Seven Years Later... May the Best Wizard Win

Island Girl

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 05/07/2015
Last Updated: 05/07/2015
Status: completed

AU,EWE: All these wizard competing for her hand has pushed Hermione to her limit! Fleur knows exactly how to prove who should be Hermione's True Match. Mild swearing, Molly-bashing, moderately redeemed Slytherins. Companion piece to Two Years Later Reviews are intrinsic to a writer's well-being!

Chapters

1. Part One

2. Which Wizard was the Best Wizard?

1. Part One

Seven Years Later… May the Best Man Win

Author’s Note:

This is Part One of the companion piece to Two Years Later…

Disclaimer: as always, no infringement is intended towards any entity legally associated with Harry Potter, Warner Bros, or Scholastic Publishing.

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January 26th, 2005

The tour books refer to the eerily majestic stone and mortar structure, perched high on a headland two-hundred feet off-shore the sliver land that is the Basque coastline, as Our Lady of the Sea. For only by the grace of God and the Virgin Mary could an abbey endure more than eight-hundred years of storm, surf, and social upheaval.

In truth, as is the case for magical architecture, the familial seat of the Comte Villareal de Urretxu was never an abbey. Nor was it ever a convent. No monarch commissioned its construction as a means to defend against invasion. It was the Summer House of a family whose Veela heritage stretched back in time over generations and flourished irrespective of international borders or warring factions.

The sunrise began behind them, as the front of the House faced the water. The sky took on lovely shades of pinks, corals, and ever-lightening blues as the sun broke over the horizon.

“Thank you for letting me come here. I didn’t know where else to go.” Flawless French tumbled from Hermione’s lips as her emotions thickened her already impressive accent. The wind blew through layers of her long hair and buffeted her winter-weight pea coat against her slight frame. Her gaze remained fixed on the horizon that stretched far beyond the few meters that comprised of the open-air parapet where she stood.

Fleur, well-wrapped against the wind and early-morning chill, appreciated that she wouldn’t have to respond in English. “Non; this is one thing you don’t need to apologize for – not ever. You are my second sister. Gabbi and I are your Sisters. Family means sanctuary, Hermione.”

“I couldn’t go home, because ‘they’…well, ‘they’ mean well…but they won’t leave me alone.” Frustration and exasperation underscored every emotional word. “I wouldn’t get any peace at my flat, laboratory, or office – not that I do as it is. And once they’ve heard about what happened last night, I can guarantee you that each and every one of them will be beating down my proverbial door. Half will be looking to berate me for not telling them where I was going, the other half will be out for a pound of flesh from both Seamus and Oliver for instigating the whole bloody mess.”

Her voice was so small. Fleur didn’t like it when Hermione sounded so defeated.

“I can’t attend or schedule any consultations at the Ministry with any Department, because Kingsley cancelled my security pass!” She repeatedly pointed a metaphorical finger at the current Minister of Magic as her righteous indignation rose. “That wizard made it ABUNDANTLY clear that because of ‘them’, I disrupt everyone else in the building by just being there. I don’t even work for the Ministry! I’m an independent contractor, for Circe’s sake! Yet Kings ORDERED me take this cock-up of a holiday!”

Pulses of outrage and hurt feelings washed against Fleur’s aura. Which was completely understandable. Kingsley Shacklebolt said he understood the magical ramifications that stemmed from the night of December 9th, 1997, but here he was, six years and two-and-a-half months later, holding it against her.

“Do you know how much work I have to do? How much work I WANT to do?!” Her work on behalf of St Mungos, specifically a Charm to magically place medicine inside an unconscious and/or unresponsive patient, was an all-consuming project for the younger witch. “So many witches and wizards die needlessly! And do you know why?”

Rhetorical questions never needed answers. Especially rhetorical questions made by a certain witch who never went anywhere without her own, metaphorical, soap-box with her name stamped onto it: Hermione the Crusader

“I know ‘why’. And any Healer who has ever Healed knows ‘why’. But no one’s ever done anything about it! They’d rather let families and friends grieve than take the time to solve the bloody problem! All because some poor unresponsive or unconscious or physically incapable witch or wizard can’t ‘drink’ a potion, or ‘swallow’ a bezoar!”

