. “Your hiccups are still bothering you?”

Yasmine buried her face in Hermione's shoulder with an answering sniffle and, of course, another hiccup.

“Oh, Yaz-- don't cry,” Hermione began to rock Yasmine gently back and forth. “They'll go away eventually.”

“No, they hic won't!” Yasmine wailed, “I'll hic have hic-- hiccups forever!”

The tears had obviously only increased the problem, for Yasmine's sobs were being increasingly interrupted by a squeaky hic.

“You won't have them forever, Yaz. You'll just have to wait it out, all right?”

“I hic can't!” Yasmine sobbed, “I hic can't hic sleep!”

Hermione kissed away a tear streaking down Yasmine's cheek and cupped her chin in her hand.

“Would it help if you slept in my bed tonight, Yazzy?”

Yasmine's tears subsided at this suggestion. She looked at Hermione dubiously.

“You hic wouldn't mind my hic noise?”

“I slept in a tent with Ron Weasley for months,” Hermione said, laughing, “if I can sleep with that terrible snoring for nearly a year, I'm sure I can manage your little hiccups. Go on upstairs. I'll be along shortly-- quietly!” she added as Yasmine slid off her lap and headed toward the stairs.

Harry got up.

“I had better be going, then,” he said, putting his mug by the sink. Hermione rose and took his hands.

“I will see you tomorrow?”

He smiled and kissed her gently. “Of course. Around three. “

He laughed.

“If Yasmine's hiccups aren't gone by then...”

“Don't suggest it,” Hermione said, “they'll be gone. They have to leave sometime.”

He laughed again, trailing his fingers briefly across her cheek.

“Thank you for tonight, Hermione.”

She smiled and caught his wrist in her hand, making his hand pause on her cheek.

“Thank you, Harry-- for everything.”

Holding hands, they made their way to the living room. After one last kiss, Harry stepped into the fireplace and Flooed home.

Hermione stood alone in the living room for a moment. Contrary to her expectations, saying good-bye to him seemed to become harder and harder every time. She sighed, then turned and headed upstairs.

The whole house seemed dark, comfortably so, and as she crept into her room, a few beams of moonlight had found her window. She could see Yasmine snuggled into her bed, still hiccuping periodically, but looking comforted.

Hermione crawled into bed beside her, allowing Yasmine to nestle herself under her arm and rest her cheek on her shoulder.

“Good night, Yasmine,” she whispered, “sweet dreams.”

I hic love you, Mama,” Yasmine murmured, then looked up quickly as if for permission. Hermione smiled and kissed her forehead.

“I love you too, Yasmine.”

Moments later, both of them had fallen fast asleep.

Hermione was jerked awake by an unearthly howl and a loud squeal of terror. Her eyes bleary and narrowed in the sudden light, Hermione could feel Yasmine cowering under the covers, clutching at Hermione's leg in fear.

The howl had evidentally stemmed from a hairy, fanged creature now sitting quite comfortably beside Hermione on the bed. It wore a perpetually grotesque expression, somehow resembling a werewolf and vampire all at once. Hermione glared at it sternly.

The creature's expression never changed, and Yasmine's grip on Hermione's leg was almost unbearable. Hermione continued to glare, at a complete loss for what to say.

“So?” the creature finally said, in a very familiar voice, “Did it work?”

It reached out and threw back the covers, revealing a whimpering Yasmine.

“Hey, Yaz, did it work?”

“Jack!” Yasmine snarled, hiccuping at nearly the same moment. Before Hermione could say anything, Yasmine had thrown herself across the bed and ripped the mask off of Jack's head.

Jack grinned at the furious Yasmine, obviously proud of himself.

“If you scare someone, their hiccups are supposed to go away.”

“Well, they hic didn't,” Yasmine growled, “you hic made them hic worse!”

“What else did I hic do?”

Hermione seized Yasmine by the arms before she could tackle Jack.

“Jack, back to bed,” Hermione said, “I know you were trying to help, but that was not the way to go about it. Where did you get that costume? No, don't tell me--” she said before he could reply, “George lent it to you.”

“He gave it to me last week,” Jack said, “but I didn't know what I was going to use it for until Yasmine got the hiccups. Not that she appreciated it or anything,” he added pointedly.

“Yasmine, go to sleep,” Hermione said sternly, “Jack, go back to bed. We'll talk about this later.”

With a sigh, Hermione sank back into the bed. Just as she was dozing off, Adrian, Dusty, and Katy crowded into the room.

“I heard someone scream--”

“It sounded like Yasmine-- Yasmine? Are you all right?”

“I saw Jack coming out; it must have been Jack--”

“Mama!” howled Jackie from down the hallway. “Mama!”

“Merlin, Jackie,” Jack was heard to shout from the hallway, “Stop that already!”

Hermione sighed, and eased out of bed to quiet Jackie, inwardly grumbling and chiding herself for complaining at the same time. Pausing in front of her bedroom mirror, she smiled with effort at her tired reflection. And it surprised her, how genuine that smile seemed even to her own eyes.

Glancing at the three children dozing in her vacated bed, she smiled again and turned away.

It was time for another day, she thought. And she was lucky, she reminded herself, that those words weren't weighed down in dread anymore.

A/N: For you medical personel out there, I apologize if I butchered any of the terminology. Even with research I was fairly befuddled. I'm more of an English/History sort of student. Science, while enjoyable as a class, is somewhat beyond me. I hope it didn't bother any of you.

-->

Chapter Thirty-Five

“Not it on three!” Jack said, raising a hand for silence, “One-two-three not it!”

“Not it!”

“Not it!”

“Not hic it!”

“Not it!”

“Katy's it!” Jack said, hiding a snigger at Yasmine's unfortunate predicament. “Right, everyone gets five seconds. If Katy tags you, you're it too, and so on until we're all it.”

“It's late, though!” Adrian reminded them, “Harry said to be back before seven!”

Jack shrugged.

“Jackie, still got the Galleon?”

Jackie held up the shiny, pulsing gold coin. Jack nodded in satisfaction.

“Harry knows where we are, you lot,” he said, in a superior tone, “it's a tracker. He told me so. If he wants us home, it'll heat up. All right, spread out, everyone! Katy's counting... now!”

Everyone dashed off the path in different directions-- Jackie, Dusty, and Adrian ran toward the playground; Jack and Yasmine ran toward the river.

“Don't follow me!” Jack hissed, but Yasmine stuck out her tongue and put on an extra burst of speed.

Scowling, Jack caught up with her, stopping short at the riverside. Yasmine looked around. They were out of view of the playground, and just at Yasmine's feet was a thick pine log, lodged securely across the river.

“Called it!” Jack whispered, bounding in front of Yasmine and darting across the log. “Katy'll never get me over here-- I told you not to follow me!”

“You can't hic call it!” Yasmine snapped, balancing carefully on the log, “I don't think we should go very far hic into the foresty area, though-- it doesn't look hic safe.”

“Just like a girl,” Jack said scornfully, looking around at the darkening forest in front of him. “You can go where you like; I'm hiding in here for a bit. Don't follow me!”

She stuck out her tongue again and raced away to Jack's left, weaving into the forest and disappearing. Jack made a face at her retreating back, adding a few fake hiccups for good measure. There was a steep incline of grass just in front of him, so steep that he had to inch down it, but after a while Jack was at the bottom and at the forest's edge. Motivated more by curiousity than concern for the game, Jack hurried into the forest in front of him.

It was a fairly wet forest, Jack soon realized, despite the trees. This led to a rather unpleasant odor of old things, of rotting things... he shivered, and before he could stop it, a voice in his mind whispered, dead things...

He stopped running in the middle of a clearing, realizing his shoes were filled with murky water.

Maybe Yasmine was right, he couldn't help but think, maybe this was a bad idea...

He looked back, wondering how far he had gone into the forest. A good distance, he decided, but not far enough. He could still hear the river.

Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of his wet socks and heavy shoes, Jack hiked on, noticing that he was now walking at a sort of slant.

“The soil's not wet anymore,” he said out loud, and was rather chilled to hear how well the silent forest muffled his voice.

It was still, and getting darker by the moment-- Jack chanced a look over his shoulder, debating whether he should turn back.

Just as he did, a wind swept through the pines around him, and they gave a loud shhh above and behind and all around him...

“Time to be getting back,” he said out loud, trying to sound cheerful and nonchalant. But his voice seemed to make very little sound at all, and the sound that he could hear was the whistle of wind struggling furiously in the trees.

And then, so suddenly Jack wondered if he might be dreaming, a sheet of rain flooded down on him. Within seconds, he was completely doused and struggling backwards under heavy, wet clothing.

He stopped struggling in the mud, making a loud noise of frustration.

“That's right!” he shouted angrily at the rain, at the little patches of dark sky he could see, “That's right, go ahead and rain! See if I care!”

Jagged streaks of lightning sliced the darkness around Jack, illuminating the swaying forest around him, and seconds later a great rumble of thunder clapped in Jack's ears. Deciding to wait out the storm, and seething at himself for getting caught, Jack sat down in the mud.

After twenty minutes of sitting in the flood of rain, Jack began to shiver. Curling up and hugging his legs to his chest, he closed his eyes and pretended not to hear the constant roar of thunder.

He wasn't scared; that would be stupid. The storm wouldn't last forever. The others would find him. Yasmine would find him. She knew where he was.

The forest only grew increasingly darker, and the storm intensified. The mighty pines around him bent, groaning in protest, and the formerly still forest seemed to be screaming in pain.

I shouldn't have thought of it that way, Jack thought, his teeth chattering even in the warmth of spring, it's just a bunch of trees. Merlin, where have the others got to?

Another crack of thunder, and Jack realized then that he was afraid.

What have I got to be afraid of? I've been in storms before.

Another thought he shouldn't have allowed himself to think. There were storms he'd wanted very desperately to forget.

That's stupid, Jack thought, that was different. Or was it?

No, it wasn't very different at all.

Your parents abandoned you, you know. You were very lucky, weren't you, when that new Ministry official got lost in the woods?

“They died in the storm!” Jack raged at the sly voice in his head, “They would have come back for me if they could have!”

They were ashamed of having a wizard for a son. You were `dangerous', weren't you?

“I was three!”

Old enough to be a threat. Isn't that what your mother said?

“I never had a mother,” Jack yelled at the wind, who seemed to have given voice to the thoughts in his mind, “or a sister either!”

Who said anything about a sister?

Jack buried his face in his knees, shivering and swaying the violent wind. He hadn't thought of Those Three since he'd arrived at St. Mungo's. He was angry, angry enough to banish them forever from his thoughts and memories, glad to have found others like him in the hospital wing.

Face it, whispered that voice of doubt, no one is coming to find you. You'll still be here, wet and alone, tomorrow morning, waiting for someone else to find you by accident, just like last time. You have no one else.

Jack's fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, and he gritted his teeth, ignoring the water on his face that was far too warm to have been the rain. He shuddered, and he thought of what it might be like to be lost here forever-- to never see Dusty or Jackie or any of the others again... his stomach writhed within him and he realized how terrible that would be--

Something like defiance flooded through him, hot and proud, and Jack struggled to his feet in the mud. Throwing back his head and glaring at the flashing skies with brilliant eyes, he bellowed, “I have got someone! I have a mother and a father and brothers and sisters-- six of them-- and they're looking for me right now, and they're going to find me!”

A great burden seemed to tumble off of Jack's shoulders as he finished, a burden he had never noticed before. Breathing heavily, he grinned, tasting the rain in his mouth and feeling it roll down every inch of his body. An exhilarating joy had swept over him like a flood, and he hugged himself, still grinning.

Being lost didn't seem half as bad when you knew someone was looking for you. This, he thought, is what it will be like, when I get back and I see them- when I see my parents--

Suddenly a high-pitched scream cut through the storm, and Jack's joy turned to ice in his veins. Struggling to turn around in the thick mud, he heard the scream come again.

“Yasmine!” he howled, “Yasmine, can you hear me?”

No reply.

Jack's heart pounded madly against his heaving chest; terror had suddenly gotten a hold of him, terror beyond the fear he had felt in the storm... suddenly the storm seemed inconsequential, and he yanked his foot out of the mud. His shoe stuck as his bare foot came free.

Freeing both his feet from his shoes, Jack found himself hurtling through the forest at what seemed to be a maddeningly slow speed-- the rain continued to flood down from the skies, impairing Jack's vision. Many times he slammed into trees, and somehow he managed to scramble back up and run doggedly on, unable to feel the pain in his legs.

As he neared the edge of the forest, he heard his feet splashing through water. Within moments he was knee-deep in water, and water rushed down the incline just beside the river... stumbling in the water, Jack was horrified to realize that this was the river, overflowing and seeking space.

“Yasmine!” he choked again, “Scream again, you little fool!”

“I'm here!”

He could see her scrabbling about on the top of the incline-- something seemed to be wrong with her leg, for she was sobbing and clutching it in pain.

“Jack, I can't swim!”

The water was up to Jack's neck, and it pushed at him furiously. He choked on the water swirling about his chin, and struggled to find his footing. If he could just make it to the bank--

He spotted a log stuck in the middle of the deluge, caught upright in the ground. He flung himself forward and, by mere inches, managed to catch its jagged top. He hissed in pain as it cut his fingers, but managed to grip it with his legs. Breathing heavily, Jack eyed the bank, covered by the river flow, and aimed for its top, that bare space where the flow was gentler, where Yasmine was barely holding on.

He climbed to the top of the log, wobbling dangerously, and jumped.

For a few terrifying moments, Jack knew he had not mustered enough force. But then, just as he was sure he was going to crash, he suddenly felt indescribably light, and he landed gently on the bank beside Yasmine.

“Yaz!”

“Jack!” she gasped, her face screwed up and swollen, “Jack, I'm so frightened!”

“We're going to be okay,” Jack panted, seizing her arm and bracing himself on the bank, “Look, Yaz, we're going to be all right-- we've got parents looking for us, haven't we?”

“I think I broke my leg,” she sobbed, “And it keeps moving--”

Jack managed to get an arm around her and held her tightly, hoping to keep her still. If she kept moving like that, they were bound to go careening down the bank again.

“Breathe, Yaz!” Jack said through gritted teeth, “You won't get us anywhere by holding your breath!”

“It doesn't hurt as much then!” Her hands fisted his shirt tail. “If we die--”

“Don't be stupid; we're not going to die!”

“But if we do-- I want you to know that I-- well, I'm glad I almost had a brother like you, Jack, that's all!”

He gripped her waist even more tightly.

“You will have a brother, Yaz, we're getting out of this.”

The thunder boomed, and it was becoming increasingly hard for Jack to see Yasmine's face. He closed his eyes tight, suddenly aware that he was sobbing, too. He was sorry-- sorry to have missed the family they'd almost had.

Suddenly a silver glow pierced the darkness, and two figures came into Jack's vision, unwaveringly clear despite the rain-- were those figures galloping, or was it just him?

“Jack, look--”

“I see them!”

Suddenly Jack felt something warm on his back, warm like sunlight-- he looked up and saw the most magnificent sight he'd ever seen in his life.

“A stag!”

“That's not a stag-- that's a doe-- she hasn't any antlers--”

“No, this one's a stag-- wait-- what--”

“Jack, what are they--?”

