Unofficial Portkey Archive

A/N: So yeaaah…I feel terrible for taking almost a year to update, but in my defense I've been incredibly busy. To hit a few high points, since I last updated I graduated from college with a B.S. in Biological Sciences, had two nephews introduced to the world, started veterinary school, and have already taken six tests in said school. Again, I apologize, but it couldn't be helped. That being said, I'm still fully committed to completing this story, so THREE UPDATES left. That's my intention, anyway. We'll see how these next few chapters develop. Enjoy and please review!

Chapter 47: Simple

Rose pushed her spoon glumly about her oatmeal, scraping the sides of her bowl as she mixed the mushy substance to an even mushier consistency. It had long gone cold, but she continued to sit stubbornly on the wooden bench, trying to appear oblivious to the continual looks being shot in her direction.

Al, who she was willing to bet was actually oblivious to the gawking students, sat next to her, his own breakfast in an even worse state than her own. He prodded mindlessly at his sausage and eggs, blending ketchup and congealed yolk into an increasingly unappetizing concoction, while James, a little ways down the table, seemed to be eating enough for the both of them, shoveling eggs and bacon and toast into his mouth with abandon. Both needed haircuts; their dark shaggy hair fell heavily on their brows, accentuating the mutual sullenness of their expressions.

They had barely been at Hogwarts a week, and Rose already felt her patience with her fellow students dwindling into nonexistence. James and Al were having a rough enough time as it was without the constant pity sent their way. True to his disposition, Al handled the attention more gracefully than his brother, who simmered in his anger and lashed out at all but the simplest commiserations. Al was far more polite, but Rose could easily see he disliked the pity at much as his brother.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rose noticed a group of Hufflepuffs muttering amongst themselves, shooting furtive glances towards the Potters and herself. A Ravenclaw nearby craned her neck to peer at James, and the whispers of a trio of Gryffindor girls were loud enough to drift to Rose's ears.

"…know how long ago it happened?"

"A few weeks ago, I think…maybe a month…"

"I heard it was a curse…the Prophet never gave any details though…"

Rose stirred her oatmeal more viciously, fuming at the nosiness of her peers. It was none of their bloody business what had happened to her aunt…

"Chill out, Rose," Al said quietly, tapping his fork against his plate to draw her attention before whirling it vaguely in her direction. "Doesn't matter."

There was a loud clatter as Rose's fork and knife dropped from where it had been hovering inches above the table's surface.

"Sorry," Rose muttered, creating an additional clatter as she deliberately dropped her spoon. Pushing away her bowl, she placed her hands in front of her and decisively interlaced her fingers into a tangled web. "I just wish they'd lose interest. They should all keep their noses out of where they don't belong."

Al shrugged, a listless rise and slump of his cloaked shoulders. "It'll ease up sooner or later."

Rose was about to reply, but remained quiet as she sensed the approach of someone behind her. Glancing covertly beneath the crook of her robed arm, she could see a pair of pitch-black, heavily shined and very expensive loafers trod closer to their table, sidling, hesitant. A few seconds of brief consideration enlightened her to the likely resident in the showy footwear. A brief glance over her shoulder confirmed it.

"Scorpius," she said coolly.

And under most circumstances, cool was as cold-and as warm-a temperature as she ever directed to the young Slytherin. The extensive and largely unpleasant history that existed between her family-especially her parents and uncle-and the Malfoys predicated a polite formality towards Scorpius as much as it inhibited further affability. Frankly, she was unsure of what her opinion of him would be if she didn't know his last name. He was not entirely unappealing in appearance, if a little ostentatious in his demeanor, and she knew him to be of at least moderately above-average intelligence, especially in Charms. Her knowledge of him basically ended there, and even that knowledge was viewed through a lens of neutrality that left little room for personal opinion.

But today was not what she qualified to be most circumstances, and the sight of the boy standing there, not a blonde hair out of place, his grey eyes darting between her, Al, and his stupidly pricey and stupidly fidgeting shoes bugged her excessively. Not to mention the increased and rapid whispers from her classmates that created a droning in her ears; it certainly didn't help matters.

"What do you want, Scorpius?" Rose snapped, angling herself very suddenly to face him, and was gratified to see the boy flinch slightly at her outburst. Al, who had been unaware of Scorpius' approach, shot her a look before he angled himself towards the Slytherin as well. Rose ignored Al's unspoken reprimand, instead choosing to glare at the unwelcome intruder.

Scorpius continued to look uncomfortable as he looked between Al and Rose, although he thankfully spared his loafers further scrutiny. He even shot a glance towards James, who was observing the interaction with vague interest.

Finally, his eyes settled on Al.

"I just…I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he said, speaking just loud enough for James to hear as well. "About your mum."