Fleur knew that this new project stemmed from when Hermione witnessed Nagini rip apart Severus Snape’s throat. Hermione’s feelings of anger and helplessness over the fact that even if she’d had a gallon of dittany and miles of gauze in her now-legendary beaded bag, the Potions Master would’ve still died due to the fact that there was no possible way for him to have successfully ingested anti-venin or a coagulant to help aid in clotting his horrible wounds.

“But – NO! I can’t. Why!? Because ‘they’ – in all their well-intentioned, albeit selfishly-motivated, mind sets, make it so that I can’t have a night to myself.” She ticked off on her fingers, “Someone is always stopping by: saying ‘hello’, bringing by take-away, escorting me to events, pairing up for dueling practices, jogging with me…”

In fairness to ‘them’, Fleur knew how single-minded Hermione became when she was focused on a project. She didn’t eat properly because that would mean taking time away from her research to pop to the grocers or the local chippery. She didn’t socialize unless it was someone’s birthday, anniversary, or a function where her attendance was mandatory. ‘They’, in addition to herself, Gabbi, Viktor, and Fleur’s husband-to-be Atanas made sure that Hermione looked at more than just her notes and reference materials when in the thralls of academic pursuits and mounting crusades against moral injustices.

“I can’t even go out for Kneazle food because one of ‘them’ has arranged for automatic delivery from Magical Menagerie!”

Fleur was certain Crookshanks didn’t mind that thoughtful gesture. And, considering the likelihood that Crookshanks’ unnamed benefactor/ess sprang for the ‘good’ treats, she didn’t think the half-Kneazle ever would.

“I can’t even clean my own flat, because one of ‘them’ is always sending one of their house-elves to tidy up the place!”

She started to pace the parapet. The fact that Hermione was excellent about cleaning out the litter box and washing her own dishes, the witch abhorred dusting as well as folding clean laundry. Fleur wondered if the Dyson, a flat-warming present, had ever seen the outside of its box.

“One time, one of those helpful little buggers popped into my flat while I was in the shower! The shower! Scared me half out of my mind! Here I am, padding from the loo to my bedroom, drying my hair with a towel, completely starkers, thinking about my ‘to do list’, and suddenly I see that my laundry basket had sprouted over-sized feet, spindly legs, knobby knees, pointy ears, and was floating two feet in the air! Of course I screamed! Which made the elf scream!” A rueful chuckle only added to her rant. “To add insult to injury - we had matching towels!”

Fleur remembered laughing with Viktor and Atanas over that one until all three of them had tears in their eyes. Apparently, the little elf was so fond of the embroidery on Hermione’s towels and of the witch herself, that the little guy went out and crafted a tunic made out of the same material. Adrian Pucey spent many a galleon on ‘I’m sorry’ bouquets over the course of the next month, as the elf was one of his. Though, truth be told, the wizard cheerfully bragged about it as, ‘money well-spent’, as it meant that elf-couture now included environmentally-conscious bamboo-blended terry cloth. For a Pureblood, Pucey considered his ‘contribution’ to making Wizarding Britain ‘greener’ very…Muggle-fabulous.

Hermione’s arm-swinging went from punctuating her rant to bracketing her hips. Her lecture-tirade showcased her intense exasperation.

“Did you know that house-elves can circumvent Rune-infused wards? NO ONE, regardless of species, is supposed to do be able to do that! That’s why I did it! That’s why I spent three days at St Mungo’s being treated for Magical Exhaustion. To me, it was WORTH IT to be all but drained of my bloody life-force just so that I COULD take a bloody shower without having to wonder if someone’s in my flat, hoovering my lounge or pawing through my knickers or re-arranging my post-it notes according to the bloody colour-wheel!”

To classify Hermione as well-and-truly riled was an understatement. To classify Lucius Malfoy as ‘a tad concerned’ as he’d been the one who’d discovered a barely-breathing Hermione and had all but seized administrative authority of Level Four of St Mungo’s upon arrival would be the same exercise in understatement.