Suddenly Jack was sitting astride the silver stag, bathing in the silvery warmth and clutching at the soft neck, and he could hear Yasmine next to him-- he looked, and saw her stretched out on the doe's back.

Jack couldn't feel the rain any longer; he sat up straight as the stag bounded across the river, the doe at his side.

He didn't know how to describe how he felt, riding that stag-- almost as if he were flying, but not quite. He could feel the stag's slender hooves touch the ground, and he could feel them streaking across the dark, abandoned playground at what would have been an alarming speed. Light emanated from the two creatures and created a misty cover of light wherever they touched ground and disappeared when they soared into the sky. Jack felt safe on this creature's back, safe like he had never felt before.

He looked to his side and realized that the doe was looking at him.

She looks almost... loving.

He smiled shyly, for he felt shy. It had been a very long time since Jack had felt bashful, but then-- it had been a long time since Jack had noticed someone loving him.

“Jack!”

In an instant Jack was being seized in a rough hug, a tight hug, a hug of relief and concern... and as Harry held him tightly to his chest, Jack realized that he was crying and smiling.

“Thank Merlin you're all right, Jack,” Harry was saying with fervent relief, “oh, Godric-- this is all my fault-- Godric, Jack-- if we'd lost you-- are you okay? How did you-- I've been looking everywhere--”

“Yasmine's leg--” Jack heard himself say faintly, “it's broken, I think--”

But Hermione was there, too. She seated on the ground, holding Yasmine gently upright and holding the tip of her wand to her leg.

Still in Harry's tight grasp, Jack looked around. The stag and the doe still stood beside them. From their light, he gathered they were a few miles away from home, standing in the middle of the little road.

“...couldn't find you, mate,” Harry was still mumbling hoarsely, “I should have noticed you were gone, but when Yasmine finally asked-- when Yasmine asked-- and then she left to find you-- I still don't know how she managed to when I told her to stay at the house...”

“The river-- it flooded-- we got stuck on top of the opposite back-- could barely hang on--” Jack was hardly aware of what he was saying. “But I knew you'd be looking for us, Dad-- I knew it-- and Mum, I knew Mum wouldn't leave me-- wouldn't leave us, I mean-- you sent those deer, you sent them to look for us...”

“I was so worried,” Hermione said, and her voice trembled as she helped Yasmine to her feet. “Oh, Jack-- come here--”

And he went to her, allowing her to hug and kiss him and stroke his hair, just as she always did to the others. And it no longer bothered him or made him uncomfortable-- she was his mother, after all, and this is what mothers were like with their children... he smiled into her shoulder and she kissed his hair, and he felt as though he could not bear any more happiness-- his heart was overflowing... he was accepted, he was wanted... he was worried about...

“Harry, we had better be getting back,” Hermione said at last, “Apparition, do you think?”

“Yeah, we had-- you take Jack, he's a bit stronger...”

“Wait!” Jack blurted, “What about them?”

Hermione pulled back and surveyed the two deer. The doe was nestled up comfortably against the stag, her silvery glow making his even brighter.

“They're Patronuses, Jack. They'll disappear eventually.”

The doe paused at that, leaving the stag to stand directly in front of Hermione. She bent her graceful neck and pushed her nose gently into Hermione's hand.

“Yes,” Hermione murmured, her eyes shining in the soft light, “and I'm honored.”

With that, the doe and the stag's images seemed to shiver, and then disappear. The four of them simply stood there in silence for a moment, the rain still falling fast and thick upon them.

Finally, Hermione and Harry instructed the two children to hold onto them tightly, warning them of the discomfort they might experience on their way back home.

“You weren't kidding when you said it was terrible,” Jack mumbled, stumbling to the couch in the living room. Yasmine followed suit, collapsing beside him.

“Yeah, it's not exactly pleasant,” Harry agreed, “the couch is convenient, though, isn't it?”

“What did you mean, Mama? When you said you were honored?” Yasmine said immediately.

Hermione sat down on the arm of the couch, fingering her wand and putting her hand on Jack's shoulder as if to make sure he was still there. Jack surprised her by turning and smiling at her.

“I mean that the doe chose to become my Patronus, Yaz. My Patronus used to be an otter,” Hermione said after a pause, and, seeing Harry's quizzical expression, added, “The Patronus chooses who they defend, Harry. They choose wizards or witches that are intimately connected to the natures and virtues they stand for, and in some cases, the relationships that define the wizard in question. People and relationships change-- and so do Patronuses.”

“So... it changed to show you and Harry are...?” Jack's voice trailed off, but Yasmine jumped in.

“To show you're in love?”

“More than in love,” Hermione said, turning slightly pink, “it's a bit more than that. Connected, I suppose, is the better word. Patronuses only change for very important reasons.”

She paused.

“I think you both should be off to bed,” she said, “I would tell you to be quiet on your way up, but I expect the others are still awake. Katy and Jackie are beside themselves with worry.”

Yasmine got up and hurried off, calling, “Katy! Katy! It's us! We're all right!”

Jack stood up, as if to follow her, but didn't move. Instead, he simply stood there, looking at the rug as if he were very anxious to avoid look at either of the others.

“Are you all right, Jack?” Hermione asked gently. He nodded.

“I'm okay.”

“Better head to bed.” Harry said, “You've gone through a lot today.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, “Yeah, I'll do that.”

He paused, then added at a rush, “G'night, Mum-- g'night, Dad!”

He looked up, looking defensive, as if he expected them to say something scornful. Hermione merely said, “Go on, Jack-- mind that you brush your teeth properly.”

A huge grin lit up Jack's face.

“Yes, Mum,” he said, and, with an embarrassed laugh, he turned and ran upstairs.

After Jack left, Harry sank into the chair with a heavy sigh. There was a long silence.

“I know, Hermione,” he blurted out, “this was all my--”

“We're not going to pursue that, Harry,” she said evenly, sitting beside him and taking his hand. “They're both safe, and that's what matters.”

He leaned forward, covering his face with his hands.

“When I think what might have happened...”

“It didn't happen,” Hermione said, very firmly, “we've learned for next time. We're new to this, Harry, you can't expect us to--”

“They could have died,” Harry said in an agonized whisper, kneading his temples with his fists, “Merlin, Hermione, we could have lost them!”

She put a hand on his knee, squeezing tightly.

“Look at me.”

He looked up into her face. She cradled his face in her hand, fixing her eyes steadily on his.

“Jack and Yasmine are both upstairs right now-- Yasmine's upstairs in her room with all of the others, retelling the story right now, exaggerating almost everything, and Jack is sitting right next to her, correcting almost everything she exaggerated, and right now they're having an argument on whether or not the water was two meters high or three-- right now. They're safe.”

Harry closed his eyes as she removed her hand, saying, “Do you understand, Harry?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Were you afraid?” he whispered to her.

She leaned up against him, shuddering.

“Of course I was, Harry. I was absolutely terrified. When I saw the Patronuses coming back--”

“You felt as though you could finally breathe again,” Harry finished. She nodded in agreement. “Did you know they could do that? Carry people?”

“I've read about...” she paused. “I've read that in times of great distress, Patronuses do have that ability. But only certain Patronuses, really powerful ones...”

“Might have been useful if we'd found this out earlier,” Harry said wryly. “Prongs might have been able to knock down a few Death Eaters himself.”

“I don't think it works that way, Harry, and anyway, our Patronuses wouldn't have been strong enough then.”

“How do you know that?”

Hermione paused again.

“Patronuses are created out of your happiness-- out of your need to protect your happiness. That instinct alone is extremely powerful. But even more powerful--”

She smiled and kissed him.

“Even more powerful is the need to protect others' happiness, your love for another person. And that's not instinct, Harry, that's a choice. We conjured those Patronuses for someone else.”

“For Jack and Yasmine.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, “for Jack and Yasmine, and in a way, for each other.”

Jack met Yasmine just before she started to brush her teeth.

“Hi,” he said, uncomfortably.

“Hi,” she returned, turning toward the sink and wetting her toothbrush, “Hermione said we're supposed to get ready for bed. You haven't even changed yet.”

“Your hiccups are gone!”

“Yes,” Yasmine said, “I suppose that's what happens when you break your leg.”

“What did it feel like?” Jack asked curiously. He had never broken a bone before.

“Just imagine,” she said, “if someone seized your leg and bent it just to the point where you thought that perhaps you could bear it, then bent it just a little bit further until you begged them to stop, and then, just as you were about to faint from the pain, they snapped your leg in half like a twig. Then imagine what it would feel like to have your shattered leg burned from the inside out, and you have a good idea of what it felt like.”

She stuck her toothbrush in her mouth and calmly began to brush.

“Gosh,” Jack said.

“You have no idea.” Yasmine said through a mouthful of toothpaste.

“I shouldn't have asked.” Jack pulled a face. “Why do you have to describe things so well?”

“You did ask,” Yasmine said. She paused, and added sheepishly, “I may have exaggerated a little.”

“Well, anyway...” Jack cleared his throat. “You were brave, Yasmine. And I'm sorry I yelled at you this afternoon.”

“That's okay,” she said after a pause. “But you were the brave one, Jack. You... well... you saved my life, I think. Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Jack said, “What are brothers for?”

Her eyes brightened at that.

“Weren't those Patronuses the most beautiful things you'd ever seen?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Jack said,“They were pretty cool.”

She sighed.

“Boys,” she muttered, putting her toothbrush away, “good night, Jack.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Jack demanded as Yasmine hurried away to her room.

“Jack, please quiet down!” Hermione scolded. “It's late!”

Jack smiled to himself as he brushed his teeth.

While he was glad to have a bit of an adventure, he was happy to have everything back to normal.

Not that he'd tell anyone.

A/N: I think these two chapters might have been a bit rushed, personally, but I've been editing thse for so long I doubt I have a very good perception of them.

One thing:

Having Hermione's Patronus change is a very overused cliche in our fandom, and one I usually dismiss as entirely unnecessary; however, looking back on Hermione's development as a character, I really thought this transformation was a justified one. I did my best to explain why within this chapter, but in case anyone needs any clarification-- This story is really Hermione's. In my opinion, she has sacrificed a lot for her family and for her upcoming marriage, and in the process, her priorities have begun to change. Obviously she still has goals and ambitions where her career is concerned, but they're no longer as crucial as they once were. Mothers must give constantly of themselves, without expecting any praise or reward, and often this means they must be the ones to perform daily chores that others dismiss as mundane or inconsequential. Hermione has never been one to shy away from work, but she always enjoyed the work-reward system of school, and it shows great maturity, I think, that she has taken on a role that does not always reward you. Does are unassuming creatures, in my opinion, typically thought of as nurturers (a la “Bambi”). Perhaps this is why Jo chose the animal to represent Lily; or, perhaps, it has to do with her affiliation to Prongs, obviously Harry's father. So in that way it represents the unity that Harry and Hermione have experience as they've grown together in love.

Yes, this was quite an essay, but I'm feeling contemplative. I hope you didn't feel obligated to read this, but if you did, I hope it helped you find your bearings.

-->

[This is a repost of Chapter Thirty-Six.]

A/N: After beating past massive writer's block and a bit of the stomach flu, I've finally managed to write another chapter! It's a bit of an experiment—a bit saccharine, too, but hopefully not unbearably so. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Only three weeks left of freedom, mate,” Ron said cheerfully, tossing Harry the battered Quaffle. “Worried?”

“Should I be?” Harry said, laughing and scuffing his foot against the grass. “This thing must be ancient!”

He turned the Quaffle over in his hands, running his thumb along the worn, cracked leather. “How long have you had it?”

“Long as I can remember,” Ron said, “It was Bill's.”

Harry threw it back to Ron.

“Don't you want a new one?”

“Nah,” Ron said, grinning and striking the Quaffle with his hand. “I like it. It's got character.”

Harry grinned.

“I didn't know you were so sentimental.”

“You're one to talk, Potter,” Ron said, “you're the married man, not me.”

“I'm not married,” Harry said, reaching up above his hand and snagging the Quaffle out of the warm spring air.

“As good as,” Ron said, “for a long time.”

Harry snorted.

“Right,” he said, “because we were destined for each other the moment we saw each other on the train, is that it?”

“Shut up,” Ron said, “You know that's not what I meant.”

“I've heard a lot of that recently, mate,” Harry said lightly, “come on, Ron. Please don't tell me you've started reading Witch Weekly.”

“As if I needed to read Witch Weekly to know my two best friends,” Ron said, catching the Quaffle with a satisfying thump. “If anyone knows, yourselves excepted, of course, it's going to be me, right?”

Harry lowered the Quaffle, pausing the game.

“Where are you going with this, Ron?”

Ron flushed.

“I'm not sure,” he confessed, “it's just… weird, isn't it?”

“What?”

“That you're going to be married,” Ron said, “you and Hermione. I mean, really married. For good.”

Harry half-laughed.

“You don't need to look so excited about it.”

“Doesn't it even bother you?” For some reason, Ron looked irritated. Harry stared at him, confused by the frustration evident in his friend's face.

“Bother me?” he repeated slowly, frowning, “Why would it bother me? Why would it bother you?” he added, warily.

“It doesn't,” Ron said hastily, “not really.”

“That's good. I didn't think so. ” Harry said, still slowly. “But…I don't think I'm… following you.”

Ron chewed the inside of his cheek.

“All I'm saying is—most kids our age,” he said, then stopped, rubbing his long nose with a finger. “Most kids our age would be finishing school, you realize that, don't you?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “I know.”

“And you're all right with that?”

“I don't get why I shouldn't be.”

“I'm just saying that— things are going to change when you get married.”

“I know,” Harry said, “that's fine with me.”

“You're still a kid, Harry,” Ron said at last, letting out a breath, “You're eighteen.”

“So…?” Harry was beginning to get slightly impatient. “What are you trying to say, Ron?”

Ron's ears went bright red.

“I just don't get it,” Ron said finally, “why you'd want to start all of that so soon. Why you'd want to give up—being kids—so fast.”

Harry sighed, sticking his hands in his pockets. He dropped the Quaffle and sidled up to stand next to Ron.

“I don't know, Ron,” he said after a moment, “I never saw it that way.”

“I guess that's good, then,” Ron mumbled, now looking thoroughly embarrassed. “Forget it. It was stupid of me.”

“No, it wasn't,” Harry said quickly, “it's just… well, you and I aren't identical, are we? I reckon you like a bit of uncertainty, a bit of—of—spontaneity, right?”

When Ron didn't say anything, Harry went on doggedly, “I mean, that's what this time in our lives was supposed to be, right? Going off on our own, seeing the world, hanging out with friends and—and— being immature and growing up—making mistakes and—getting hangovers—dating and breaking up and—things that we always talked about at school.”

Harry smiled slightly, reimagining the careless, slightly foolish scenarios that he and his dorm mates had made up on rainy Saturday nights in the boys' dorms.