Rose eyed Al as Scorpius spoke, and Al eyed Scorpius, his emerald irises dark and calculating beneath his furrowed brow. She was a bit surprised at Al's silence, the lack of the obligatory gratitude for Scorpius' commiserations, but after a moment she realized why. Of anyone in the school beyond their cousins, this boy, the son of Draco Malfoy, would have heard the most about Ginny Potter. Or, more accurately, he had heard the most about Ginny Weasley, the young, vibrant girl who had walked these halls, perhaps sat on numerous occasions where Rose was sitting now. The thought gave her pause, and she was fairly certain this is what gave Al pause as well. What had Draco Malfoy deigned to say to Scorpius about Al's mother? What adjectives, which memories had he chosen to ascribe to the youngest Weasley? What had he selected to illustrate her core, her very being, to a boy who had never seen more than a glimpse of her? And furthermore, according to her Mum and Dad and Uncle Harry, Draco Malfoy had never liked any of the Weasleys…even the mere possibility that he had slandered Aunt Ginny in any way set Rose's skin crawling. She wouldn't stand for that, family truce be damned. Al's defensive posture betrayed a similar line of thinking.

Scorpius seemed to sense the tension that had descended so rapidly upon the situation, stretched tautly between them and liable to snap at the smallest loafer-clad misstep. He smoothed a hand over his pale blonde helmet of hair and glanced towards the Slytherin table longingly, clearly rethinking his decision to confront them.

"I…" he started again, uneasy under Al's expectant stare. "I just…I know our parents didn't get along, but my dad's told me about her. Your mum, I mean. Said she was really funny. Really good Chaser, too."

He paused, seemingly unsure of whether he should leave it at that. Rose knew it wasn't his fault, but it all felt so…inadequate.

She was surprised, then, when Scorpius chuckled.

"What?" she asked, furrowing her brow in confusion. What could he possibly be laughing at?

"Sorry," he said. "It's just that my dad said one of the worst things that ever happened to him in school was being on the business end of one of your mum's Bat Bogey Hexes."

And just like that, the expressionless mask Al's features had arranged themselves into so persistently was gone. He blinked a few times, as though adjusting to sunlight after being in a darkened room for too long. A small grin blossomed on his lips.

It was James who spoke up first.

"Saw her use that on Uncle George once," he said, smiling as well. "He says he still has nightmares about it."

Al gave a laugh, weakly, as though the ability had atrophied after a month of disuse.

"She used to threaten us with it when we got into a fight," he mused. "She always said whatever we were arguing about would seem pretty unimportant when we had bats popping out of our noses."

"And she always said that if it was worth all that to keep fighting-"

"-`then by all means,'" Al finished, shaking his head fondly as the memory enveloped him.

Scorpius smiled a bit more widely at Al and James's positive reactions to his words.

"Seems like sound logic to me," he said.

Al was still smiling faintly as he reached up to briefly massage his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. When he opened his eyes again, they were brighter than before, but Rose thought that he looked more like himself than he had in weeks.

"Yeah," he said. "It does."

Al glanced down, and then back up as he nodded to the Slytherin.

"Thanks, Scorpius," he said. "Tell your dad thanks as well, would you?"

"Sure," Scorpius said. "Of course."

He stood there awkwardly a moment more, and then turned on expensive heel and strode back to his table, where his friends were peering at him with open curiosity and more than a few with smirks.

Rose and Al watched Scorpius's retreating back thoughtfully until Al, with a sudden burst of liveliness, swung back towards the table.

He reached towards a jug a pumpkin juice as he jerked his head towards one of the platters on the table.

"Could you pass me a piece of that toast, Rose?"

Rose smiled as she angled herself back to the table as well.

"Gladly."

******************

Hermione grimaced as she sipped at a scalding and excessively bitter mug of coffee. In her sleep-deprived haze hours earlier, she had mindlessly shoveled far too much of the dark, fragrant grounds into the greedy maw of the filter, resulting in a barely tolerable brew of which she had nonetheless consumed four cups. Not that she could rightfully complain…she had wanted to wake up, and the caffeine-induced thudding of her pulse indicated the effort was an undeniable success.

Of course, over-caffeination was not entirely to blame-the crumpled newspaper on the table before her also lent a great deal to her agitation. Its contents were nothing new, nothing that hadn't been said countless times before, but that didn't mean it didn't rankle her nerves any less today than it had a month ago.

POTTER CONTINUES SEARCH FOR KILLER

Head Auror Harry Potter, better known as the Boy-Who-Lived and the vanquisher of the Dark Lord Voldemort, continues relentlessly in the search for Antonin Dolohov, a high-priority suspect in the murder of Potter's wife, Ginerva, who succumbed to a curse-related illness shortly after the New Year. Although further details about the case are being kept under wraps, sources indicate that, despite the time and resources placed at Potter's disposal in apprehending the suspect, little headway has been made in discovering Dolohov's whereabouts.

Below this block of text was a large photo of Harry and Ginny that had been taken years ago at some Ministry event that Hermione had quite forgotten the purpose of. Harry was dressed crisply in dark charcoal robes, his hair tamed for once, and Ginny stood at his side, her fiery hair cascading about her shoulders and her jade green dress popping nicely against her husband's dark attire. They both beamed up from the newspaper, happy, dreadfully oblivious to the caption their photo accompanied.