“But NO! Not with ME! Not only do I end up on a hospital gurney, but I can’t even be there for the full seven days that it’s supposed to take to properly treat Magical Exhaustion. Why, you ask!? Because of the constant parade of ‘them’ coming in and out of my room: bringing gifts, disturbing other patients as ‘they’ argued about who’s turn it was to sit with me , micro-managing – MICROMANAGING, Fleur! – everything from the placement of my intravenous, to the ingredients in my nutrient potion, to how my nurse combed out my hair! As if ANY OF THEM have ever, NEVER, done that for – or to – me! AND! AND!! This was the kicker in all this: I was UNCONCIOUS! ‘They’ did all this when I wasn’t even AWAKE!”

Fleur, having been there for two of the three days that Hermione laid in hospital, arched her eyebrow at her friend. Hermione – grudgingly – added a smidgeon of ruefulness to her current repertoire.

“I mean, granted they were right: an attendee had made a bloody rat’s nest out of my hair; thankfully someone detected the presence of vervane in my nutrient potion and subsequently saved me from anaphylactic shock; the IV port had caused edema to developed so badly in my lower arm that you couldn’t tell where my wrist ended and my fingers began!”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled with the levels of contrasting emotions: hopelessness over the fact the wizards and witches who doted on her would never stop doting on her, ire over the fact that they doted in the first place, and guilt for feeling so angry that they cared so much about her as to dote on her in every possible way over every possible aspect of her life.

“When I DID wake up? A ‘how are you feeling, Ms Granger? Better? That’s good, because we’re going to need you to finish your recuperation at home because this is a place of healing and not the Who’s Hermione Granger Going to Marry Show’.”

That part of Hermione’s story wasn’t jaded by her current frame of mind. Fleur, with Viktor and oddly enough Cormac McLaggen helping, shouldered their way, with Viktor carrying Hermione, out of the hospital. Hermione’s convalescence was spent in relative peace, with only scheduled visits from those who cared about the healing witch. Of course, trying to keep Sirius Black in-hand required a special amount of…patience…but even a Grim knows enough to cease when a Veela insists on a game of ‘fetch’ with one of her signature fireballs.

What had started as a protection detail, created by her friends and those who considered themselves beholden to Hermione, as a means to insulate the witch from the machinations of Herbert Greengrass hadn’t ended with Greengrass neutralized. Quite a few of the wizards, and a few witches, who’d stepped-up to safeguard Hermione had all submitted Letters of Consideration to Fleur’s father, as Comte Delacour was, essentially, Hermione’s father. Not that Hermione had ever seen those letters. If she had, Fleur knew enough about her second sister to know that Hermione would run as far and as fast as she could away from those who wished Hermione to Consider them.

And not because Hermione was afraid of love or commitment. She’d do it as a means to protect them from her.

With the ocean in front of her, standing on a stone parapet built eight-hundred years ago, with one of her best female friends beside her, it was evident that Hermione Granger’s thoughts were as tangled as the gusty January breezes made her hair.

The saddened witch took a deep breath and spent it on gathering her memories from the previous night and the reason why Hermione had appeared on Fleur’s metaphorical doorstep in the small hours of the morning teary-eyed and shame-faced.

“It was horrible, Fleur.”

Hermione turned her back to the wind. The brunette was utterly forlorn. Fleur treasured the fact that, with her, Hermione never had to pretend that cold air and salty spray made her eyes misty.

“It should have been wonderful. A respite from all…that.” Hermione waved her hand in the direction that England sat, hundreds of miles away. “The annual fire festival in the Shetlands. The last Tuesday in January. Nothing was supposed to have gone wrong! Nothing!” Both her hands mimed just how wrongly ‘nothing’ had ‘went’ as her tone quickened and deepened. “But – no! Five thousand people on one tiny island, every single person celebrating the fact that this one island is one of the few places in the WORLD where Magic and Mundane co-exist in utopic harmony and I’m the one asked to leave. ME!”