“I used to think about what it would be like if—if we hadn't had to drop out, if Voldemort had somehow disappeared. You and I would have gone and rented a flat somewhere, travelled around and lived off of the money we'd saved up—stuff like that. Of course we'd write Hermione—she'd be at some sort of training, of course, or working at the Ministry and being responsible—and we'd meet up. We'd have dinner and she would lecture us for being stupid and reckless and immature, and we'd apologize, and sometimes follow her advice—and eventually—eventually you'd meet someone, and get married, and move out, and then… well. Then it would all end, and… maybe—maybe—I'd find someone. Someone who cared for me.”

Harry's smile faded. He shifted his feet and ran a hand through his hair.

“That's how I used to think things would happen,” he said, “because I knew Ginny and I weren't suited, not really. But I used to think— that there wouldn't be anyone left for me. I mean, Ginny seemed like the perfect match, didn't she? She was funny and brave and good-looking—and your sister, too. You and I could be brothers. Everything was just right. It would be like my mum and dad all over again.”

Harry took a deep breath and averted his eyes, his thoughts suddenly far away.

“If Ginny and I couldn't work out—if she wasn't right—how could there be anyone else? Maybe I was just being too idealistic—maybe I was being stupid—maybe I was asking too much. Maybe there was no one out there, really.”

Harry hooked his thumbs in his pockets and turned slightly, so that he was staring just past the Weasleys' garden, into the woody area behind.

“I couldn't have lived like that,” he said at last, “I would have liked it at first. It would have felt… normal. I'd always wanted normal. But— there was one problem with that.”

He smiled again.

“I need Hermione, mate,” he said, very simply, “I need her badly. I couldn't have lived like that. Apart from her.”

He laughed quietly.

“I know I sound sappy,” he said, “but honest to Merlin, Ron, I couldn't live without her. I still can't. Loving her is… it's a part of me. It's like—it's like breathing. It's instinctive, it's natural, it's essential—it's… I can't describe it. The fact that she loves me the same way— it's beyond me.”

He shrugged, now looking awkward and embarrassed.

“You know I used to think poets were a bunch of saps,” he said, “you know. If love was so essential, how was I able to live my whole life without it?”

His voice trembled, and he cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes quickly with a hand.

“I reckon I understand now.”

~*~

Ron sat on the couch, his long legs crossed at the ankle. His brows rested heavily over his eyes, and he stared intensely at the family clock, watching the fading sunrays play across the glass surface.

“Are you actually thinking?”

“Funny.”

“I try.” Bill said, settling on the couch next to his brother. “What's up with you? Thinking about the next game?”

Ron shook his head.

“I saw Harry leaving,” Bill said, “from the kitchen. How's he doing? Getting cold feet yet?”

Ron snorted.

“'Course he isn't. If anything he's halfway to eloping.”

Bill raised an eyebrow.

“And that bothers you?”

“No,” Ron snapped, “I'm happy for him.”

“You've never looked happier.”

“Shut up,” Ron said crossly. After a moment, he sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I'm happy for him, but I don't get him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—I mean he could do anything he wanted, and all he's doing is getting married!”

Bill chuckled.

“What?”

“Getting married is a pretty big deal,” he said, “it turns your whole life around.”

Ron shrugged.

“Besides,” Bill said, more seriously, “Harry's never really had a family, has he? Maybe that's all he really wanted. A pretty admirable goal, if you ask me.”

“But boring.”

Bill grinned.

“Why don't you ask him about that after his honeymoon?”

Ron paled.

“Don't,” he moaned, “I don't want to think about it.”

Bill smirked.

“It's a fact of life, my friend,” he said, “and when more little Potters come along—“

“The babies I can handle,” Ron said with dignity. “The mental picture, however—“

“It's a beautiful thing,” Bill said, enjoying the look on his brother's face, “and, as I'm sure Harry and Hermione will find, hardly boring—“

“Shut up, Bill!” Ron said, punching his brother in the shoulder. Bill jabbed him back with an elbow.

“Look, mate,” he said, leaning forward, “all joking aside—I'm serious—Harry and Hermione aren't dropping out of life. They're not just suddenly going to become this stodgy married couple who rarely goes out and never does anything—they've got seven kids already, that's not likely… marriage isn't resignation. It's not like they're giving their friends up. I thought you knew that.”

This last bit was added with unusual gentleness, and Ron swallowed, nodding silently.

“All right,” Bill said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “Got that sorted?”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent.” Bill stretched. “Right, well, I've got one thing left to ask you—“

He grinned.

“What are we planning for Harry's last night as a single man?”

~*~

“Tell me again why you're here?” Hermione peered into the oven, checking the bread and sighing.

“Is that any way to talk to your mother?” said Mrs. Granger severely, “To spend time with my daughter; is that a crime?”

“Now, Mum,” Hermione began, but Mrs. Granger cut across her.

“Don't brush me off, Hermione.”

“I'm not brushing you off—“

“Aren't you?”

Hermione turned, spreading her hands and looking at Mrs. Granger with a slightly defensive expression.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Hermione, all I'm trying to say is—well, we're not exactly close, are we? No, of course not. I saw little to nothing of you for seven years, and you're my daughter. Now you're about to get married, and you want nothing to do with me!”

“That's not true, Mum—“

“Then what is your excuse, Hermione Jane Granger? For, may I remind you, that is still your name, and will be for another—another three weeks—“ and here she began to sniff, and within moments she began to sob quietly into her hands.

“Oh, Mum—“ Thoroughly chastened, Hermione hurried forward and put an arm around her. “It's just a wedding—“

She gave a watery laugh.

“Just a wedding,” she repeated tearfully, dabbing at her cheeks, “just a wedding—as if you weren't my only daughter—“

“And still will be… I'll always be your daughter, Mum—I'm only getting married—“

“You know, sometimes I wonder if you realize exactly what you're doing.” Mrs. Granger blew her nose and looked at her daughter, still weeping. “Once you've got a family of your own—oh, but what am I saying? You have got a family of your own—already a mother and not even twenty—a mother of seven--“

Hermione led her mother to sit at the kitchen table. “Calm down, Mum—let me get you something else to drink…”

“No, thank you,” Mrs. Granger hiccupped, biting her lip and reaching for another tissue. “Sit here—right there. Sit down!”

Taken aback, Hermione obeyed.

Mrs. Granger took a deep breath, obviously attempting to compose herself, and then visibly gave up as she bent and buried her face in her hands.

“Mum…?” Hermione managed to say through a very tight throat. “Mum, please—tell me what's wrong—“

“What's wrong? What's wrong?” Mrs. Granger looked up, and Hermione was shocked by the pain and fury that her mother's eyes contained. “Do you realize we hardly know each other? One moment you're a child—one moment you tell me everything —one moment you run to me every time you're hurt or sick or afraid—and only seven years later you write a letter—a letter—telling me you're engaged. And you've grown, oh—how you've grown…” The fire in her mother's eyes abated slightly, and they studied Hermione intently. “You are a lovely young woman—intelligent, polite—compassionate—stubborn—opinionated—someone I'd be proud to know, yes—but I scarcely recognize you… I can only envision the little bossy child who never felt she fit in—who was afraid of thunderstorms and hid behind books…”

Hermione reached out.

“Oh, Mum,” she whispered, her eyes moist, “I'm… I'm afraid I've been very cruel to you, all these years—“

“Cruel?” Mrs. Granger smiled faintly. “No, dear, not cruel. Cruelty is intentional. You never intended to hurt. Oh, no—don't cry—it's silly—I shouldn't have said it like that…”

“But you should have,” Hermione whispered, scrubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “I didn't know—I didn't mean to—oh, Mum—“

Suddenly the roles were reversed, and Mrs. Granger was embracing her daughter and stroking her hair gently.

“Shh… shh… there, it's all out now—I was unkind—I shouldn't have spoken to you like that…”

“But I deserved—I didn't—I was—I'm so sorry—“

“I know, and so am I.” Mrs. Granger kissed Hermione's forehead, brushing a few tears away from her cheek. “There, that's better—and now that's out in the open… I should have been gentler—honesty is a good quality of mine, but I'm afraid it's rarely found in company with mercy—which should be, of course… for a moment I forgot how young you are.”

Hermione choked out a laugh and rested her chin on her mother's shoulder.

“I'm so sorry, Mum—“

“Well, there's one thing we have in common,” she said lightly, “goodness, but I feel foolish. I can be very childish when I want to be. Now what about that drink?”

“There's lemonade,” Hermione said, taking a tissue and wiping her eyes, “the girls made it yesterday—“

“I suppose you taught them yourself?”

“Oh, no, that was Harry,” Hermione said, as Mrs. Granger poured two tall glasses of lemonade. “He watched them yesterday for me—I was at St. Mungo's…”

“Sweet of him,” Mrs. Granger commented. “Does he watch them often?”

“Oh, yes,” Hermione said, taking the glass from her and sipping the tart drink gingerly. “Quite often, in fact… even if I'm here.”

Mrs. Granger smiled at her softly for a moment. Hermione frowned, bewildered.

“What?”

“It's nothing,” Mrs. Granger said, “I just can't help but notice how you light up when you talk about him.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, her cheeks turning pink, “I've been told I talk about him a bit too much, actually—I think Ron finds it amusing and annoying at once.”

“I haven't seen Ron recently.”

“That's because he travels—he's a Quidditch player, you know—you remember Quidditch.”

“Something about broomsticks and a—ah—a Quiffle?”

“Quaffle,” Hermione corrected, “that's a bit like… well, a bit like football—you try to score goals with it anyway—and then there's the Snitch. The little gold ball with wings that flies about the pitch—terribly hard to spot and to catch—and then the Bludgers that try to knock players off of their brooms… I don't like the sport much myself, but Harry loves it, and he says that—“ Hermione laughed and blushed again at her mother's raised eyebrow. “I'm talking about him again, aren't I?”

“Tell me about the children,” Mrs. Granger said, nodding out the window.

“Well,” Hermione said, “I hope you'll get to know about them yourself, Mum—you are their grandmother, after all—but the eldest at home is Katy. She's very kind and good at building things, and rather insecure—she's the peacemaker, you know, she hates fighting. As such she's rather shy and tends to avoid making her opinions heard, but she's really very astute. And then there's Jack—you see him in the tree fort?”

“The one making faces?”

Hermione laughed.

“Yes, that's him. Quite mischievous and rather pessimistic—but fiercely protective and a good brother. Besides that he's very honest, and rather blunt. In some ways he reminds me of Ron.”

“Do any of them have surnames?” Mrs. Granger asked suddenly.

“Yes,” Hermione said, smiling, “they do now. Only Ben and Adrian had surnames before they joined the family, but they're certainly happy to give it up.”

“And middle names?”

Hermione paused. “Harry and I are in the process of choosing middle names for each of them, but of course we'll ask before the actual adoption. We wouldn't like them to be stuck with a name they hated.”

“And…?”

“I can't tell you,” she said, “because we want the children to be the first to hear them.”

Mrs. Granger couldn't help but smile at that.

“What about the others? Tell me about them.”

“Well, Yasmine is next,” said Hermione, “and she's the dreamy one. She wants to be a writer when she grows up. Of course she's very stubborn and outspoken—she and Jack bicker a lot—but she's very loving, really, and very tenderhearted.”

“A lot like you.”

Hermione sipped her lemonade and looked at her mother, nodding.

“Yes, rather like me, I suppose. Perhaps a bit better than I was—kinder, more open-minded, certainly.”

“And next?”

“Next there's Dusty—actually, his name is Dustin, but he used to draw with chalk on the hospital floors, and—well, he'd get covered in dust. He's an artist—very quiet—rather mysterious, honestly. And wise… very wise for his age.” Hermione paused. “Honestly I don't know him very well, Mum. He's rather… shy. Oh, I love him dearly, but I don't know him half as well as I ought to.”

“Well, you have time,” Mrs. Granger said reassuringly. Hermione smiled.

“I suppose I do. I keep forgetting.”

There was a long silence after that.

“It was—very dangerous, wasn't it? Your seventh year?” Mrs. Granger said hesitantly. Hermione looked down at her lemonade.

“Yes,” she said after a moment, “ of course it was. It was a war.”

“And did you realize it… then?”

Hermione looked up, puzzled.

“That you loved Harry?”

“Oh, I knew I loved him, but—not this way.” Hermione played with her ring. “I knew I needed him, I knew I cared for him—but it was afterwards that I realized that he was… he was everything. He was—you know what I mean, Mum. When you love someone so much that the only thing you can do is love— you love until your heart breaks, and love until it's mended, love until you have nothing left, love because it's everything— you love because you were made for it— you love because you don't know how to stop—“

Hermione stopped.

“And now I'm just spouting sentimental mush, Mum—I must be boring you.”

“That's all right,” Mrs. Granger said, truthfully fighting back tears. “I think that's one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard.”

Hermione smiled.

“You aren't going to cry again, Mum?” She reached out and took her hand. “I haven't finished telling you about my family.”

“Yes, do finish.” Mrs. Granger took the tissue Hermione passed her. “What about the other boys?”

“Ben,” Hermione said, “Ben's at Hogwarts right now. He's very clever, and extraordinarily brave. He's had a hard life, and he has every right to hold grudges, and yet—he's forgiving. Very forgiving. Still a bit quiet, but thoughtful.”

She put down her lemonade and rested her fingers against her lips, obviously lost in thought.

“And then there's Adrian,” she said after a long pause. “You know Adrian. He's a drummer—constantly beating on things and making noises—and playing pranks… he was the one I knew first. Perhaps the one I know best. He loves laughter—probably because he's had so little of it in his life before. He loves to make people smile and make them feel accepted. One of his best qualities.”

“And then Jackie.”

“Yes, Jackie,” Hermione said, “what is there to say? She's a beautiful, happy little girl with an open heart and stubborn core. She adores animals—Gulliver was her discovery—and enjoys baking. She's quite the hostess.”

She stood and walked over to the window. Mrs. Granger joined her, watching the children pass a football around in the yard.

“Are they all…magic?” she asked, breaking the silence hesitantly. Without taking her gaze off the yard, Hermione nodded.

“Yes. Healer Pruitt tested them all very early on.”

“And have they had any incidences like yours? When you turned the snow into butterflies?”

Hermione's gaze snapped over to her mother, her eyes wide with surprise. After a long silence, she spoke, her voice rather tight.

“I didn't know that… you believed me.”

“I didn't. Not until that owl came to us.”

Hermione looked down, biting her lip.

Mrs. Granger put an arm around her cautiously, her left hand resting on Hermione's shoulder.

“There are a lot of things between us that we haven't resolved. But I want you to know that I—want us to try.”

Hermione reached up and covered her mother's hand with her own, unable to speak.

Moments later, their fingers were entwined, an engagement ring and a wedding ring glittering together in the soft afternoon sunlight.

~*~

“Getting some studying in?”

Ben jumped, nearly falling off the bench and into the grass.

Ginny settled next to him, ignoring the startled looks his friends were giving her.

“Er—yeah,” he said, swallowing and shutting the book. “I have a History of Magic exam.”

“You and your… mother—are probably the only people I know who really study for that class.” Ginny said, not unkindly. “That's a compliment,” she added quickly. “Really, it is.”

“Oh. Thanks,” said Ben slowly. “Is… is there something you wanted?”

“Despite what Hermione tells you, I'm really not as scary as I look,” she said lightly.

Ben smiled sheepishly.

“Er… look,” she said, “well, I can't help but notice that… you look a bit—er… peaky.”