Hermione's hand quivered more fervently as she continued to stare at the smiling couple, and she hissed in pain as a bit of the scalding contents of her fifth cup sloshed over the rim of her mug, setting the skin of her right hand ablaze and blurring the print of the Daily Prophet. She didn't even bother with her wand to clean up the mess-she really didn't want it within her power to read the paper anymore, to flip as she undoubtedly would have to the story Continued on page 6, and thus allowed the coffee to seep through page after page until the entire issue was sodden.

Only when this was done did she lift the bundle of ruined paper and dump it unceremoniously into the trash.

Hermione had just finished wiping her kitchen table clean when a knock resounded at her door. Tossing the dishtowel aside, she moved to open the door and, guessing who was behind it, was glad she had thrown out the paper away when she had.

Sure enough, her guesswork was correct: Harry stepped over her threshold, a thick jacket covering his shoulders, and Lily clutched his hand, bundled in an even thicker jacket, scarf, and woolen cap.

As soon as the door had shut behind them, Lily immediately began to shed her numerous layers, first picking the gloves from her hands finger by finger. Next came her brightly patterned blue scarf (courtesy of Mrs. Weasley), and the matching hat soon followed, unveiling the full length of red hair that Hermione was sure still gave Harry a pang of distress. Hermione couldn't help but feel it herself.

When Hermione moved to help her from the coat, she finally noticed that Harry remained enveloped in his own jacket and gloves and showed no inclination to remove them. In fact, he stood decidedly by the door, clearly intent to make a speedy exit if at all possible.

Ushering Lily towards the kitchen, Hermione looked expectantly at Harry.

He remained where he was, but nodded his head towards her attire.

"Nice sweatshirt," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching very slightly.

Hermione glanced down and couldn't help but smirk slightly as well at the fluorescently bright orange sweatshirt she had thrown on.

"I was cold," she said, crossing her arms over the Chudley Cannons logo emblazoned across her chest. "Aren't you coming in?"

Harry looked towards the doorway, then towards Lily walking about in the kitchen.

"I was only dropping by to ask if you could watch Lily for a bit," he finally said. "I have somewhere I need to go and I can't take her."

Hermione considered him for a moment before reaching forward and clasping his gloved hand, pulling him towards the kitchen.

"Of course I can watch her," she said. "But only if you'll just sit for a few minutes before you leave; you look as though you're about to fall over."

And he did look like he was about to fall over. As she practically shoved him into a chair next to his daughter, she could easily discern the hollowness of his cheeks, the dark shadows brimming his eyes, the way his coat seemed to swallow his frame. These observations struck her with special ferocity given the photo she had observed scarcely ten minutes before. That visage and the person before her were hardly comparable.

"Lily," Hermione said, breaking herself away from these thoughts. "Would you like anything? Tea, cocoa?"

Lily's eyes brightened at the latter suggestion, and Hermione had already moved towards the correct cupboard before the young girl had even given voice to her selection.

"Harry?" she asked as she went about preparing the drink.

"I can get-" Harry said, adjusting his chair as though to stand.

A sharp look from Hermione stilled him, however, and a moment later he docilely stated, "Coffee would be great."

"I have to warn you, it's pretty strong," Hermione said.

"Stronger the better."

"I bet you'll say differently in a moment."

After pouring the remnants of the coffee pot into a mug, she set both steaming beverages on the table before their respective recipients. Harry and Lily simultaneously reached forward and wrapped their hands about the cups; both were seemingly content to let warmth leach into their fingers. Their behavior deviated upon taking a sip, however-Lily's delighted grin contrasted nicely with Harry's surprised wince.

"You weren't lying," Harry said, smacking his lips. "That's a bit on the strong side."

"I did warn you," Hermione said, moving to fetch some cream and sugar.

"It's alright," Harry said, taking a more liberal sip. "I imagine it'll get the job done."

"And if the first one doesn't, the second or third will probably do the trick," Hermione said.

"I'm guessing you speak from experience?" Harry said, quirking an eyebrow as he accepted the cream and sugar from her shaky hands.

"Possibly," Hermione said, smiling slightly.

Further conversation was mostly impeded as Harry poured a generous portion of cream into his coffee and proceeded to drink it at a rate indicative of his eagerness to leave. Hermione continued to observe him quietly, and Lily was just as silent as she sipped her cocoa.

Harry stood even as he was draining the last remnants of his mug.

"I guess I'll be off, then," he said. He bent and kissed the crown of Lily's hair. "I'll be back soon, alright?"

She nodded mutely at his words, and Harry immediately started towards the door. Hermione was right on his heels, and she managed to step in front of him before he could reach towards the doorknob.

"Thanks for watching Lily," he said. "I really won't be gone long."

"Where are you going?" she asked quietly, mindful of Lily being within earshot.

"I'd rather not say," Harry said.

"You aren't about to do anything rash, are you?"

"Rash? No, I've thought about it quite a lot, actually. Besides, what exactly can I do that's rash? Go after Dolohov? It's not like I know where he is."

Hermione had to concede to the veracity of these words, but it didn't do a terrible lot in easing her mind.

Harry apparently saw the doubt on her face.

"I'll be fine, Hermione…I'd just rather not talk about it until it's done. Seriously, don't worry about me."