The tears that welled in her eyes now fell freely – not only in sadness, but also embarrassment and outrage and unending frustration.

Fleur knew enough about her dear friend to not interrupt.

“Insults shouted in the village green escalated into an all-out brawl.” She shook her head, as if to shake the memories out of her. “A celebration morphed into an international incident because Oliver Wood and Seamus Finnegan went at-it over who was going to escort me to the pub for a pint.”

The extent of the melee had been well-documented in morning’s edition of The Prophet. An inside-source at Wizard’s Whirl sent over an advance copy of this week’s cover: a full-page Wizarding picture of Wood and Finnegan, surrounded by revelers carrying lit torches in a Hogsmeade-looking town square, pummeling each other with the honor of both Ireland and Scotland on-the-line. Each wizard had his own caption, printed verbatim from an onlooker.

“Oh, yeh?! Weel – at least I dinna use potato leaves to wipe me arse!”

“Oh, yeah?! Well – at least me first girlfriend wasn’t a sheep named Lass, Yous Feel So Tight!”

“Want to hear the irony? I don’t even like beer.”

That last sentence, a lame attempt at humor in the wake of the reason why Hermione created a portkey at three o’clock in the morning that was keyed to Fleur’s magical signature, signaled that Hermione’s Well of Righteous Indignation had finally subsided to its pre-Fire Festival level.

Hermione’s first patent, the culmination of nearly four years’ worth of work, cleverness, and ingenuity, was the creation of a portkey that would take a person to another person, rather than connect an object to a physical location. To the clever Muggleborn, the principle was the same: a traditional portkey functioned on the premise that Point B was, essentially, a beacon for Item A. With that premise, she adapted the ‘beacon’ aspect of a portkey so that Person B was the beacon for Person A. Of course it took her several years to achieve such an accomplishment. The Muggleborn crisscrossed continents and cultures to develop an original, fully-functioning Runic ‘alphabet’, akin to Mundane’s advancements in mapping each component of a human’s DNA, so that a Magical’s signature could be transcribed, embedded, and ultimately a focal point for transporting another Magical across near or far distances.

Fleur was so proud to be able to call Hermione her sister and to be able to be a sister and friend to Hermione.

Hermione’s final result far surpassed the initial hypothesis.

The development of the Person to Person Portkey – or, as it was now referred to as Pee-Three - required funds from Malfoy Enterprises, Weasley Wizarding Wheezes LLC, Black Holdings International, Prongs Investments, The Delacour Group, as well as a slew of smaller investors. Everyone who hadn’t contributed wished they’d had! The return was three-hundred-and-twenty-seven percent! Andromeda Tonks placed five-hundred galleons in her grandson’s name. Because of his grandmother’s generosity, Young Master Teddy Lupin never would have to worry about his father ever being able to see to his every need ever again.

Fleur embraced her dear friend and second sister. Hermione’s need for comfort, even as her friend sniffled and clung, took priority over all other thoughts.

Several moments passed before Fleur mentally berated Death for being a sore loser.

Her best female friend was truly a marvelous witch, person, and Magical innovator.

Hermione’s powers and talents were highly attuned with three of the five Foundations of Magic: Incantations. Translations, and Interpretation. It was no surprise that her dear friend didn’t have an affinity for the Foundation of Ether or Foundation of – to use the modern term – Herbology. The concept of Ether – every other aspect of Magic that was metaphysical and intangible – was too abstract for all but the most skilled and exceptionally intuitive Mages and Enchantresses, let alone for the highly logical, pragmatic, Brightest Witch of her Age. And, try as she might, and the witch certainly tried, Hermione Granger just could not cultivate a garden. Without fail, she’d killed every houseplant she’d ever acquired. It was such a shame that British education focused mainly on the off-shoots of the Foundations: Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Divination, Astronomy, and only the Foundation that was a core-requirement was Herbology.

If British education was more on-par with Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, then Hermione would’ve been better prepared when she’d Summoned Death on the seventh month, fourth day, and third hour since Harry Potter had ended Lord Voldemort once-and-for-all. Had her education been steeped in the Foundations, Hermione might’ve been spared the emotional chaos which had been part of her life for the past six and a half years.