Ben flushed.

“I'm all right,” he said quickly. “Really, I am.”

“What did I tell you, Ben?” put in his friend Kendall from the other side of him, “He hardly eats anything,” she told Ginny.

“I eat enough,” Ben mumbled. “Honestly, I'm okay, Ginny.”

Ginny cleared her throat.

“I'm not trying to nag,” she said, “I'm the last person to nag anyone. I had six brothers. But—well—Hermione did ask me to look out for you. If you're anything like her, you'll study yourself into a coma. So... yeah. Don't kill yourself.”

She raised her eyebrows at Jacob and Nathan, who were both sniggering from their places behind the bench.

“Have something smart to say?”

This immediately silenced the two boys. Even the first years knew—Ginny Weasley was not to be taken lightly.

“I thought so,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “Right, well—take care, Ben. Nice meeting you… Kendall? Is that your name?”

“Yes. Kendall Ellis.”

“I'm not your teacher,” Ginny said, laughing, “I'm Ginny. Weasley,” she added, after a moment. “But you probably already know that.”

With that, Ginny stood and strode away, joining a group of seventh years on their way to Hogsmeade.

Ben flushed under Kendall's pointed look.

“What?” he snapped at last, “Stop looking at me like that!”

“Not until you admit I was right,” she shot back.

“Fine!” Ben said irritably, keenly aware of the way Jacob and Nathan were laughing. “You're right. I'm dying of starvation. Happy?”

“Not quite,” she said, coldly, “here.”

She yanked the book away from him and pushed two sandwiches into his hands.

“This is called `food',” she said, “human beings tend to die without it. Eat.”

Mutinously, Ben unwrapped the sandwiches and began to eat. Satisfied, Kendall got up.

“I'm going to the library,” she said, “I'll be back.” This she added with another significant glare in Ben's direction.

As soon as she was gone, Ben put the sandwich down and scowled.

“Why is she so… so…” Ben struggled.

“Oh, lighten up,” said Samantha from behind him. Absently smacking Nathan and Jacob over the head as she passed, she came and dropped on the bench beside him. “She's just worried about you.”

“I'm fine,” Ben insisted. “I eat enough.”

“If you were about ten years younger and three feet shorter, I could agree with you,” she said, “but Ginny's right, Ben, you look sick.”

“Maybe I'm just skinny naturally.”

“There was twice as much of you when we got here,” Samantha said bluntly, “I think Kendall's gone a bit overboard too; don't get me wrong. But it is a bit scary—look—those robes hardly fit you anymore.”

“They still fit me.”

“You're missing the point,” Samantha said, with a touch of exasperation, “the fact is you're not healthy. What would your mum say?”

Ben cringed. Seeing she had hit a nerve, Samantha pressed on.

“She wouldn't want you to kill yourself for the grades, would she? Of course she wouldn't; she's your mum.”

“She was the smartest witch of her age when she was here,” Ben said flatly, “everyone expects—“

“Oh, shut up,” Samantha said, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “You're not your mum or your dad. You're a completely different person! And what does it matter what people expect? There's more to you than that.”

She batted his head lightly with the palm of her hand.

“Though if you keep on like this, there might be nothing but the brain left,” she quipped. Ben smiled reluctantly.

“Thanks, Sam,” he said after a pause.

“What are friends for?” she said, grinning, “Better eat fast—I can see Kendall coming back.”

Ben quickly split the last sandwich and handed half to her.

“Help me out,” he said. Samantha gasped with mock-horror.

“I'd be depriving you of food!”

“Come on, Sam—“

“Fine,” Samantha said, with a dramatic sigh, “if I must.”

When Kendall returned, Ben presented her with two empty sandwich wrappers.

“Thanks, Kendall,” he said. She crumpled the papers in her fist, shrugging and reclaiming her spot next to him.

“You know I just want to keep you healthy, right?” she said, her stiff demeanor softening. He nodded.

“Yeah, I know.”

Kendall paused, then blurted, “I just—I didn't want you to… die.”

“Yeah,” Samantha piped up, laughing, “dying is usually considered unhealthy. Of course, I'm no Healer—“

“Look at her blush!” crowed Jacob. Nathan shoved him lightly.

“Stop teasing Kendall, you prat,” he said, “at least she was concerned about him.”

Ben suddenly felt very hot around the face, and he opened his book, pretending to study. Kendall, for her part, shifted to the other end of the bench.

“Apparently Ben can read upside down…?” said Jacob casually.

“I can, actually,” Ben lied hastily, flipping the book upright. “I've been practicing.”

“Shut up while you can,” Samantha advised, “and you two, cut it out. You're being obnoxious.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Jacob said, “that's exactly what I was going for.”

“As if you have to try!” Kendall scoffed.

“Tell me how we're friends again?” Jacob said.

“It's beyond me,” said Kendall, “But that's a very good point.”

Ben laughed, shutting the book.

“I think I'm done studying,” he announced.

“Thank you. I was about to cry from boredom,” said Jacob, sprinting out toward the lake. “You guys are barely even human, studying like that!'

Kendall rolled her eyes as the others laughed.

“Come on,” Ben said, following Jacob with his book under his arm. “Let's have some fun.”

“Fun?” Samantha called after him, “What is this `fun' you speak of? Does a world exist outside of the library? Even if such a world does exist, why would you leave?”

“Give it a rest, Sam,” Nathan said, grinning. “Come on, Kendall—you can take those books with you.”

~*~

Dear Mama,

I'm sorry it's been so long since I wrote you last. The truth is… well, I haven't been doing as well in my classes recently, and I didn't want to disappoint you. But the courses are getting much harder overall. No matter how hard I try it seems like I still can't understand. But all of the professors keep telling me how brilliant you and Dad were, and I think I ought to try to live up to that, right? I mean, everyone expects it.

Sam (that's Samantha) says that I shouldn't worry about that, that I'm better off just doing my best, but I don't want to ruin your reputation because I can't keep up.

Kendall's always worrying about me; she says I don't sleep or eat nearly enough, and Ginny says that if I'm anything like you I could study myself into a coma. Well I wasn't studying that much, honestly I wasn't, but Ginny says it's best if I write and tell you myself.

Anyway, I hope all of the wedding preparations are coming along well. I can't wait to see everyone.

Tell everyone I miss them!

Your son,

Ben

~*~

Dear Ben,

I wish I could send you a hug through the mail! Things have been very busy at home recently, as you can imagine, but it's a very happy chaos.

Now, about your schoolwork. Of course things are going to be difficult near the end of the year—it's all right to struggle with it! As long as you do your best, you'll make me proud… no matter what the grade is. I promise. You don't have to live up to anyone's reputation or expectations. That's no excuse for not trying, but I know that's not a problem with you. You're a hard worker and bright—you are in Ravenclaw, after all! You have good friends, Ben—listen to them; they have your best interests at heart. I'd like to meet them someday. Perhaps we could have them over during the summer? Maybe we could take them to a Quidditch game, if that's what they enjoy.

By the way, your dad would like to know who's in the final match for the House Cup… he's silly that way.

And one last thing, Ben—

Harry and I have been trying to choose middle names for each of you for when we adopt you properly. And we've both agreed that—if you agree, too, of course—we'd like to name you after your grandfather James. At first I suggested that you take your dad's name as your middle name, but Harry doesn't want to name his children after himself—he says his father is a much better role model. (He's far too humble, don't you think?)

We're not trying to force the name on you, but I do think the name rather suits you—Benjamin James Potter. James was a good, brave man… and I think he'd be proud to share his name with a boy like you. And, if it helps—I have the feeling that Harry's always wanted to name his first son after his father. Again, Ben, if you absolutely hate it, we won't mind—but please know that we're trying to honor you. We're both immensely proud of you.

Please take care of yourself—make sure you rest and eat well (it is Hogwarts, after all—it's some of the best cooking in the country). I can't wait to see you!

All my love,

Mama

“She sounds lovely,” said Kendall, handing the letter back to Ben.

“She is,” Ben said, “She's amazing.”

“What are you going to say?” Kendall said, pushing a curl of her dark hair out of her eyes.

“That Gryffindor and Slytherin are in the final match as usual?”

“No, I mean about the name.”

Ben blinked.

“I don't know,” he admitted after a long pause. “I mean, I'm honored. I really am. But… I just—sometimes I… what do you think about it?”

Kendall drummed her fingers softly on the table.

“She's right. It does suit you. It's a good, strong name.”

Ben looked at her skeptically.

“Strong?”

“There are different kinds of strong,” she said, “and because I know you're thinking it, yes, Nathan could probably snap you like a twig—“

“Thanks a lot.”

“… but that doesn't mean you aren't strong, too, in your own way. In a good way.”

“Thanks,” he said after a moment, pretending not to notice when she turned a bit pink. Trying to avoid another silence, he said, “What's your middle name?”

“Mine? Audrey. It's an odd name, I know, but it's a family name.”

“No, I like it,” said Ben honestly, “A family name. I suppose `James' is a family name, too.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Another awkward pause. Ben looked at the stars painted on the ceiling. Having girls as friends was certainly more complicated than Ron or Harry had let on.

“So—erm… doesn't anyone ever call you Audrey?”

“No,” she said, “not much.”

“Which do you like better, Kendall or Audrey?”

She looked startled at the question.

“Audrey,” she said, “what about you?”

Ben paused.

“Audrey,” he agreed hesitantly, “I mean, Kendall is nice too—“ he added quickly, not wishing to offend her.

“No, I agree.” She looked at him thoughtfully. Then she said, “You could call me Audrey. As… a new start. We haven't—well—we haven't gotten along very well this year, have we?”

“No.” he admitted, “Not very well.”

Suddenly she smiled.

“Well, then, let's start over.” She held out her hand. “I'm Audrey Ellis.”

“Pleased to meet you, Audrey,” he said, smiling and privately thinking she looked much better without her customary frown of disapproval. “I'm Benjamin-- Benjamin James Potter.”

A/N: (2) Mrs. Granger, Sam, Audrey, Nathan, and Jacob were particularly difficult to write, but somehow I couldn't cut them out. Please feel free to ask any questions! I have a feeling it might be a bit confusing. Thank you for reading!

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A/N: This is the new chapter, for as you may have noticed, a chapter of this story was lost in the recent PK dilemma. I decided to wait to reupload it until I had a new chapter written. This chapter is very… vignette-based, but I hope it doesn't feel too entirely detached. Enjoy and happy New Year!

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“…not anything too practical, but nothing useless either—“

Ron massaged his temples, looking rather regretfully at the empty butterbeer bottle and wondering if Ginny would notice if he went to fetch another. His ears were filled with an infernal buzzing, which had very little to do with how crowded the Three Broomsticks was and everything to do with the prattling girl sitting across from him.

“…it's just entirely impossible shopping for those two—they're just… they're just too rich!” Ron jumped as Ginny slammed a fist on the tabletop. “They have everything they could possibly want—always excepting additions to the family, of course—“

“They're not rich.” Ron interjected belatedly. The thought had never quite occurred to him, but the moment Ginny had said it, it began to bother him slightly. Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Of course they are, Ron. Harry's got an enormous fortune and a high-paying job, and Hermione will have one, too, when she finishes her training.”

“They've got seven kids to look after.” Ron pointed out.

“But it's… it's not like our family, Ron,” Ginny said, obviously catching Ron's train of thought, “They're both very influential, aren't they? Harry… well, you know about him… and Hermione already has loads of accomplishments stacked up behind her at school and at St. Mungo's.”

She took a sip of her water and frowned softly.

“And they're blissfully happy,” she added after a pause, still more softly. Ron blinked and looked up, speaking without thinking.

“You're jealous!”

She flushed.

“Aren't you?” she demanded, looking up with a defiant flash of her eyes.

“I've had some hard lessons in jealousy,” said Ron, a particular memory passing briefly and painfully through his mind. Ginny narrowed her eyes and locked her fingers together tightly in front of her.

“You don't… you don't still fancy Harry, do you?”

“Don't be stupid,” Ginny said brusquely, and Ron, after peering into her face, believed her. “It's not that.”

“Then what is it?” Ron said, surprising himself. He typically would have let the subject drop, but he had the sneaking suspicion—prompted, in part, by the way Ginny's voice sounded—that Ginny was trying not to cry.

“Why do you care?” she snapped.

“You're my sister,” Ron said, “Look, I know you usually talk to Hermione about… this kind of thing… but I reckon she's been busy, hasn't she—“

“That doesn't cover half of it,” Ginny snorted, obviously still attempting to hide her tears. “She's hardly written a word to me in the past week, and I'm her Maid of Honor! It's always the wedding or the kids or Harry—“

“And Luna being in France looking for the Kalleinderge…” Ron said, beginning to understand at least a little, which was in itself unusual. “Look, Ginny, I know I'm not—er—exactly… sensitive or anything—“ he persisted despite her skeptical snort—“but I'll… I'll at least listen, you know—“

Ginny eyed him with red-rimmed eyes.

“I will.” Ron insisted earnestly.

Then she smiled feebly.

“I always knew you were my favorite older brother,” she said, in an almost normal way. “But no, thanks, Ron, I don't think you'd get it.”

“You're probably right,” Ron admitted after a pause.

Ginny switched the subject, talking about exams and Quidditch and harmless bits of gossip, her usual self once again, but Ron couldn't help but wonder what exactly `it' was.

He had noticed her looking a little more than stressed recently, but he'd assumed that was the wedding. It concerned him—it wasn't like her to succumb to stress.

He may not have understood it, Ron thought, but there might be something he could do about it anyway.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Hermione, can I have a—“ Ron began.

“Bedtime, Jack,” Hermione said, distractedly gathering abandoned wooden blocks off the floor and nearly tripping over the dog, “Yasmine, I know you heard me! Please put away that book and go to bed-- no, you can finish the chapter tomorrow—Jack! I thought I'd told you to put these cards away?”

She sighed and dropped the armful of blocks into the toy chest, flicking her wand and catching the deck of cards in her hand and dropping that into the toy chest as well.

“Hermione, I wanted to ask you if—“

“I see you behind there, Adrian. Bed,” she said sternly, marching Adrian out from behind the couch. “I don't know what's gotten into all of you lately—“

Adrian looked sheepish as Hermione released his arm.

“Sorry, Mama,” he said, putting his arms around her neck and kissing her cheek good night. She brushed a kiss across his forehead.

“Apology accepted,” she sighed, “if Yasmine is still up, please tell her to turn out the lights. Mind you brush your teeth properly.”

“Yes, Mama,” he said, grinning at Ron in greeting. Then he turned and hurried away.

The second Adrian was out of the room, Hermione let out another enormous sigh and sank back on the couch.

“I'm sorry, Ron,” she said wearily, closing her eyes briefly as she spoke. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

Ron sat down next to her, clearing his throat.

“Er…”

She looked just as tired as Ginny, if not more so, he thought guiltily. Blast.

“Ron?”

“I talked to Ginny today, and…”

“I've already told her—“ Hermione began, but Ron stopped her.

“It's nothing like that,” he said, “Can't you… you know… talk to her?”

Hermione stared.

“I Flooed her yesterday,” she said, with a hint of impatience.