"Somebody's got to," Hermione murmured, and Harry smiled wearily.

She reached up to cup his pale cheek, and his eyes seemed to droop at the contact. He leaned into her touch and closed his eyes fully, and looked as if he could very well fall asleep just as he was, standing upright with her hand as his pillow.

After a few moments, in which his features relaxed and his breath settled into a gentle rhythm, he opened his eyes again, and Hermione felt the already rapid thud of her heart evolve into thunder under his stare.

She swallowed nervously, and proceeded to lower her hand.

"You…you should take better care of yourself," she finally said, feeling flustered.

Harry averted his eyes for a moment as he stepped past her, but paused with his hand on the doorknob as he glanced at her once more.

"Soon enough, maybe."

He opened the door, and the cold rush of wind that preceded his exit caught her breath.

"I'll be back soon," he said once more, and the door clicked shut, separating her from him and the harsh wind.

She certainly hoped so.

With a sigh, she returned to the kitchen, where Lily waited expectantly. Her mug was empty, and Hermione mechanically deposited it in the sink.

"I'm sorry Hugo isn't around," Hermione said. "He's with his dad for the day."

"That's okay," Lily responded. "Dad told me he'd only be gone an hour or two."

"Well…what would you like to do in the meantime, then?"

Lily shrugged noncommittally. "Doesn't matter. I might just go up to Hugo's room."

Hermione pursed her lips as she considered alternatives to this, intent on not allowing Lily to cloister herself off. She knew she wasn't a substitute for the role Ginny would have filled, not by a long shot, but she hoped her presence provided some semblance of comfort.

"You could…" she mused, "but I was actually planning on baking strawberry rhubarb tarts to send to James for his birthday. I could use some help."

Lily gazed down at the table for a moment, and Hermione felt certain that her offer was about to be rejected. However, when she looked up, she appeared merely thoughtful. "Could we make some treacle ones for Dad too?"

Hermione smiled at Lily's concern for her father. "Of course we can. If we start now they should be ready by the time your dad gets back."

"Alright," Lily said, standing up and moving towards the counter. "What should I do first?"

"You could get the butter from the fridge."

Lily obediently went about her task, and Hermione took the time to gather sugar and flour from the cupboard. Once the ingredients were spread along the counter, Hermione rolled up her orange sleeves and Lily followed suit, pushing the cuffs of her sweater above her elbows.

"Grab a handful of flour," Hermione instructed, "and sprinkle it over the counter."

Lily obeyed immediately, digging her fist into the flour and scooping out a large portion. As she delicately used both hands to meticulously dust the flour over the counter in an even layer, Hermione used her wand to slice the cold butter into cubes.

"Good," Hermione said once Lily had finished.

Measuring out double portions of flour and sugar, Hermione added a dash of salt before pushing half of the mixture to Lily, and immediately crumbled the butter over each.

"Now mix it," Hermione said. "We'll use your half for your dad's tarts."

"But what if I mess it up?" Lily asked.

"You won't," Hermione assured her, pressing her hands into the flour and savoring the silky dryness of the powdery mixture against her fingers. "It's really quite easy and basically impossible to mess up. I wouldn't mess with it otherwise-I think we can leave the more complex recipes to your grandmother, don't you?"

The corners of Lily's mouth lifted just slightly in acknowledgment before she thrust her own hands into the flour.

They both kneaded at their mixtures silently until Hermione was satisfied with the texture, at which point she poured cold water among the flour.

"It was a good idea to make these for your dad," Hermione said. "He'll love them."

Lily's hands continued busily over her dough as the flour absorbed the water.

"Where did he go?" she asked after a beat, her eyes never leaving her hands.

Hermione's hands were the ones that momentarily stilled, but she recovered soon enough.

"He just had some…business to take care of," she said, pressing her hands into her own dough. The iciness of the added water made her palms sting.

"Is it dangerous? The place he went to?"

Hermione slowly set to work on the dough, kneading and kneading as she turned the question over in her mind.

"I don't know," she said, opting for the truth. "He didn't say."

"Does that mean something's going to happen to him? Like Mum?"

"No," Hermione said instantly, repeating aloud the same answer she gave when she asked herself that question. "Absolutely not."

Lily didn't immediately respond with another question, but turned her brown eyes (so like Ginny's) to Hermione with an expression of tentative hope.

"How do you know?"

"He's…" Hermione began, dusting her palms with more flour and doing the same to Lily's, "he's him. He always manages. No matter how bad of a situation he gets into."

"But he usually has help, doesn't he? Like you or Uncle Ron?"

"Yes," Hermione conceded, "we've helped him before. If he needed it. Luckily, he's still got us to help him."

"If he needs it," Lily said.

"If he needs it," Hermione confirmed.

"But…but he's scared, isn't he?"

Hermione's first instinct was to deny this, to present Harry as the pinnacle of fearlessness, the unbreakable hero, the storybook champion. The words settled on the tip of her tongue, but they fell away silently as she parted her lips to speak. To give voice to such a description would be an injustice to Lily. And to Harry.