Which was why Hermione had allowed herself to become so engrossed with Pee-Three for so many years. Work facilitated a buffer she’d out-right exploited to put off any of the advances any of ‘them’ made.

Not that Hermione didn’t genuinely care for each and every one of them. She did. She wasn’t ‘using’ a single one of them in any capacity. Nor did any of them press her for more than she was willing to give: an evening out, meeting for coffee, a colleague with whom to attend a conference or seminar, a mentor with whom to propose ideas with, someone fun and light-hearted to ease the pressure she’d put on herself to make sure that the faith – and money – placed in her came to a successful outcome, or someone to while-away an afternoon with nothing but easy-going silence and camaraderie between them.

Yes, Hermione dated. Just not with ‘them’. In fact, that’s how Fleur met her fiancé. A disastrous double-date, Viktor and Fleur paired as friends as Hermione didn’t want to meet Viktor’s best friend (and her blind date for the evening) alone, had Viktor escorting Hermione to Remus Lupin within an hour and the start of an amazing romance between Fleur and Atanas.

Her friend continued to cry on her shoulder. Fleur would give her five more minutes, then she’d tell Hermione of her plan.

Bill Weasley’s Petition for Annulment caught her by surprise. But, it was the best thing that’d ever happened to her. Bill’s inability to reconcile his Lycan tendencies with his personal definition of what it meant to be a wizard and a man as well as his mother’s passive-aggressive prejudices cost him his marriage and all parental rights to his little girl. Little Victoire was too young to remember her biological father, but that didn’t mean that she didn’t have a father that was absolutely devoted to her in a way William never allowed himself. Fleur had found a love greater and more profound with Viktor’s best friend than she’d ever experienced with William. Atanas was everything she didn’t know she was missing from her relationship with the red-headed Curse Breaker.

It was about time someone in Hermione’s life took it upon themselves to offer to add something to Hermione’s life, rather than ask her to sacrifice something as too add to their own lives.

There was one way to end the foolish competition between all of ‘them’, Hermione’s would-be suitors. And Fleur’s wedding day, seven years, seven months, seven days since Voldemort’s defeat, with the Maid of Honor Ritual performed at the seventh hour, would be the irrefutable catalyst.

Fleur gently lifted Hermione’s head off her shoulder. Fleur made sure that her friend could easily read the sincerity and sisterly love that thrummed the length and breadth of Fleur’s aura.

“Mon amie, ‘ermione, there is no reason why you will not have true love in your life.”

Hermione could, and did, believe a lot of what Fleur Delacour told her. This, though, was different. “I’ve explained this to you, Fleur. It’s forbidden. Death said-“

Fleur’s long silvery-blonde hair lifted and fell to the same rhythm as Hermione’s curls in the on-coming breeze. The chilly temperatures made their breaths plume a pale grey. Her expression was as determined as Hermione’s was despondent. ”Eighteen generations ago, a female Veela of Basque nobility chose a French grape-picker as he traveled with a Crusade on his way to ‘reclaim’ Jerusalem. Their love transcended differences in race, religion, and species This place, where you and I are standing, is a monument dedicated to that love; the physical embodiment of a promise that when a love is meant to be, it will be. Not Death, Life, or Lady Magic can interfere.”

Hermione’s watery frown only intensified as she chewed on her bottom lip.

Fleur gambled that this was the right time to offer a little levity.

“For you? Because you are Hermione Granger? It will take a little bit more than being in the right place, at the right time.”

The wobbly quarter-smile that hovered at the corners of her friend’s lips proved her instincts were correct.

Another thing that made her friend Hermione more like her sister: Hermione’s pity-parties never lasted long.

“Hermione – I want to ask you something.”

Her friend, her sister, fed off of Fleur’s hopeful anticipation. Tears had chapped her cheeks in the January coldness of the open-air parapet, but her eyes were dry as her mind whirred as to what Fleur’s question might be.

“Will you be my Maid of Honor?”