“That's not what I meant,” Ron said testily, “I mean—well, you know, talk to her about something other than the wedding? Or Harry? Or the kids? I think she's lonely; it doesn't seem like she has many close friends at Hogwarts, except for Luna, and Luna's doing the exchange program—“

He trailed off, and was relieved to see understanding dawn on Hermione's face.

“I have been a bit selfish, haven't I?” she said, after a moment, “I haven't even asked about—you're right, Ron, I ought to…”

She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a yawn.

“I'll write her tonight—“

“Not tonight,” Ron said before she could finish, “You look like you'll die if you don't catch some sleep.”

She smiled.

“Good night, Ron,” she said, sliding her arm around his neck and giving him a half-hug. “You're a good brother—and a good friend, too. You should go home. I know you and Luna Floo each other at nine.”

She laughed at the deep blush that covered his face.

“It'll be your wedding next,” she teased, “just watch.”

He grinned at her.

“Merlin, Hermione, one wedding at a time!”

She laughed again.

“Good night, Ron.”

“G'night, Hermione.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Usually Katy needed Yasmine to wake her up, but not this morning. She climbed out of bed and tiptoed down the hallway, skipped down the stairs, and ran through the foyer and kitchen, finally bounding out into the morning barefooted and open-armed.

Just as she saw the brilliance of the watercolor sunrise, she saw Hermione sitting in the grass with Gulliver sprawled at her side.

The sunlight—all flushed and pink with the excitement of a new day—splashed across the yard and caught Hermione's face in a particularly gentle light. Katy couldn't help but catch her breath, suddenly realizing how very young she was.

“Mama?” she said, almost breathlessly. Then, to Katy's immense regret, the moment disappeared with a friendly twinkle, and Hermione turned, smiling in warm welcome.

“Good morning, Katy-girl,” she said, extending an arm invitingly. Katy came and sat beside her, smiling as Hermione wrapped her arm around her warmly.

“Good morning, Mama,” she said, and reached out and patted Gulliver's head. “Good morning, Gully.”

“You're up early,” Hermione said, leaning her cheek against Katy's hair. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, but this morning just felt particularly special,” Katy explained, “I didn't want to miss this one.”

“Neither did I,” Hermione said, smiling, “It does seem very special, doesn't it?”

Katy plucked a few blades of grass from the yard and fanned out her fingers, allowing the dew to dampen her fingertips and the breeze to carry it away.

“Sometimes I can feel the world waking up without me,” she said at present, watching the grass dance away in the breeze. “It's a sad feeling, knowing that you missed it, don't you think?”

“Yes,” Hermione said after a moment. Suddenly there was something sad in her voice. “There are some things you can't replace once you've missed them.”

Katy looked into Hermione's face.

“Are there… are there things like that—that you miss?” she said uncertainly. Hermione smiled faintly and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath.

“There are always things like that,” she said softly, “sometimes all we can do is look to the next waking up, the next morning. Somehow that makes the missed mornings hurt less.”

Hermione opened her eyes, and slowly, gently, she kissed Katy's forehead.

“You were one of my `next mornings', Katy,” she whispered into her hair. “I don't know what I would have done if I'd missed you.”

Katy drew closer to Hermione's side and leaned her head against her shoulder.

“I don't either,” she whispered back.

______________________________________________________________________________

The melancholy had been completely unexpected, but Harry noticed it in her face.

“What's wrong?”

Hermione put down her book, too tired to put up a pretense.

“I don't know,” she said honestly, “I suppose I was just thinking about... all those people who—won't be coming to the wedding.”

She could see how the words stung him—she could feel it herself, sharp and bitter.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, looking down. His hands clasped hers tightly, warmly.

“Don't apologize. I know.”

“I know you do.”

“Hermione?” He was pulling her out of her chair and wrapping her in his arms, and hiding his face in her hair. She closed her eyes, breathing in his familiar smell, nestling herself even closer into his arms.

“It's all right, Harry,” she murmured, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, “I don't mind the tears anymore.”

The afternoon rains had come back, pattering against the windows gently.

Harry took in a deep breath, stroking Hermione's hair and feeling her tears dampening his shirt. She was making small, soft sobs against his neck. The shaky breaths tickled his neck, and her hands were pressed against his back, trembling slightly.

He reached up and slipped off his glasses, tucking them in his pocket. He buried his face in her hair.

She was warm and familiar against him; he didn't smile, but contentment filled him like laughter would. He didn't need a smile; he didn't need to see—he lacked nothing at this moment; this moment was filled to the brim.

“I love you.” Her whisper came against his neck again, muffled and damp. He smiled and breathed the reply against her hair.

“I love you, too.”

_____________________________________________________________________________

After dinner and bedtime, Hermione had settled into a chair out on the porch, gazing at the stars and moon hanging silver and clear in a dark sky. Of course she had immediately dropped off to sleep surrounded by the balmy summer evening and the soft song of crickets in the yard, and she dreamed warm, vague dreams of dear faces and familiar places.

At some point she became aware that she was not alone.

She slowly opened her eyes, squinting in the darkness. As the moonlight crept up onto the porch, she realized that Dusty was asleep against her legs.

“Dusty!” she whispered, her voice husky with sleep. Unhurried and unalarmed, he opened his eyes and twisted his head around, looking at her with soft, trusting eyes.

She cleared her throat, nesting her fingers in his dark hair gently.

“Are you all right?”

He nodded.

“Did you need me?”

He cocked his head and smiled. Then he nodded.

“Are you sick?” she said, getting off the chair and sitting beside him. He shook his head and curled up into her side. His look of content was all the answer Hermione needed; at least he wasn't ill.

She wrapped an arm around him and kissed his forehead.

“Well, then,” she said, “what did you need?”

He looked at her, and Hermione was quite aware that Dusty believed the answer to her question to be obvious.

He reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers.

“I needed nearness,” he said simply.

Hermione looked across the yard, bathed in moonlight and swaying sleepily in the soft breeze. She took a deep breath and let it out, and suddenly, sitting on the porch of the house, she could feel the content that Dusty had so easily found in her company.

“Did you feel alone, Dusty?” she whispered. He played with her ring, watching the diamond glimmer with a quiet eye.

“I did before,” he said after a pause, in his quiet, unhurried way, “at the hospital. Because everyone told me that I ought to talk.”

“You don't like to talk?”

“Not if I don't have anything to say.” Dusty smiled at her. “You say what you think is important. I see it, then I draw it.”

He began tracing patterns on his knee.

“But what I like about you is,” he continued, without looking up, “you don't have to tell me that you love me.”

He looked out across the yard once more, and then at her.

“I see it,” he said, softly, “I see you love me, and I know I love you, and if someone saw a picture of us right now on this porch, they'd know too.”

He leaned his head against her shoulder, closing his eyes.

“When you look at me, you know I love you, don't you, Mama?”

She looked at his face, at thin, paint-splattered fingers threaded through her own, and wondered at the idea that this wise little being had come to her for comfort. Then she brushed a kiss on his forehead, watching a slow smile creep across his face at the caress.

And neither of them spoke.

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A/N: I'm back! It's been a rather long time since I've updated this story; simply because I hit a bit of a wall after the last chapter. I've written this chapter several different ways, and somehow I haven't managed to make it work quite the way I wanted it to. However, I've concluded that attempting to rewrite this again would be rather redundant. So, here it is. Enjoy.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Despite the chaos that seemed to reign in his daughter's household this week, Mr. Granger felt himself possessed by an extraordinary calm. Weddings, he mused, brought out either a person's slightest inconsistencies of character, or else the most prominent features of their nature to the extreme. As a result, it was nearly impossible for him to find a moment of silence anywhere, since he was constantly being engaged as a sixth for a game of football, a handkerchief for a distressed child (and more recently, for a distressed wife or daughter), or the advisor for a flummoxed future son-in-law.

Truthfully, it had taken him more than just a few days to adjust to being surrounded by children. He liked them all, of course—they were generally friendly children, and never unduly impudent—but he simply couldn't fathom the idea of them being his. But after a week of hugs, pranks, and good nights, he'd started to let his guard down.

Presently, he was helping Dusty put together a massive, five hundred piece puzzle of Hogwarts Castle. It was, admittedly, disconcerting, watching the puzzle move, but Mr. Granger enjoyed the quiet immensely. The workroom was the designated break room, and as none of the women in the house could ever be persuaded to take a break, Mr. Granger was also the designated workroom supervisor.

“If you organize the pieces according to colour, it's easier,” Katy advised him from next to him. Mr. Granger blinked and scrutinized the pieces more closely.

“They're all brown.”

“Well, look at the way the light strikes this one,” Katy said, pushing a piece toward him, “The sun's striking that part of the castle right now—you'd better hurry, though, since it's nearly noon, and the sun will move.”

Mr. Granger rubbed his chin and squinted.

“See, look—here's the edge of the window.” Katy put the piece in place. “And then—look, it's an owl! If you follow it, it'll appear in another one of the pieces—look!”

She pointed at another of the pieces triumphantly. “Those two should fit together.”

“Why don't you take over for a while?” Mr. Granger said, “I'm only slowing Dusty down.”

“Okay,” Katy said, smiling at him cheerily. “You finished a whole row!”

“I suppose I did,” Mr. Granger said with some surprise. “How long did it take me?”

Katy looked at him apologetically. “About an hour.”

Mr. Granger rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. “Hmph. That sounds about right.”

Katy smiled at him warmly.

“That's all right, Grandfather. It takes me a long time, too. Just watch.”

Mr. Granger slid over on the bench to allow Katy some room, glancing over to the corner where Gulliver lay dozing, Jackie snuggled against him.

Yes, he thought again, the workroom was a soothing place to be. He wondered if his wife wouldn't benefit from a turn as workroom supervisor. It was a part of Helen's nature, of course, but she was very concerned about what ought to be. Not in a prideful way, but in a peculiarly noble way—injustices infuriated her, snobbery irritated her, and dishonesty injured her. And lately, Mr. Granger could tell that Helen felt that something in her relationship with her daughter was not as it ought to be. He did his best to console her, of course—and lately, Helen had spent a good amount of time in Hermione's company—but he could see the wistful look in Helen's eyes.

He wondered if this concern with `ought-to-be' had been the reason she had been so unsettled by magic. It baffled him, of course, but he'd become accustomed to the owls, the flashes of light, the unfamiliar terminology. The only thing that he simply couldn't stand was that Appearing—Apparating—thing everyone did. The noise reminded him of a gunshot.

He sighed and picked up his crossword, lying abandoned on the end of the bench.

Helen had also struggled to adapt to the concept of having, all of a sudden, seven grandchildren. More than once she'd fretted over her age, something with which she'd become extraordinarily occupied.

Hermione had, after all, been a bit of a surprise. He and Helen had married in their mid-thirties, and Hermione was born a few days after his fortieth birthday. It was rather disconcerting, he thought, to realize that he was, in fact, nearly thirteen years Mrs. Weasley's senior.

“I finished the tower,” Katy said happily, “look. You can see the people moving inside and everything.”

“Well done,” Mr. Granger said, putting down his crossword without realizing he'd done nothing with it. “That was quick.”

Katy smiled bashfully.

“Well, I had the easy part,” she said, “I only had to finish the edges.”

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Granger said, smiling at her. On impulse, he put his arm about her and hugged her (a little awkwardly, it was true, but judging by the big smile on Katy's face, she didn't mind.)

Yasmine had wandered into the room, her face obscured by the cover of a book.

“Mama sent me in here,” she explained absently, “I was getting in the way.”

She lowered the book and peered at the puzzle.

“That's the Gryffindor Tower,” she said, in an authoritative manner that struck Mr. Granger as rather familiar, “I read about it in Hogwarts, A History.”

“Do you think we could see Mama and Dad in the picture?” Katy said excitedly, bending closer, “I never even thought about that part—“

“I don't know,” said Yasmine, shrugging and returning to her book. “Maybe. If they were in the castle when Colin took the picture.”

“I just wish I could figure out how these pictures work.” Katy said, in what Mr. Granger termed agitated curiosity. “Dean tried to explain it to me, but it didn't make any sense—“

“It's just magic,” Yasmine said, sounding a little impatient, “that's all.”

Mr. Granger felt himself smile again.

“You sounded just like Hermione did when she was your age,” he said, unintentionally voicing his thoughts aloud. “Both of you.”

“Really?” Yasmine and Katy said together.

“Well-- yes.“ he said uncertainly, and he was taken aback to see them both beaming at him, their cheeks flushed.

“I'm glad,” Yasmine said passionately.

“Me too,” Katy agreed, her blue-green eyes dancing. “And Grandfather knows—he's her father.”

A thoughtful look then crossed her face.

“Do you suppose we're a bit like you, too, Grandfather?”

He thought for a moment.

“I suppose you might be,” he said, slowly. Katy put her hands on his arm.

“I hope so,” she said, “we're family, after all.”

He looked at Katy's earnest expression, the wide-open smile in her eyes, and he chuckled quietly, his eyes feeling rather misty.

“That we are,” he said, softly, and with that, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

Moments later, he found himself enveloped in a rather uncomfortably tight embrace—Yasmine squished into his side and Katy sitting in his lap—and somehow, Mr. Granger found he didn't mind.

~*~

Ben was glad to have finally come home, especially at the conclusion of his exams, but it rather seemed like he scarcely had any time to himself. He and his friends—for Hermione had allowed him to invite friends over the summer break—had enjoyed a splendid few days playing in the backyard with the dog, climbing trees, idling in the park, and spending time in the house with his family. Then, of course, the preparations began.

It wasn't that he minded working, not really—it was just that he wished his friends hadn't been recruited as well. He privately wondered if they weren't just a little too much in awe of his parents to complain.

“I think that tablecloth is about finished,” said Audrey, breaking Ben's reverie with a bit of a laugh. “You've ironed the same spot about a million times.”

“Have not,” Ben said, propping up the iron and handing her the tablecloth anyway. “Boring, isn't this?”

“Not nearly as boring as you make it out to be,” Audrey said, shaking her head, “Come on, everyone else is taking a break in the backyard. There's lunch.”

“I'm not hungry.” When she gave him a look, he gave in and followed her out of the living room onto the porch. Nathan, Sam, and Jacob waved at them from the tree fort.

“Oh, there you are, Ben,” said Hermione as they crossed the porch, “I was beginning to think you were going to miss lunch.”

She was sitting in their newly installed porch swing, the little Teddy Lupin dozing peacefully in her arms. Ben couldn't help but notice how at ease his mother looked, and suddenly felt rather guilty for complaining. He hadn't seen her so relaxed in ages.

“Is there anything left?”

“I think the boys saved something for you,” she said, smiling. “Don't look guilty, Ben, you've worked the hardest of all of us. Take a break.”

Audrey laughed suddenly.

“Look, Ben, his hair changed colour.”

Ben looked down, just as Teddy's brilliant blue mop rippled into a feathery brown.

“He looks like you, Mama,” Ben commented, “where's Mrs. Tonks?”

“She's gone to take a rest,” Hermione said, “She's caught a bit of a cold, I think. In fact, I ought to check on the Pepper-Up potion—do eat your lunch, Ben. You look tired.”