"Everyone gets scared sometimes," Hermione finally said. "Even him. But it's okay to be afraid of something as long as you can face it at the end of the day."

She glanced over at Lily then, and leaned in closer as though to reveal a secret.

"And between you and me, your dad has always been pretty excellent at that."

Hermione straightened, and casually reached for a rolling pin, which she began to work over the surface of the dough.

"Did your Dad or Mum ever tell you about the time he saved her in our second year at Hogwarts?"

Lily shook her head, which Hermione was not terribly surprised at. Just as the details of the war were often skimmed over when it happened to come up, many of the darker elements of their time in Hogwarts had failed to make themselves known to their children, at least as of yet.

"Well," Hermione said, "when we were in our second year at Hogwarts-your mother was in her first year-a monster was released in the school."

"What sort of monster?" Lily asked, intrigued.

"A basilisk," Hermione said. "An enormous snake that can paralyze you with a single look."

"Really?" Lily said.

"Really. It happened to me, actually. And a couple of other students. The entire school was completely terrified. Even the teachers. But Harry didn't let that stop him. When he heard your Mum was in trouble, he found the lair of the basilisk, he took the legendary sword of Gryffindor, and he battled that snake to save her."

Lily's eyes were wide in surprise as she gazed at Hermione raptly. The dough was completely forgotten, although her hands were still immersed.

"Just like a knight in a storybook!" she said in wonder.

Hermione smiled and tapped Lily's nose with one flour-dusted finger.

"Precisely like a knight in a storybook," she said.

******************

Hermione had just pulled the trays of tarts from the oven when a knock sounded at the door.

"Just in the nick of time," she said. "Will you go open the door for your dad?"

Lily complied immediately, sliding from her chair and darting from the kitchen.

A moment later she gave a shout of delight.

"It's Victoire!" she called to Hermione.

"Yes, it's me," Victoire announced as the pair entered the kitchen. She was dressed as warmly as Lily had been, and her long blonde hair was impeccable despite the wind. A smile enhanced her already lovely features, and although she was typically in a good humor, Hermione thought it may have been a tad too broad for an everyday sort of cheerfulness.

"You certainly seem pleased about something," she said, removing her oven mitts.

Victoire blinked in surprise, and tried in vain to hide it. But her open and honest features prevented such artifice, and she quickly gave up the effort.

"You're no fun," Victoire said. "I had an entire bit prepared and you go and spoil it at the first moment."

"Well, you may as well come out with it then," Hermione said.

Victoire was eager to comply, and thrust her left hand forward. The silver band encircling her finger glistened brightly as she held it before Hermione's eyes, and the facets of the small diamond seemed to flash more brilliantly than the kitchen's soft lighting should allow.

The unspoken surprise must have shown in Hermione's features, because Victoire immediately tucked the hand close to her body, fiddling with the ring with her right hand as she gave an embarrassed laugh.

"I know it's kind of sudden, but we've known each other for so long…there didn't seem to be much of a point in waiting once it-"

Victoire's hurried explanation was momentarily interrupted as Lily darted between them. Hermione's gaze followed her path and rested on Harry as Lily threw her arms around him. She hadn't heard him enter, but she noticed that his appearance was decidedly tousled: his hair windswept, his scarf barely clinging to his shoulders, his face pale with cold, and his eyes even wearier than before. But he seemed relieved to have his daughter with him again, and the brief flash of comfort softened his features as he returned her embrace. Hermione scarcely heard the conclusion of Victoire's sentence, absorbed as she was in observing Harry.

"-clicked."

Hermione turned towards Victoire long enough to give her a small smile and nod, reassuring the young woman of her understanding. Victoire smiled in return, still shielding her left hand with her right.

"Hello, Uncle Harry," Victoire said.

"Good to see you, Victoire," Harry greeted in return as Lily tugged at his arm.

"Daddy, you've got snow in your hair," she said, pointing.

Hermione furrowed her brow as she watched Harry brush at the offending locks. Although the wind was as fierce as ever, she was sure it wasn't snowing. A cursory glance toward Victoire's hair and dark jacket further confirmed her certainty.

"That's okay," Harry said as he gave his hair a final tousle. "It hides the gray."

Lily grinned before pointing to the tarts cooling on the counter.

"Aunt Hermione and me-"

"Aunt Hermione and I," Hermione corrected, unable to help herself.

"Aunt Hermione and I," Lily repeated, "baked tarts for you. Treacle ones. And strawberry ones for James since it's almost his birthday."

"Sounds like you stayed busy while I was gone," Harry said.

"Uh-huh. I did everything Aunt Hermione told me to do. I don't know if they're very good," she added candidly.

"I appreciate the vote of confidence," Hermione said.

"I'm sure they're delicious," Harry assured Lily and Hermione.

"But they've got to cool first," Lily said sternly. "You can't have one yet."

Harry snapped his fingers. "Pity. I'll have to try one out after dinner."

"You might not have to wait all the way until then," Lily said. "I want Victoire to try one before we leave so they need to be cool enough by then."

"Great, Victoire can be our guinea pig," Harry said.

"Way to throw me under the bus," Victoire replied.