Being a Veela, even if only a quarter-Veela, was a wonderful thing. Especially when she had the power, and the true desire, to bring as much happiness into Hermione’s life as she’d found in her own.

2. Which Wizard was the Best Wizard?

December 2005,

Seven Years, Seven Months, and 4 Days since the defeat of Tom Riddle…

Magic is a funny thing.

It gives as much as it takes.

As Harry Potter can attest, Magic takes a lot out of someone.

But, in this instance, Magic is going to give back to one – or several, depending on the outcome of the meeting he’d slipped into in the back-back-room of The Leaky Cauldron – lucky person the chance to be with someone previously unattainable.

The reason why he was there in a first place?

He wanted his fair chance to court Hermione without interference from any other witch or wizard.

Why was that important?

Because over the course of the past seven-plus years, seven-plus years since Tom Riddle was reduced to naught but wind-borne ashes, not one witch or wizard had been able to successfully date the Brightest Witch of her Age without some sort of interference, sabotage, or intrusion from someone else equally interested in securing the most sought-after bachelorette in the Wizarding World for themselves.

Magic took his parents. Blood-lust took his godfather. One megalomaniac’s quest for Wizarding Domination took Fred, Remus, Tonks and so many others. Not Dumbledore. Nope. Hermione was adamant about that one, and Harry, Sirius, Snape, Luna, Remus, and all three Malfoys whole-heartedly agreed: Dumbledore died from a self-inflicted overdose of hubris.

That is, until Hermione brokered a deal directly with Death. Yep. Death himself answered Hermione’s Summons. Seven months, four days, and three hours – to the minute – of Voldemort’s demise, a twenty year-old witch engaged in negotiations with Death.

Alone in a Death Circle in a grove ringed with the twelve sacred trees with Death himself, Hermione made her case.

The outcome?

There were four more people in the Wizarding world.

As she’d partially explained, because Harry knew that there had to be A LOT that she didn’t tell him about the ‘why’, ‘how’, and ‘what the fuck were you thinking’ questions that Harry demanded answers to, for every one of Riddle’s horcruxes that were destroyed, Hermione deemed that Death owed the Living a life.

Sirius, in exchange for Hufflepuff’s Cup. Only fair, seeing as how Bellatrix had propelled Sirius through the Veil and that Bellatrix hid the Cup in her vault. Of course it was a godson’s sacred duty, an Heir of the Marauders moral imperative, to charm every single one of Sirius’ beloved leather jackets into Hufflepuff-themed blazers and sweater vests. To this day, Remus Lupin was the Sole Protector of the Photograph. The Photograph – always referred to as having capital letters as was Remus’ honorific – was the only copy in existence of Sirius, asleep in his bed and blissfully pissed out of his mind, cuddling with an adult-sized, badger-shaped, Bed Buddy.

Regulus Black, in exchange for the destruction of Slytherin’s Locket. Again – only fitting. Harry had no trouble wrapping his brain around that one. The youngest Black had died twenty-odd years ago after stealing the Cursed necklace. Only fitting that the wizard lived again because the damned thing met the pointy-end of Gryffindor’s sword. But fuck-all if Death didn’t do that wizard a favor beyond restoring his life. The twenty-odd years he’d been dead hadn’t cost Regulus one gray hair. To look at him and cast a Tempus spell, the wizard was only a year or two older than Charlie Weasley!

Speaking of the only Weasley wizard present… Charlie. Not as tall as Bill or Ron, but definitely rugged with his shaggy strawberry blond hair and well-formed through his arms, chest, and thighs, Charlie was definitely competition: former Quidditch captain, affable, and the protector of dangerous, much misunderstood, and often abused sentient creatures. If there was a bloke that appealed to Hermione the Crusader, this would be the chap. Not to mention that Charlie was the one who’d introduced Hermione to a troupe of Romani gypsies who had in turn provided the pretty, petite, witch with oral histories that played a significant part in Hermione’s epically successful portkey project.