She stood up, easily shifting Teddy so that his head rested comfortably on her shoulder—he stirred, making a few tiny noises of protest, and relaxing again.

“He's snoring,” Ben said, laughing, “It's like his whole body moves when he breathes.”

Hermione laughed, putting a hand on the back of Teddy's head.

“He's worn out from all the excitement,” she said fondly, and, looking between Ben and Audrey somewhat apologetically, she added, “Very much like the rest of us.”

She paused for a moment.

“This hasn't been a particularly restful week,” she said. “I'm sure this isn't how you envisioned the first week of summer.”

“I've had a wonderful time,” said Audrey, “honestly, I have. My parents usually take an adults-only trip the first week of summer, and I just stay at home with my great-aunt. This is much better.”

“I'm glad,” Hermione said, smiling. “If you need anything, just let me know. I'll be in the workroom.”

As Hermione went back into the house, Ben and Audrey crossed the lawn to the tree house. Ben followed Audrey up the ladder into the fort, where he settled against the railing beside Sam.

“Took you long enough,” said Jacob, “where've you been?”

“Ironing,” Ben said, “It's as dull as anything, but at least it's done. Thanks,” he added, as Jacob reluctantly passed him a sandwich.

“I was going to eat it myself,” said Jacob, which was his way of saying `you're welcome'. “Did you build this tree fort by yourself?”

“Everyone helped,” Ben said, swallowing, “Jack and Adrian did most of it, though. While I was at school.”

“I love your family,” Sam said, sprawling on her stomach with her chin propped up on her elbows. “I love your house. In fact, while we're here, your parents might as well adopt me too.”

“Yeah, sure, Sam,” said Jacob, rolling his eyes. “Hey, is Nathan asleep?”

“Whatever you're thinking of doing,” said Nathan, without opening his eyes, “don't do it.”

“I wasn't going to do anything,” said Jacob in a voice of injured innocence, surreptitiously retracting his lemonade from above Nathan's head.

Nathan snorted and made himself more comfortable against the railing.

“No one ever believes me,” said Jacob, “not even your little sister. Nearly knocked me over for trying to convince her that it was possible to lick your elbow.”

“Which one?”

“Yasmine,” Jacob said, “didn't you hear your mum telling her off for whacking me in the shoulder?”

“I knew I liked her,” said Sam, with a look of great amusement. “Dusty doesn't say much, does he?”

“Not much, no,” said Ben, “It's just the way he is.”

“Nathan can be just as quiet,” Sam said, “dead boring, sitting next to him in History of Magic. He actually pays attention.”

“At least I don't set Professor Slughorn's pineapple on fire,” said Nathan, still without opening his eyes.

“One of my finer moments,” said Sam, without missing a beat, “Who knew skipping just one step in a potions recipe would have such fantastic results?”

~*~

“Where's Hermione?”

“Off with Molly deciding on silverware,” said Mr. Weasley, shaking his head. He smiled a little when Harry's face fell. “Brighten up, Harry. She'll be around.”

“Well, I know, but—“ Harry began to protest, but appeared to think better of it, and changed the subject. “Yeah, I guess I'll see her tonight—sometime…”

He did not add that while he'd seen Hermione at dinner almost every day this week, they'd hardly been alone. He'd felt somewhat obliged to talk with the Grangers, or the Weasleys, or even Mrs. Tonks. And of course all of the kids were rowdier than ever, with the four of Ben's friends adding even more chatter to the table. When Hermione had volunteered to wash the dishes, he'd volunteered as well—but Mrs. Weasley, misunderstanding with the best intentions, insisted that she wouldn't have the bride and groom cleaning dirty dishes, and insisted on doing them herself.

Harry wouldn't have minded scrubbing potatoes off a few plates if he and Hermione had gotten a chance to talk.

“Reporter rang for you,” said Mr. Weasley, motioning at the phone. He spoke in an unconvincingly casual manner; he was clearly proud of not only having answered the phone, but of using the correct terminology. “He wanted an interview, of course, but I told him you weren't giving interviews at the moment.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, “Has Dean been around, by the way? He wanted to ask me

something.”

Mr. Weasley took a bite of his bacon and tomato sandwich and shook his head.

“I'm sure he'll come around soon.”

He tilted his head.

“You looked tired, Harry,” he said, frankly, “take a bit of a lie-down?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

“I might, actually,” he said, presently, “thanks.”

Mr. Weasley smiled sympathetically.

“Hang tight. It's only a couple more days.”

Harry smiled wearily. “Yeah. Only a couple.”

With that, he turned and wandered into the living room. Kicking off his shoes, he sank onto the couch and closed his eyes.

Somehow, I can't wait until this week is over.

~*~

“If I see one more camera before the wedding—“ Hermione muttered, maneuvering her way through the doorway, “Jackie, dear, would you mind getting the door? Thank you—“

Jackie beamed and scampered off.

“I told you I'd get the groceries,” said Ginny, hoisting the brown paper bag and following Hermione into the kitchen. “You won't be able to go out without being mobbed this close to the wedding, and besides, we've only got a half an hour before the rehearsal.”

“What more could they possibly have to say?” Hermione demanded, looking decidedly flustered and out of sorts, “We've been engaged for months; they've all run at least a dozen stories on the wedding, and if they take one more picture of me I'll go blind!”

“You're the couple of the century; you can't expect—“

“The couple of the century? Rubbish,” Hermione said, who seemed determined to be in a bad mood. “We're not royalty—“

“You're as good as,” Ginny said, “You're marrying Harry Potter.”

Hermione closed her eyes and massaged her temples. The restful effects of the afternoon were definitely worn off by this point, and she wished Ginny hadn't reminded her of the rehearsal dinner.

“Are you okay?” Ginny said, softly.

Hermione sighed and, after taking a long, deep breath, shook her head.

In a rare show of gentleness, Ginny reached out and put her hand on Hermione's arm.

“D'you feel like talking about… anything?”

Hermione looked away, groceries forgotten.

“I just… well… we haven't seen each other all week, not really. And I feel as though… as though this is the time we ought to be spending together—right now, before everything changes!”

Without speaking, Ginny handed Hermione a tissue. She didn't feel as though she knew what to say—a rare event in itself. But the times that Hermione really broke down—the times when she was the most vulnerable—they, too, were few and far between. So Ginny simply let Hermione cry, quietly, and put an arm about her friend's shoulders.

“All these parties and preparations and dinners—I miss being alone with him… I miss being ourselves, the way we are, with each other—even when I'm next to him—we don't look at each other… and we always look at each other!”

Hermione said all of this in a great rush, as though she'd been dying to let it escape for days. Which, Ginny thought guiltily, perhaps she had.

“Look,” Ginny said, after a pause, “I'll talk to Mum, and your parents—what if… what if we put off the parties after the rehearsal tonight until tomorrow afternoon? I'll watch the kids—or someone else will, if they want to—and you and Harry can have tonight together? How's that sound?”

Hermione looked up through red-rimmed eyes.

“But… you seemed so excited about the party you'd planned—“ she said, wiping her eyes.

Ginny quelled, with some difficulty, the pangs of disappointment that welled up in her chest. All of that planning—all of that decorating—

“And Harry probably wants to go to the bachelor party—“

“He wants you,” Ginny broke in, gently enough. She was glad to see Hermione smile a little. “And this week—it's not about me. It's all for you two. All of it has been. Or should have been. Everyone's been so busy with the wedding they've forgotten who's getting married, but it's not because we don't care— it's because we care.”

Hermione wiped her eyes again.

“It seems so rude.”

“Everyone will understand,” Ginny said, “I know. I wrote the invitations, and all of them will understand. And Ron won't mind, I know he won't. There were only a few of us anyway.”

She tugged at Hermione's arm.

“Come on, let's get ready for the rehearsal. I'll put up your hair—maybe this time Teddy won't pull it down.”

“Ginny, wait—“ Hermione touched Ginny on the shoulder. Ginny stopped and turned back.

“Thank you,” Hermione said softly, genuine gratitude in her voice and smile. And somehow Ginny could sense that this was about more than just their conversation.

“You're welcome,” she said, and for the first time in a long time, Ginny felt genuinely humbled. Perhaps this was why she said nothing more.

~*~

It may have been the crying she'd done only minutes before, but Hermione felt particularly distracted when she arrived at the rehearsal. Not that the grassy clearing and the sparkling river behind it didn't look absolutely beautiful—on the contrary, the buttery evening light endowed the wildflowers and trees with a warm, welcoming beauty. But as Hermione made her way down the aisle between those white wooden chairs, walking toward the flowery trellis under which she and Harry were to marry, her eyes couldn't help but search for his face.

When several sweeps of the wedding party revealed no glimpse of his face, Hermione turned her back on the rows of white chairs, standing under the trellis and facing the glimmering river turned golden by the sun's rays. She closed her eyes, slowly breathing the scent of the wildflowers and the soft breeze, listening to the sighs of the river.

“Hi,” said a voice behind her suddenly, and she whirled around—without thinking, without a word, she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

Harry wound her arms around her firmly, slightly concerned by the way she kept saying his name over and over.

“Hey,” he said softly, pulling back and cupping her cheek in his hand. “Is everything okay?”

She reached up and grasped the wrist of the hand caressing her face.

“Harry,” she began, but then she stopped. Harry felt her gaze sweep across his face, and his heart tripped a little, noticing the warmth and tenderness in her eyes. Then she reached up and kissed him, first with passion and conviction; next, several times, softly—he drew her closer, reveling in her closeness, in the softness of her mouth and the breathy sounds barely trembling past her lips—

Suddenly she drew back, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with tears. He fitted her palm to her cheek, using his thumb to wipe away a few stray tears.

“I've missed—I've missed— I've missed kissing you,” she blurted, her cheeks turning even rosier. Harry kissed her again gently.

“I've missed kissing you,” he said, and he smiled, letting her know that, despite his smile, he took her very seriously. “I've missed holding you, just like this. It's driven me insane, you know—all week we've—“

“…barely had any time alone,” Hermione finished, her eyes brightening, “You felt the same way?”

“All week,” he promised, “but in two days—in two days it's all going to change.”

He drew her closer and pressed his cheek to her hair.

“Hermione,” he said, in a very low, halting voice, “my best friend—because that's what you'll always be, my—my Hermione—tomorrow, right now, forever—I give myself to you, for always, all of me… for as long as I live and after—because I love you—I need you—and I always will.”

She was crying, silently, into his shoulder—her arms around his waist— but Harry pulled back, and tilted her chin back with a gentle hand.

Because, somehow, despite the fact that the wedding was only two days away, he needed her to hear this now. Right now, under this flowery trellis, with the rest of the wedding party milling around the back of the clearing—now, with the sun setting, and the river singing, and the breezes sighing—now, when he was standing in the grass in his old trainers and battered jeans and messy hair—now, with her eyes alight and her hair undone and her face glistening with tears—

“I promise,” he said—once, with his eyes fixed on hers, and again, with a tender kiss, “I promise,” and last, with his eyes closed and his forehead pressed to hers, in a low voice, in a hoarse voice, in a fervent whisper, “I promise.”

A/N: I know, you thought this chapter was going to show the wedding. I promise you the wedding is in the works for the next chapter. For now, have a wonderful day! Thank you for reading.

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A/N: And now the fateful chapter arrives. For obvious reasons I have labored furiously over this chapter, and I'm not entirely sure that it's ready. But I hope you enjoy it, despite its flaws and style.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Jack? What are you doing still awake?”

He jumped. Hermione touched his arm reassuringly, smiling to let him know she wasn't upset, then sat down beside him on the bottom stair.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he said, “thinking, I guess. And Jacob snores,” he added, quickly, as if not to appear too thoughtful.

“Mmm…” was all Hermione said, and Jack looked at her. It was funny, he thought, but she seemed… quieter than usual.

“What are you awake for?”

“The same reason you are, I suppose,” she said, hugging herself and sighing, “thinking.”

“About tomorrow?”

She paused. “Well, yes. And the tomorrows after that, too.”

“Oh,” he thought about that. He supposed that made sense; after all, marriage was supposed to last your whole life. That did give someone a lot to think about.

“Hey, Mum.”

“Hmm?”

“Will you write us? From your—from your whatever-it's-called?”

“Honeymoon?”

“Yeah. From there.”

“Of course we will.”

“And then you'll come back.”

“As soon as we can.”

Jack put his elbow on his knee and rested his chin on his hand.

“Mum?”

“Yes, Jack.”

“Do you think Teddy will come live with us?”

She looked surprised.

“Yasmine wanted to know,” he said quickly. She smiled knowingly.

“I see… well, Yasmine needn't have been afraid of coming to ask me.”

“Well, she was, a little, because—because she wondered if it wasn't wrong, since, you know, Mrs. Tonks is his real grandmother.”

“Ah,” she said, scooting closer to him on the step and putting an arm about him, “well, Jack—what do you think?”

“I dunno,” he said, slowly, “you like him, don't you?”

“Yes, very much.”

“And we like him.”

“That's good.”

“But I suppose Mrs. Tonks likes him, too. Everyone likes him. I suppose it wouldn't be right to take him, really, but… well. I'm not sure, Mum, I just feel like he belongs with us, like the rest of us.”

“Well, that's good of you.”

“And I think I'd like… you know. Having another younger brother. I mean, Dusty and Adrian are fun. But a younger brother—one who's really younger than me, I mean—I'd like that, too.”

He looked at her.

“D'you know what I mean?”

She smiled at him, her eyes warm and kind in the faint light coming from the kitchen. She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

“Someday, I hope you will have a younger brother, Jack,” she said, smiling, “but these things take time.”

He stared at her.

“You mean you will have more kids? Even with all of us?”

She laughed, blushing a little.

“Well, we'll see.”

He grinned at her smugly.

“You will, won't you?”

“We'll see, Jack,” she said, laughing all the more, “now, come on. Up to bed.”

She took him by the hand and tugged him up the stairs.

“We've got a big day ahead of us,” she said, as they climbed the dark stairwell. “And I don't think we want you to be crabby.”

“I'm never crabby!”

“Shhh…”

“No, Mum, really, I'm not.”

“Jack,” she said, reaching out and ruffling his hair. “It's late.”

“I can't stay up?”

“No,” she said, opening his bedroom door, “you'll be up late tomorrow.”

He stopped in the doorway, looking up at her.

“Mum,” he said, in a hesitant voice, “can we name one of them Gabriel?”

He was grateful to see her consider, with a soft smile on her face.

“I mean, we don't have to,” he said, “but I was thinking that… you know. I like that name.”

“I like it too,” she said, smiling, “When the time comes—“

“When?”

“Oh, honestly, Jack.”

“I just want to know!”

She laughed again.

“Sometimes we just have to wait. Enjoy the anticipation.”

“Anti-ci-what?”

“Anticipation. It means—hoping. Closing your eyes and seeing it already, imagining everything in a moment.”

He looked at her in an unusually pensive way.

“Have you got anticipation right now?”

He saw that Something cross her face. The thing that made Yasmine and Katy exchange looks and giggle; the thing that he'd grown actually curious about (not that he'd ever admit it to anyone).

“Yes, I would say so,” she said, softly, “now you ought to go to bed.”