"What happened to `I'm sure they're delicious'?" Hermione said, rolling her eyes as she leaned against the counter.

"Nothing," Harry said. "Victoire just gets to confirm."

"And why do I get that pleasure?" Victoire said.

"Well," Harry said with a weary smile, "by the way you're hiding your left hand, I'd guess that you should get that honor."

Victoire blinked in brief confusion as she continued to clutch her left hand, and then shook her head, letting her hands fall to her sides.

"I presume Teddy discussed this with you beforehand?"

Harry shrugged. "He may or may not have asked for my opinion."

Hermione smiled at that. Harry was the closest thing to a father that Teddy had, and it was only fitting that the young man had asked his godfather for such important advice.

Victoire crossed her arms, flashing her lovely smile as she drummed the fingers of her left hand against her coat.

"And I take it you approve?"

"It took some time, but I came around to the idea," Harry said. He paused, growing slightly more serious. "Teddy couldn't do better."

Victoire smiled, moving forward to embrace Harry.

"Thank you, Uncle Harry," she said. She pulled away after a moment, still beaming as she gave her ring a twist. "I think I'm doing pretty well too."

Harry nodded and cleared his throat before stepping back.

"I think I'll leave you and Hermione, then," he said. "Lily, get your things."

"But the tarts!" Lily said, gazing entreatingly at her father.

"They're still pretty hot, sweetie," Hermione said. "I might have to package them up and send them over later."

Lily frowned, clearly displeased, but obediently moved to the living room to begin the process of enveloping herself in her winter clothes. Victoire followed to assist her young cousin, leaving Harry and Hermione standing alone in the kitchen.

Hermione took advantage of the momentary beat of privacy and stepped closer to Harry, peering up at him expectantly.

He met her gaze steadfastly and just as expectantly.

"Well?" Hermione whispered, softly enough to avoid attention from Victoire and Lily. "How did it go?"

"How did what go?" Harry whispered back.

Hermione had neither the time nor the inclination to beat around the bush.

"The Wand. You got it, didn't you?"

Harry seemed unsurprised at her conjecture, but took a moment before he nodded.

"Yes," he said. "But it doesn't concern you."

"Anything that concerns you concerns me," Hermione replied. She glanced towards the door and saw that Victoire was in the process of winding Lily's scarf around her neck.

She returned her gaze to Harry and raised a finger to tap to his chest.

"We don't have time to argue about this right now, but I presume that you intend to get the Stone now that you've gotten the Wand. And I'm going with you when you do."

The old Harry would have likely grown angry at this statement, indignant that anyone would try to involve themselves in his problems, and raged at the mere suggestion of Hermione placing herself in danger for him. But Hermione was reminded once more of how different this downtrodden version of Harry was as he reached up to press her hand to his chest, his green eyes fierce.

"I won't lose you too, Hermione."

It was said just as softly as the rest of their whispered conversation, but the intensity and conviction behind it startled even Hermione.

But she recovered quickly, and placed her other hand over the top of his, so that both of her hands were over Harry's heart.

"And you won't."

"You don't know that," he said.

"Of course I don't. Just like I don't know if I'll lose you, or Rose, or Hugo, or Ron…We don't know what's coming. We can't know. But I refuse to be sidelined. I don't know how or where this all will end, but while I can, I will help you."

Harry was silent as he observed her, calculating her words, her expression.

His reply came just as Victoire and Lily approached, the latter thickly cocooned in woolen layers.

"Fine," he said.

Hermione released his hand, partially in response to Lily's approach and partially out of sheer surprise at Harry's easy acquiescence.

Harry took his daughter's hand as he nodded towards Hermione.

"Thanks again for watching her."

"Yes, thank you, Aunt Hermione," Lily said. "Don't forget to send the tarts!"

"Of course," Hermione said. "And it was no trouble."

"Alright, then," Harry said. "It was good to see you, Victoire. Congratulations again."

Victoire expressed her thanks once more, and Harry turned to leave.

"Harry?" Hermione said just as he opened the door. "We'll talk later, right?"

Harry barely glanced back to her as he gave a small nod, and then he was gone.

Satisfied, Hermione turned away from the door, only to meet Victoire's openly curious expression. As casually as she could manage, she brushed past Victoire and entered the kitchen.

"So tell me more about this proposal," Hermione said, as she bustled about the kitchen in a manner that would have made Molly Weasley proud. "Harry interrupted you. It did all happen very suddenly, didn't it? How did he do it? I imagine Teddy would have come up with something fairly clever, knowing him, but it-"

"Aunt Hermione, you're rambling," Victoire said.

The circular motion of the rag that had made its way into Hermione's hand slowed.

"Yes," Hermione admitted.

"Why?"

"Because I saw the expression on your face and knew you were very possibly going to ask me something I'd rather not talk about."

"You got all of that from my expression?" Victoire said, smiling as she seated herself at Hermione's small kitchen table.

"Yes, you've always had a very open face," Hermione said, smiling as well as she replaced the rag by the sink. "For example, it's very obvious that you're going to ask me either way."