As for Fred… The diary? No luck there. Ginny’s life-force returned to her when Harry had stabbed the blasted diary with the basilisk fang. According to Hermione, Death said that was an even swap. Pity, as Harry would’ve preferred to have Fred up and walking about instead of the crazy stalker-fangirl that followed him everywhere, whining about when they were going to get back together and asking him to approve of the font on their wedding invitations. There was only so much crazy Harry could take! Ginny Weasley could tart herself up or make like the most devout nun and Harry would still have absolutely nothing to do with her or her single-minded intention to become the one-and-only Mrs. Potter.

As far as Harry was concerned, the only Mrs. Potters he recognized were those on the Potter family tree.

Though, if things went his way tonight, it might not be too long before the title of Mrs. Potter passed to Hermione.

He mentally sported a broad smile at that thought.

It would be so good to have that specific witch, one who’d stood by him, prodded him, confided in him, and with whom he felt absolutely safe with, share the rest of his long Wizarding life. Not to mention: how could he NOT help but love a woman who brokered the return of Sirius but also Severus Snape?

As always, she blithely pish-poshed his amazement at that feat with a casual, ‘Neville gave me his proxy from when he decapitated of Nagini.”

Hence the reason why Severus Snape now stood elbow-to-elbow with Lucius Malfoy amid this very interesting…diverse…group of attendees.

When Hermione told Harry about that particular aspect of her negotiations, Snape in exchange for Nagini, Harry got the distinct impression that Death was exceptionally tickled by the whole Snape-business. It was quite circular, really: Snape had terrified and terrorized Neville for needing Hermione’s help during Potions, Nagini killed Snape, Neville killed Nagini, and Neville, via Hermione, was the reason why Snape lived wherever he now lived and no longer resided perpendicular to the black obelisk planted near Dumbledore’s tomb. A tad crooked, true, but definitely circular.

Harry’s scar, the final Horcrux, was another even-swap. Harry lived, the piece of Voldemort’s soul didn’t. Hermione was quite put-out about losing that one. But, as she’d won her arguments for Regulus, Sirius, and Snape, she couldn’t begrudge Death too much for trumping in that instance.

She didn’t win for the Ring either. Hermione wanted James or Lily, or Cedric. Death argued that since Harry had actually spoken with his parents, Sirius, and Remus Lupin while on his way to sacrifice himself then that qualified as resurrection, regardless of duration. And, to listen to her retell that part of her story, “Death really is the final authority on a LOT of things, so there wasn’t much I could do about that”, Harry could smell the metaphorical sour-grapes on her breath as she attempted to be blasé about losing that particular round.

She countered Death with Ravenclaw’s diadem. Death didn’t have a valid counter-argument. Thus, Remus Lupin was returned to the land of the living. The way the re-instated wizard held little Teddy once he was a living breathing Lycan, sans the vicious monthly transformations – who knew Death had a heart? – was something that Harry hoped one day he’d mirror with his own children.

In his heart-of-hearts, Harry pictured three children, two girls and a boy, each perfect mixes of him and Hermione; the four of them kicking a football in the backyard of their family’s home as Hermione watched from the back porch, their wedding rings glinting in the afternoon sunlight as their children laughed and played.

Another wizard, Anthony Goldstein, entering the room, dissolved Harry’s tableau. Just great. Another Contender whose Wizard-tarian efforts matched Hermione’s, cause-for-cause.

All in all, Harry counted twenty-two other witches and wizards all vying for the same chance he needed.

Lucius Malfoy stood with Severus Snape. It was easy to see that those two were going to present the triad-angle. Harry could ‘see’ the headline for the two older wizards’ personal ad: Pure-blood, Half-blood, needing a Muggle-born to close their Circle of Political Gain and Societal Redemption. If those two were a Jane Austin novel, it would be titled Snark and Snobbery.

Interestingly enough, Narcissa Malfoy – Narcissa Black, as her divorce from Lucius had become final three years ago – was also in the room. Beside her sat her sister Andromeda. It required very little extrapolation for Harry to see that older, stunningly beautiful, witches with the heritage of the Blacks behind them and life experiences that he had no frame of reference for, could offer up possibilities that Harry, nor any other man for that matter, just couldn’t. A combination of female mentors and feminine lovers could give the Black sisters a strategic advantage.