“Okay,” he said after a pause, reluctantly, “well, you've got to tell Dad about Gabriel, all right?”

“I will,” she promised, “now please, Jack. It's time for bed.”

“Good night, Mum.”

“Good night, Jack. I love you.”

She hugged him, and he sneaked his eyes closed for a moment, surreptitiously breathing a deep breath of her particular smell. She kissed his hair, shooed him into the bedroom, and just as she was about to close the door, she heard him whisper back, “I love you too, Mum!”

That made her pause at the doorway, standing in the dark hallway with her hand still on the doorknob.

It had struck her then, exactly how far they had all come. Only a year ago, she would have been glad to see Jack smile at her, even once. And now—now—

She breathed in deeply, and let it out, a smile creeping to her face again. Hermione turned, walking back down the hallway and down to the kitchen, where she turned out the lights and checked that the doors were locked. It was such a normal ritual, with the starlight twinkling through the kitchen window and the sound of crickets drifting into the silence of the old, sleeping house.

In a few more hours the sun would rise, and she would get up, Gulliver bounding along beside her and begging to be let out into the welcome morning, and Jackie would wake up and call for her, and then she'd start breakfast—and there would be spills and arguments and jokes and laughter, and then…

Then it would come, and she would see him waiting for her, in their little spot by the river. And they'd promise themselves to each other, and the anticipation would be over, and everyone—herself included--- would breathe great sighs of relief.

But for now, Hermione thought, heading back upstairs, all she could do was savor the anticipation.

****

“Make sure to walk in step with me, Katy,” Yasmine said, tiptoeing barefoot on the carpet, “This tent is so big inside! It's like a house.”

“Yasmine, you've lost a flower,” Katy said, reaching down and picking up a stray piece of baby's breath. As she straightened up, she heard Yasmine gasp.

“Mama!”

“Oh, Yasmine, you look beautiful,” Hermione bent down and kissed her forehead. Yasmine simply stared, wide-eyed, scarcely able to take Hermione in.

“Mama, you look like… like… like an angel!”

Hermione laughed, almost self-consciously touching her hair, which was swept just barely off her neck in a carefree bun. Flowers were tucked into her hair, and Yasmine reverently touched the folds of Hermione's dress; marveling at the pure white silk overlaid with simple embroidered lace. She looked up, gazing in awe at the rosy hue of her mother's cheeks and brightness of her eyes, and suddenly thought that the dress itself paled in comparison to Hermione herself.

“Katy,” Hermione said, bending down and reaching out for her. Katy suddenly felt very shy and came forward tentatively. The moment Hermione's arms wrapped around her, however, Katy's shyness melted away, and without warning, Katy burst into tears. “Oh, dear—oh, Katy—“

“Oh, Mama, oh Mama,” she sobbed, “I'm so happy I don't know what to do—“

Hermione kissed her hair and held her tightly.

Katy pulled back, sniffling and beaming through watery eyes.

“You do look beautiful, Mama,” she said, scrubbing her face, “You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen.”

“You look beautiful yourself, Katy-girl,” Hermione said, using her thumb to brush away the last of Katy's tears. “Your hair looks lovely like that, just about your shoulders.”

Katy tried to say thank you, but instead found herself crying again. Happiness had engulfed her heart to the point of overflow, and there was no stopping it now. She held to Hermione tightly and wept unashamedly; soon, Yasmine was crying, and Hermione opened her arms to her, too, and all three of them were holding to each other tightly, and saying nothing, for nothing could be said aloud, only whispered in the silent language of the heart.

******

“How are you, Dusty?” said Harry, as Dusty took his place at the back of the aisle. The answering smile was bright and expressive, an uncalculated, natural outpouring of perfect contentment. Harry put a hand on the boy's shoulder.

“Yeah, me too.”

Dusty tilted his chin at him, and his eyes and face sobered slightly.

“What?” Harry asked. Dusty shrugged.

“Today is important,” he said, and his tone hinted that there was something beyond the obvious hidden behind his words.

“Yeah.” Harry smiled, but Dusty looked back at him without an answer. His eyes were grave and questioning, and suddenly his face was shadowed with a gentle anxiety.

“For all of us?”

Then, in a moment, Harry understood, as if a gleam of sunshine had passed over a hidden corner of the world and he had seen it—just a glimpse, but a glimpse enough.

He put his arm around Dusty's shoulders, and Dusty turned his head, just slightly, so that his eyes were hidden in Harry's jacket.

“For all of us, Dusty, and that's for always, too,” Harry said softly.

By now the chairs were beginning to fill, and the clearing rang with laughter and chatter of familiar voices—the river was singing its bubbly song, and the birds were chirping like wind chimes in the trees.

But the only sound that Harry heard, and at that moment, the only one that mattered, was the soft sound of Dusty's sobs in his ear.

****

“Get up there, mate,” Ron said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “We're getting ready to start.”

He could have laughed at the look on Harry's face.

“Don't start crying yet, or I swear I'll never let you hear the end of it,” he joked through a mysteriously tight throat. Harry laughed sheepishly.

“Easy for you to say, mate. You're not getting married.”

“Thank Merlin for that,” Ron said lightly. They grinned at each other as the preludes began to play. Then Harry's grin faded slightly, and Ron cleared his throat, vaguely aware that what he was about to say was more important than it seemed.

“Take care of her,” was all he could think to say, “and… er… I'll—you know. I'll always be around. If you need anything.”

Harry cleared his throat, too.

“Thanks, Ron.”

They stood there in silence for another moment, and Ron stuck out his hand.

“Good luck.”

They shook, still awkwardly, and then, unexpectedly, Ron pulled Harry into a rough, one-armed hug. Harry grinned and, as he pulled back, noticed Ron's eyes were rather wet.

“Better get up there,” Ron said, hastily. “See you, Harry.”

“See you,” said Harry, and Ron noticed Harry's eyes grow misty, and faraway. He considered saying something more, but decided against it.

Ron knew Harry's thoughts were with someone else, and to interrupt them would be unfair. He backed up a little, waving his friend on cheerfully.

He'd miss the idiot, somehow. He knew they'd always be best friends—always—but things would be different from now on. Things would change. He'd always be a part of their lives. Ron knew that. But there were some things—as there always had been, really—that were only Harry and Hermione's, things that bound them together at the core.

There was no learning those things. They always had been there, at the deepest part of both Harry and Hermione.

Ron didn't mind anymore.

In fact, he thought as he straightened his jacket and left to join the rest of the wedding party, those secrets were things to celebrate.

******

Everyone would say it had been an absolutely enchanted beginning, with the gentle piano and cello filling the sunlit clearing as naturally and as simply as the sweetest birdsong. With the delicate fragrance of roses and wildflowers on its breath, a summer breeze teased the hair of the three small girls who made their way down the aisle first—and the girlish giggles inspired the deeper, warmer chuckles of the nervous groom at the front. The four boys escorted the girls dutifully down the aisle, looking straight ahead and concentrating on smiling and walking straight.

Yes, the opening of the wedding had been “simply sweet”, as Parvati would describe in a letter later that month. The music was just right, and everyone was smiling—some of them were already crying, though Ron would deny his tears for years to come. Luna and Ginny were flushed and smiling throughout their slow walk down the aisle—both in blue, and dressed almost identically, though Luna had made the last minute addition of a string of daisies round her neck.

Neville and Ron looked properly dashing in their tuxedoes and blue ties, and Mrs. Weasley's tears were said to have increased tenfold when she saw her youngest son striding so confidently down the aisle.

Everyone watching was smiling, Yasmine would note several times, and everyone “looked as though they had sunshine in their hearts and in their eyes.”

“Everything seemed as though it had reached the highest point of perfection,” Hannah Abbot-Boot would tell her mother, “but then… well… then she walked in.”

“When Mama walked in,” Katy would say, “it seemed as though heaven held its breath, and the whole earth stopped spinning, and my heart just flew.”

The moment Harry saw her, he suddenly found that he couldn't breathe, not properly, for—and Harry would be unashamed of this for the rest of his life—he was weeping. But he gazed unwaveringly at her through his tears, a tremulous and brilliant smile lighting his face and eyes.

Hermione, for her part, smiled as though the sun itself had made her heart its home. There was a melting, sweet tenderness in her eyes; there was a wonderful softness in her smile; she had very much the look of a woman who had surveyed the whole world, and found, in one glimpse of his face, that she lacked nothing. As she came closer to him, her dress rustling along the grass, she just slightly tilted her head, and her smile grew even more radiant as their eyes met.

Then, as she approached him, he stretched out his hand, in an unpracticed and unrehearsed gesture that, with the quiet click of Colin's camera, would be immortalized forever.

Tender merriment danced across her face, and, unexpectedly, without prodding, Mr. Granger gently disengaged his daughter's hand from his arm, kissing her softly on the forehead as he did so. Then, still a few feet away from her groom, Hermione extended her hand towards his, and the moment their fingertips touched, both instinctively moved together, their hands clasping and foreheads touching. Their noses brushed, and they both breathed shakily. At last, a breathless sob was heard from Hermione's trembling lips, and Harry was seen to smile, and heard to whisper her name in a shaky, tender way that somehow meant everything.

After that, Ginny would say later, the ceremony might have seemed redundant; but somehow everyone heard the old familiar words with new ears, new hearts. Harry and Hermione would laugh and cry and say all the things they were meant to say, but the real vows, as Luna would say later, were in their soft touches, their looks and their glances.

Arthur Weasley did a magnificent job officiating, everyone would agree, with just the right warmth and understanding, and the scene before them, this uncommonly glorious coming-together, was so breathtaking and so unparalleled in beauty that everyone nearly forgot what was coming near the end.

“And I now declare you bonded for life.”

The whole clearing stood still and watched as Harry brushed his thumb across her moist cheek, pouring into one look all the love and all the gratitude and all the promise that anyone could feel in a lifetime. Then, cradling both sides of her face with a wondrous tenderness, he bent and kissed her.

“If that had been all,” Yasmine would write, “it still would have been the most beautiful wedding that ever was or ever could be—“

“Then it happened,” Parvati would write, “something that took our breath away, and in all honesty my heart still stops to think about it—“

No one knew exactly how to describe it—everyone tried and failed, and tried again, and sometimes even struggled to re-imagine it—but Yasmine, all the children agreed, described it best.

“It was as though a wind of light shimmered down from heaven and wrapped itself around them—Mama's hair danced in this glimmering, shimmering wind, yet they never parted. And when it left—for it didn't die, as normal winds do, but it swept through the whole clearing and brushed warm and soft against everyone—it seemed as though they were both shining—glowing—like angels.”

Minerva McGonagall admitted herself to be as bewildered as everyone else, though she advised everyone not to try too hard to understand.

“Sometimes—in moments like these,” she would write to a friend, “you wonder if there isn't something more to magic—as though magic itself had to recognize that the world had just witnessed something extraordinary.”

******

They were about to leave.

Adrian knew, by the way they looked at him and the others. He could see Harry brushing his hand across her cheek and murmuring something softly; he could see the glow in Hermione's eyes.

And suddenly a great energy swept over him—terror and joy all jumbled together in his chest, and he pelted across the fairy-lit clearing to where they were standing. He threw his arms around Hermione's waist tightly and hid his face in her dress.

He felt her arms around him immediately and clung to her all the more tightly.

“You can't leave yet,” he heard himself mumbling, entirely incoherently, “You can't leave yet, Mama, you can't—“

He felt Harry's hand descend firmly on his shoulder.

“Adrian, mate,” Harry said, “we're coming back.”

“You won't have to come back if you don't leave,” Adrian knew he was babbling. He knew, in fact, that he was crying. “Can't you have your honeymoon here? Can't you stay?”

“It's only a week, Adrian,” Hermione began soothingly, but he tightened his grip on her, words pouring from his mouth before he could stop them.

“But you'll still be gone, and I won't know you're coming back, Mama, because sometimes people say they'll come back and they—and they don't—“

He heard her gasp softly, as if something had struck at them, and she pulled him closer to her.

“We're coming back,” she said almost fiercely, “I promise you, Adrian, there's nothing in the world that could keep us away.”

“She's right, you know,” said Harry, kneeling beside him. Adrian turned his tearstained face toward him and struggled to hold back his sobs. “But you know what else, Adrian?”

He shook his head, shuddering.

Harry ruffled Adrian's hair softly. “We're not really leaving you. People who love you never do.”

Adrian gazed at his father with puzzled eyes.

“It's an old saying,” Harry said, putting his hands on Adrian's shoulders, “but we'll always be here.”

He put his hand on Adrian's chest, right where Adrian's heart was beating fast and fearful underneath.

“Dad?” Adrian said, so softly that Harry had to lean closer to hear him. “Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”
Adrian licked his lips and took a deep breath.

“Did you… did you really die? And did you really come back?”

Harry smiled.

“I'm not sure if I died, Adrian, but I definitely came back.”

Adrian hesitated, fixing his eyes on Harry's face, as if searching for hints of truth in his eyes.

“Why?” he whispered. Harry drew closer to Adrian and pulled him into a tight hug. He waited a moment, looking up at Hermione over Adrian's shoulder. One glimpse of the look in her eyes and tears trickled down his cheeks.

“Because I loved them, Adrian,” he said hoarsely in Adrian's ear, “Because I loved my friends—my family—because I loved her.”

Adrian shuddered in Harry's arms, and then he wept into Harry's shoulder, sobbing softly.

“Sometimes we have to leave for a little while,” Harry said, putting a hand to the back of Adrian's head, “But—if we love them—we'll find them again. We can't always see it, but—they come back in their own way.”

Harry paused, using the back of his hand to swipe away his tears, and kissed the top of Adrian's head.

“And so will we.”

They left only a few minutes later, aboard a sleek wooden vessel gliding gracefully along the river, bedecked with summer flowers and blessed with the love and good wishes of everyone present.

Ben, Katy, Jack, Yasmine, Dusty, Adrian, and Jackie stood by the river until the little boat disappeared beneath the surface of the moonlit waters. All of them, even Jack, were smiling.

“That's it, then,” said Jack, breaking the river-filled silence. “I guess we're going home.”

“They'll be back soon,” said Yasmine softly, searching the waters as if looking for one last trace of them. “It's only a week.”

“But it seems like so much longer.” Katy sat in the grass, dipping her bare feet into the silver waters. “It seems like we have forever in front of us.”

Dusty sat down beside her. He put his hand on Katy's arm, smiling his slow, contented smile.

“We do,” he said simply. Katy looked at him curiously.

“I suppose we do,” she said softly.

“It's almost a good thing, isn't it?” said Ben, “I'm not afraid of what's coming next. Not anymore.”

“Now that Mama and Papa are married, will things be different? Will they?” Jackie questioned, grasping Jack by the hand.

“I reckon they will, a little,” said Jack, “But in a good way.”

“We'll see them again soon, Jack-Jack,” said Adrian, putting an arm about her and smiling. “They'll come back.”

“Well, I'll just stay up and wait for them.” said Jackie matter-of-factly, plopping down on the grass and folding her hands in her lap.

They all smiled and laughed. Jack and Yasmine sat on either side of Jackie as Adrian joined Katy and Dusty by the riverside.