Victoire averted her gaze and stared at her hands for a moment. The fingers of her right hand tapped just out of reach of her left, speaking to her urge to twist at the sparkling band adorning it.

Finally, she looked up again, and peered at Hermione for just a moment before smiling and shrugging her shoulders in a rueful fashion.

"Aunt Hermione, can I ask you something?"

Hermione sighed as she seated herself across from Victoire.

"If you insist."

Victoire shook her head, her curtain of blond hair bouncing about her shoulders.

"No, I won't ask you if you really don't want me to. That's why I asked permission."

It was now Hermione's turn to stare at her hands as she mulled over Victoire's words. Despite the considerable disparity in their ages, Hermione felt a kinship with Victoire that she had rarely felt with another witch, and she was surprised to realize that she did want Victoire to ask. Whether it was because she wanted to get a fraction of this burden off her chest, or simply because she wanted someone to give voice and recognition to this thing that had for so long been voiceless and buried, something inside her wanted the question asked…no, something inside her demanded the question be asked.

She looked up just as Victoire had done a moment before and nodded.

"Go ahead."

Victoire drew in a breath at Hermione's acceptance, and glanced toward the ceiling as she exhaled slowly, clearly gathering her thoughts. Hermione allowed the brief pause, glancing outside as she gathered her own.

"Do you-are you-and Uncle Harry…" Victoire finally began, sounding more like a hesitant ten-year-old than the self-assured eighteen-year-old that she was.

Hermione smiled, still staring out of the window. She couldn't help but be amused by the girl's discomfort.

"Are Harry and I what?" she said, glancing over at Victoire.

Victoire fixed her with a glare. "Don't tease me! I'm trying to be serious. And if you know what I'm going to ask, you may as well just go on and answer."

"But I really don't," Hermione said. "I honestly don't. I'm fairly certain of the…essence of the question you have in mind, but there are many facets to that."

"Fine," Victoire sighed, still seeming incredibly uncomfortable. Hermione couldn't blame her. "Are you and Uncle Harry…in love with each other?"

Hermione couldn't help the bark of laugher that escaped her throat.

"I'm sorry," she said in reply to Victoire's look of bewilderment. "It's just that you surprised me."

Victoire blushed. "I…was I completely off base?"

"It's not that," Hermione said. "I'm just surprised at the…bluntness of the question."

"Well, what exactly were you expecting?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Obviously not that… Perhaps I was expecting something more along the lines of, `Are you interested in each other?' or even `Are you attracted to each other?'"

"Are you?" Victoire countered.

"What makes you think that we are?"

Victoire appeared increasingly disgruntled at Hermione's side-steps, but Hermione felt vindicated in her responses. Despite her relief at speaking to Victoire, she had held these secrets for decades…she was reluctant to give up her hand without some effort on Victoire's part. Besides, she really didn't even know how to go about it in the first place. Of the already extremely select group of people who knew the depths of her feelings for Harry, she had only ever articulated them to Harry himself. This was, in many regards, completely uncharted territory, and she was as curious about her own responses as Victoire.

"I don't know," Victoire said, sighing. "It's just…the way that you are with each other. A lot of little things. The way that you look at each other sometimes. Sometimes when one of you isn't even aware-I've seen both of you do it," she added in response to Hermione's blush. "Even when I was younger, I noticed it. You both seem-have always seemed-completely at ease around each other. I've seen you storm into the Burrow, completely fuming about a case or a ruling, and then Harry would show up and within minutes it's like nothing ever happened. Or he would be in a mood about something and you would sit with him for a while and he'd be fine. Sometimes you wouldn't even speak to him..."

Victoire trailed off, and Hermione blinked.

"Don't look so surprised," Victoire said, smiling. "You aren't the only perceptive one."

"Clearly," Hermione said. "I had no idea you were so…observant."

Victoire shrugged. "Is that sufficient for you to answer my question now?"

Hermione bowed her head for a moment. "Actually, no. There's one more thing I'd like to ask you."

"Which is?"

Hermione looked back up to Victoire, and as she met the girl's gaze, she felt every ounce of vulnerability and uncertainty well to the surface.

"What…would you say if I said yes?"

Victoire furrowed her brow. "Why?"

"It's important to me to know what you would think. If we were."

"But…I don't see why it matters."

Hermione peered at her incredulously. "You honestly don't see why your perception of Harry and I being…romantically interested in each other would matter to me?"

"No, I understand why you're interested in hearing what I would think…" Victoire said. "I just don't understand why it…matters."

Despite the weight of the conversation, Hermione was inclined to laugh once more.

"Because it's more complex than you're seeing it," Hermione said. "You're only eighteen, Victoire. Newly engaged, just beginning your life. I don't see things that way anymore. I can't afford to. Surely you see how many variables there are to this?"

"Yes, but-"

"How do you think Molly and Arthur would feel about me sweeping Harry up months after their daughter died?" Hermione replied, her tone deceptively neutral. "And of course that's after I've already done the damage of leaving their son. Speaking of Ron, how hurt and angry do you imagine he would be when he realized he lost his wife to his best friend?" Her voice was quivering a bit now, but she could manage. "And Rose? What do you think she would say to me when she thinks I left her father for her uncle?" Her voice was really shaking now, and she could feel tears flooding to her eyes, blurring her vision. "And Merlin, can you imagine how James and Al and Lily would feel about their aunt coming into the picture and trying to replace their mother?"