“We'll have to wait a little longer than you think,” whispered Yasmine into Jackie's ear. Jackie snuggled up under Yasmine's arm, yawning and closing her eyes.

“Past bedtime?”

“Past bedtime.”

“Past breakfast?”

“Yes, past breakfast.”

“Well, what about lunch? Will we have to wait past lunch, too?”

“Yes, after that, too.”

“Will we have to wait forever, Yasmine?”

Yasmine put her arms about Jackie and smiled at the others. Her heart was so full of love and hope for each of them that it nearly hurt.

“No, we won't have to wait forever,” she said softly, hoping Jackie couldn't see her crying, “They made sure of that.”

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Chapter Forty

Dearest Yasmine Lily Potter,

We found this in a little old bookshop today and thought of you. It smells faintly of coffee round the edges, as if someone couldn't bear to put it down even for breakfast. Those are the best kinds of stories, you know. The kind that takes hold of your heart and refuses to let go—even for breakfast.

Love forever from your parents,

Mama and Dad

“She's been reading that book forever,” said Adrian, looking up into the tree-house where Yasmine was perched reading. “It must be exciting.”

“She's not reading the book,” said Katy softly, hugging the tree trunk and smiling. Adrian looked puzzled for a moment. Then, as he heard sobs coming faintly from above, he understood.

Among the rustle of the leaves, Yasmine curled up in a corner of the tree house and held the precious letter to her heart, her face stained with tears and brightened with a brilliant smile.

Dear Dustin Albus Potter,

This is a shell we found walking along the beach today. It didn't seem like much at first. But then we saw the way it reflected the sunlight, and… well. You see the way it shines.

We love you, Dusty. We don't know how else to say it, but with you—we don't have to.

All our love,

Mama and Dad

“What's that in the window?” Yasmine said, missing the pass from Jack and letting the football roll past her under the porch. Jack glanced up and saw a glint of rainbow dazzling in the window.

“That's Dusty's shell,” he said, “he asked Ron to hang it where he could always see it.”

Yasmine waved. “Is that him?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, working his way under the porch. His voice was a bit muffled, but Yasmine could still catch what he said. “I don't know why, but he likes to sit there and watch it when it's sunny. You know. It's just the way he is. I don't understand it.”

Yasmine could see Dusty's eyes fixed firmly on the glimmering purple shell, oblivious to her wave.

“I think I do,” was all she said, before they returned to their game.

Dear Katy Minerva Potter,

We found these magical building blocks today in a toy shop down the street from us. You can mold them into any shape you like, and within a few minutes they'll be as hard as wood. If you tap them once, they'll stick to the other blocks touching them. If you tap them twice, they'll return to their original shape.

You are very good at building things, after all. And we think you're very good at building up people, too. Don't ever underestimate the value of your gentleness and encouragement, Katy-girl. Don't underestimate yourself.

Lots of love,

Mama and Dad

“I want Mama and Papa to come back, Katy,” complained Jackie, as she watched Katy carefully build a tower on the floor. “I like Grandfather and Grandmother, but I want Mama and Papa back.”

“We'll have to wait a little longer, Jack-Jack,” said Katy, taking a triangle block and molding it into a cone, “They are having a good time, though. Did you see the pictures they sent us?”

“Uh-huh,” said Jackie, sighing, “we have a good time here, too.”

“Exactly,” said Katy, standing. Her creation was a few inches taller than she was, and she felt herself swell with pride at the sight of it.

“It's a castle!” Jackie exclaimed. “What's it for, Katy?”

Katy smiled at her.

“It's for you,” she said, “it's your very own castle.”

Jackie gasped and squealed in delight, throwing her arms around Katy and babbling in excitement. “Really, Katy? It's really mine?”

“To keep,” said Katy, laughing and grinning, “For as long as you want.”

Jackie stopped then, eyeing Katy in sudden puzzlement.

“But weren't the blocks your present?” Jackie asked, “Aren't they for you? What will you have?”

Katy smiled again, sticking her hand in her jeans pocket and thumbing the corner of the well-worn letter.

“A lot more than you think,” was all she said. “Now let's play!”

Dear Jack Howard Potter,

We hope you like this watch! It's a bit like the ones the Weasleys have in their home. That way, you'll always know where we are.

We'll always be with you, Jack. You'll always be our son—always.

Take care of your brothers and sisters, Jack, as we always know you will.

We love you,

Mama and Dad

“What time is it, Jack?” Katy asked, sprawling out on the couch with a book. Jack looked up, starting a little.

“I don't know,” he said after a moment. “Go look.”

“But you have a watch now,” said Katy, slightly bewildered, “you've been staring at it the whole time.”

“I know,” said Jack, “but it doesn't tell me that.”

He looked down at his watch. Harry and Hermione's hands were ticking ever closer to `Home' every day, and for some reason Jack couldn't stop staring at it.

“I'll tell you this, though, Katy-girl,” said Jack, rolling over, “Mum and Dad are coming home.”

He grinned at her. “Until then, I'll take care of you. Don't worry about that.”

Dear Adrian Sirius Potter,

How do you like the flute? We bought it in hopes that you could entertain your grandparents after dinner tonight. We've heard some beautiful music in the past few days, and it's amazing how much it can cheer everyone up.

That's something we love about you, Adrian. You are always able to cheer us up when we need it. Don't lose that joy. It would be sorely missed. We are so very lucky to have found you that day, and we feel even luckier to be your parents.

Love,

Mama and Dad

“Grandmother? Are you all right?”

“Oh,” Mrs. Granger sniffled hastily and wiped her eyes, “of course I'm all right, dear. Don't worry about me.”

Adrian climbed onto the couch beside her, his legs dangling over the edge.

“You were crying, weren't you?”

Mrs. Granger wiped her eyes again and didn't reply, feeling slightly ashamed of herself.

“Did you see what Mama and Dad sent me?”

He held up the little wooden flute. Mrs. Granger tried to smile and nodded, trying to suppress the sobs that bubbled up in her when he mentioned Hermione.

“I figured out how to play the lullaby,” he said, scooting closer to her. “Do you want to hear? It always cheers us up. I mean, Jackie and me.”

He leaned on her shoulder and placed the mouthpiece in his mouth.

Moments later, a sweet, hollow song filled the living room. Mrs. Granger smiled finally through her tears.

“Hermione sings this to you?” she asked, as soon as Adrian had finished. Adrian nodded and smiled.

“Mostly Jackie, actually, but she sang it to me when I was sick. Or, I mean, she hummed it. She doesn't usually sing the words.”

“She learned it from me, you know,” said Mrs. Granger, wiping her eyes with a damp tissue, “we used to sing her to sleep every night with that song.”

Adrian studied her with an unusually understanding look.

“Grandmother?”

“Yes, dear.”

“You did a good job,” he said, taking her hand, “with Mama, I mean. She's the best person in the whole world—except for Dad, of course. That makes you a great mother, too, doesn't it?”

“Well, not exactly,” Mrs. Granger choked out, smiling still, “she wasn't with me very long.”

He put his flute on her knee and smiled.

“Thank you for giving her to us, Grandmother,” he said, sincerely, “she saved my life, you know. I almost died. And I'm very grateful, because—because without her I wouldn't ever have had a mother—or a grandmother, either.”

She sobbed a little and put her arms around him.

“You're-- you're welcome, Adrian. And thank you.”

“I meant to cheer you up,” he said, grinning lopsidedly and reminding Helen forcibly of Harry. “I guess I didn't do a very good job, did I?”

“No, no, that's not true,” said Mrs. Granger, “you did a wonderful job. And it sounded beautiful.”

Adrian smiled.

“Can you sing it, too?”

“Oh, you wouldn't even recognize the tune when I sing it.”

“I think I would,” said Adrian, “besides, it's only important because it's my family singing it, not because it sounds good.”

He picked up his flute and jumped to his feet.

“Come on, Grandmother! Let's show Grandfather.”

Mrs. Granger smiled after him, wiping her eyes one more time.

“We truly are family after all,” she said to herself, “strange as it seems.”

She glanced out the window.

“Thank you, Hermione,” she said softly, before she turned away and followed her grandson out the door.

Dear Benjamin James Potter,

Do you know what this is? It's a two way mirror. Harry's godfather gave one to him once, and even the broken pieces of it proved very useful.

This allows you to call us whenever you need us. We have a matching mirror with us, and if you call our names, we'll be able to hear you.

We'll always come to you. If you are ever hurt or afraid or even frustrated, we'll be there.

Remember, there is nothing you have to do to make us love you, and there is nothing you can do to make us stop.

With all our love,

Mama and Dad

Ben and Adrian sat on the porch watching the sun go down. Adrian was playing soft, idle little melodies on his flute, but Ben hardly noticed them. He was staring at his mirror, watching the golden sun rays reflecting off the mirror's silver surface.

“Are you okay, Ben?”

Ben started, finally noticing that Adrian was eyeing him in concern.

“Yeah,” he said, “I'm all right.”

“I miss them, too,” said Adrian, lowering his flute a little. “But they're nearly home. Jack says so.”

Ben looked down at his mirror.

“I could call them,” he said, more to himself than to Adrian, “and I could talk to them.”

“What do you need to talk to them about?” Adrian said curiously, playing a scale with a quick movement of his fingers.

“I don't know,” said Ben, slowly, “Everything.”

“What does that mean?” Adrian asked, staring at him. “Everything?”

“I just… everything,” said Ben, “or nothing in particular. Something.”

There was a silence, and Ben sighed.

He missed them, he thought, he missed them more than he ever thought he could miss anyone. He thought it was strange, since he spent so much time with them both, since he lived with them—since they were his parents. But their absence was palpable in the house, palpable like an ache and a smile all at once.

“Home's not the same without them,” he said, putting the mirror aside.

“Home is where the heart is,” said Adrian philosophically, and Ben laughed.

“It's true, I suppose,” he said, “that's why people use it so much. Home is where we're all together.”

Adrian nodded.

“You're right.”

They watched the sun go down, watching their little world slide into warm, moonlit darkness.

“One more day,” said Adrian softly. Ben grinned.

“One more day until we're home.”

Dear Jacqueline Helen Potter,

How has your day been? We sent you a little bed for Oats to sleep in. We heard you thought Oats was big enough to sleep by himself, so we thought we'd let him try it. Of course, if he gets lonely, he shouldn't feel silly for going back to your bed for a few nights.

We love you very much, Jack-Jack. We're so proud of you, and so glad to watch you grow up.

We can't wait to see you tomorrow! Don't wait up for us, though. Even grown-up girls need to sleep.

Love and kisses,

Mama and Papa

“I don't think I want Oats to sleep there tonight, Grandfather,” said Jackie in a trembling voice from the bed. Mr. Granger paused, and sat on the edge of Jackie's bed.

“Why not, Jackie?”

“Because he's lonely,” said Jackie, fisting her blanket and gazing at the tiny doll bed beside her own, “and he wants Mama and Papa to come kiss us goodnight.”

Mr. Granger bent and kissed Jackie's forehead.

“Well, he doesn't have to stay there if he doesn't want,” he said gently, leaning down and pulling the bear out of the bed. “But does Oats know that Harry and Hermione are coming home tonight?”

“Yes, but I want them now.” Great tears flowed from Jackie's eyes , and Mr. Granger put an arm about her small shoulders.

“I know,” he said, “but just think of the fun we've had while they've been away.”

“Like the swings at the park?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Granger, “and remember yesterday?”

“When you tickled me and laughed so hard that you cried?” said Jackie, brightening a little, “Papa cried, too, when he married Mama.”

“That's right. And just think. You and Mama and Papa and your brothers and sisters will all live at the same place now.”

“And I'll see Papa every day,” said Jackie happily, snuggling Oats and scooting closer to Mr. Granger on the bed. “Will I see you every day, too?”

“No,” said Mr. Granger, surprised at how much the answer pained him, “not every day. But quite a bit.”

“I'll miss you, too, Grandfather,” said Jackie, closing her hands around two of his fingers, “you aren't like Papa, but I love you like him, or almost like him.”

“I love you, too, Jackie,” said Mr. Granger, smiling at her and feeling himself grow mysteriously misty-eyed. “Good night.”

He kissed her on the forehead again.

“Good night, Grandfather. Love you lots,” said Jackie sleepily. He turned off the lights, stood, and crept out of the room.

He smiled, and whispered softly, “I love you lots more.”

There was no reply, but he felt no shame in wiping a few tears away as he shut the door.

“I'll miss them, too,” came Helen's voice from behind him. He turned and wrapped his arms around his wife.

“Strangest family I've ever seen,” he murmured, kissing her hair. Helen laughed.

“Oh, without a doubt,” she conceded, “What would our neighbors say?”

“Not that it matters. Or not anymore.”

“No,” Helen said softly, resting her chin on his shoulder, “not anymore.”

“Hermione is so young, Helen,” Howard said, wistfully, “yet so… so mature.”

“I suppose she gets that from you,” said Helen, making him chuckle. “She's so much happier now, Howard, have you noticed? She used to be so serious.”

“So did you,” he returned, smiling to soften the reply. She blinked and frowned.

“And what does that mean, Howard?”

“It means that you've changed, Helen,” he said thoughtfully, “both of us have.”

“For the better, I hope,” said Helen dryly. Howard kissed her

“Oh, undeniably for the better, dear,” he said, “we've both learned how to love even more than before.”

She drew back, tilting her head and examining his face in wonder.

“You know, sometimes it astonishes me.”

“What astonishes you?” he said, blinking.

“How alike you and Hermione are,” she said.

“Thank you for the compliment, my dear,” he said, laughing quietly, “because the more time I spend with our girl, the more I want to be like her.”

Helen brushed her hand against his cheek.

“Well, if it's any comfort,' she said, “I like you the way you are, Howard Granger. And I'm very lucky to have you.”

He smiled and kissed her.

“I like you for who you are, Helen—but I love you even more for the person I've seen you become.”

*********

It was near midnight when they arrived at the house, holding hands and carrying bags. Harry put down the suitcase, put his arm about her, and kissed her forehead.

“You smell like the sea,” he commented, smiling. She laughed and pushed at his chest with her palm.

“So do you, Mr. Potter. Now are you going to unlock the door?”

He paused, looking at the old house with an odd look on his face.

“Even with all of our sight-seeing,” he said, “this is my favorite sight so far.”

Hermione sighed and smiled, leaning against him and gazing at the front door fondly.

“It's mine, too,” she whispered. She turned toward him and kissed him.

“Are you ready?” she asked softly. He looked at her, his eyes bright and tender as the moon above them.

“You know the answer,” he said softly.

With that, they opened the door and stepped inside, taking their bags and closing the door behind them.

Night enfolded the old house comfortably in gentle starlight, summer breezes, and cricket lullabies. And there, at the end of the lane, the old house slept—quiet, comfortable, alive and breathing—until morning.

A/N: And so the curtain closes. Thank you so much for your faithful reviews and encouragement throughout this journey and experiment. It has been a beautiful, fulfilling experience for me, and I hope you can say the same.

One question some of you may ask is: will I ever return to the Potters' old house again? Fortunately, the answer is yes. I am working steadily on a follow-up, but I am attempting to get ahead for the school year, so that updates can be fairly regular. For now, I can only thank you again for your reviews and patience.

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