She hadn't been aware of standing up, but suddenly she was, and staring down harshly at Victoire.

"That's why it matters," Hermione breathed. "Because I'm not the only one involved. There are so many people that could be hurt if I said yes to your question. Harry and I…we both have obligations to our families, to our children, and to ignore that would be utterly selfish."

She let the words hang between them. Victoire, rather than appearing upset or even remorseful, peered at Hermione in an openly contemplative manner, one hand cupping her chin. She sat like that for several moments before leaning back, crossing her arms across her chest as she did so.

"So what?"

The bluntness of the remark momentarily stunned Hermione, and Victoire immediately took advantage of the silence.

"Look, I understand that this is complicated. Actually, complicated doesn't even begin to cover it. It's a mess, complete and utter madness. Yes, this could potentially hurt a lot of people. And yes, you do have an obligation to those people. But don't you have an obligation to yourself as well? To Harry?"

Victoire was standing now as well, squared off against Hermione and looking very much like Fleur in her indignation. "I may only be eighteen years old, but I'm old enough to know that you deserve happiness just as much as anyone else. Why should your happiness come after everyone else's?"

Hermione was already shaking her head, her brown curls brushing against her face.

"Victoire, it's not as simple as you make it sound…"

"Only because you're making it difficult," Victoire snapped. "At this point it goes without saying, but I want to hear you say it anyway. Do you love him?"

"Victoire-"

"Answer."

Hermione glared at Victoire, provoked by her insolence, but she deflated just as quickly. She sank back into her chair, and Victoire followed suit.

"Yes," Hermione finally said. "Yes."

Victoire smiled then, and reached across the table to squeeze Hermione's hand.

"Then that's what should matter. You and Harry…have both have been through so much. Together and apart. If being together would make you happy, then you should be together. Simple as that. Even though Aunt Ginny's gone, and even though things didn't work out between you and Uncle Ron…that doesn't mean you both can't have a second chance at love. It just so happens that it's with each."

The familiar sense of uncertainty flooded Hermione's senses as much as the significantly less familiar exhilaration of possibility surged through her veins, fighting for supremacy.

Sensing Hermione's internal struggle, Victoire plunged on.

"This is not a betrayal," she said. "It'll take time, but the others will come around. Merlin, some of them may even feel happy for you."

Hermione laughed, and would have brushed at her eyes if both of her hands were not clasped in Victoire's.

"So don't feel guilty about this," Victoire said. "You fell in love."

She shrugged, a smile gracing her lips.

"Sure, maybe it's not under the best circumstances, or with the most unproblematic person, but that can't be helped at this point. This is still just one person loving another person in its purest form."

She released Hermione's hand, and smiled fondly at her engagement ring.

"And if there's anything in the world you shouldn't feel guilty about, it's that."

******************

Hermione sat in the kitchen long after Victoire left, poring over their conversation (or as she saw it, Victoire's one-sided pep talk) with an academic intensity. And as she went about the rest of her day-completing a file for work, wrapping two separate packages of tarts to send to send to James and Lily, picking up Hugo from Ron's and putting him to bed-she pondered. As the sun sank and the moon rose, the words continued to swirl about her mind.

The hours ticked by, and when the moonlight beckoned her, she obediently abandoned the warmth of her home for the freezing night air. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, she tugged mindlessly at tufts of cold grass. Although she had had the presence of mind to drape a blanket about her shoulders before leaving the house, her thoughts rendered her unconcerned of the biting cold.

After so long ignoring her feelings, denying the possibility of more, surrendering herself to a way of living she had long stopped believing would change…

Could that just…end?

Nothing had ever been easy between herself and Harry, and it still wasn't, not by far. But was Fleur right? Was she overcomplicating things at this point? Denying herself the happiness she had craved for the sake of sparing other people's feelings?

She had no doubt that she still loved Harry. Not in the exact same way as before, but still as fervently, still as unconditionally.

And if Harry felt the same…

Was it really that simple?

And in that moment, with no further prompting than the blank face of the moon, Hermione decided that it was.

Seized by her moment of clarity, Hermione dusted her hands free of grass blades before grasping at the neck of her sweater. As her fingers closed around the familiar silver chain, she drew it forward, feeling the teardrop pendant slide against her collar before being exposed to the night air. In the brightness of the moon, she could just make out the words as they etched their way across the silver surface:

Amare sine timore

As she clasped the necklace between her thumb and forefinger, she used her right hand to pick up her wand, which lay beside her in the grass.

Then she took a deep, steadying breath before tapping her wand to the pendant, and unlike previous years, she did not immediately tuck the necklace away, but rather set it deliberately to her chest, where it openly gleamed in the light, scant as it was.

And as she removed her hand, she didn't need to look down to confirm that the etched words did not vanish as before, but endured, permanent and plainly visible for all to see.

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