Draco Malfoy, with Blaise Zabini at his side – in more ways than one – had obviously taken the same tack as Lucius and Snape. However, their angle was going to be peer-to-peer, rather than older Wizards to younger Witch. If those two starred in their own Jane Austin novel, the title would be… The title would be… Well, Harry couldn’t think of a suitable parody. But when he did, he’d definitely share it with Sirius.

As it was, Sirius had been the one who’d told him about this little get-together. Sirius sat him down and told him about a lot of things, especially the ‘why’ as to why this meeting was so important.

Sirius’ careful explanations about Veela traditions sent Harry to the Potter Grimoire. Three days and one long question-and-answer session with an Unspeakable later, Harry had more hope than questions.

Harry wasn’t going to miss the chance for Magic to finally give something back to him.

Fleur chose Hermione as her Maiden of Honor. Which meant that after the vows between Fleur and her fiancé, the Maid of Honor Ritual would commence. Maiden of Honor, at a Veela wedding, meant that the Maiden would be Honored by receiving a blessing from the newly married couple. This blessing, born of the strength of the love shared by the bride and groom, revealed to the Maiden her True Match, the one who loved her as much as the groom loved his new bride. Once that happened, all those who were Contenders for that Maid’s affections were magically and morally obligated to honor the Blessing that the Maid and her Match would receive.

Sirius had also told Harry not to be surprised to see his godfather toss his proverbial hat into the even more proverbial ring. As Sirius explained, his Black magic initially pushed him to be interested in Hermione but the witch had endeared herself to him on her own merits. The fact that both Hermione and Sirius were two of the most protective people he knew, Harry didn’t think it would take much for genuine feelings to sprout between the witch Harry wanted for himself and the one wizard who would take care of Hermione in the way she truly deserved.

Harry suspected that Regulus appeared tonight for the same reasons as Sirius, albeit with a separate suit from his older brother. Last year, twelve minutes after Harry sat down at a coffee shop with Hermione in Muggle London early one morning was when a Muggle-rigged Regulus Black strolled up to them and invited himself to sit at their table. Harry found out later that the Slytherin Prince – prettier, smarter, and definitely more powerful and circumspect than Draco, Regulus snatched that title away from Malfoy Junior within twenty-four hours of Regulus’ resurrection – found that café by bloody scrying! Harry knew of at least two different public events over the past eight months to which Regulus escorted Hermione: the Rembrandt Grand Exhibit in Budapest and, per McGonagall’s instance, which Hermione termed ‘blatant blackmail’, Griselda Marchbank’s one-hundred-eighth birthday celebration hosted at Hogwarts and sponsored by the Ministry. Harry could sense that Regulus had a sincere interest – not mislabeled gratitude nor debt-induced affections – and a true desire to pursue a witch who was closer to his own age than his, now even more so, much older brother.

How Victoria Frobisher and Fay Dunbar fit in wasn’t too hard to suss-out either. The two women started dating in Fourth Year. The pair of lovely brunettes had teamed with Hermione on many an Arithmancy project during Fifth and Sixth year. Despite being caught up in his own dramas during those horrible years, not even he missed the way Hermione commented wistfully about the romance that’d developed between the two teen girls nor did Harry overlook the way Hermione complimented the two on their natural beauty and innate grasp of a truly challenging aspect of Magic. The friendship between the three witches had remained steady. In fact, when Hermione started this new project on behalf of St Mungo’s, Victoria and Fay facilitated one of Hermione’s early breakthroughs.

Oliver Wood leaned casually against a far wall. The man’s shoulders propped him up-right and his arms crossed his chest. Harry silently commiserated with his former Quidditch captain. The fact that Oliver came to blows with Seamus back in January didn’t surprise Harry. After all, there were very few wizards or witches who were as competitive as Oliver Wood. Which was why Harry supposed Oliver thought himself a strong enough Contender to be here tonight. Hermione herself was also insanely competitive. Harry thought that would be reason enough for any potential relationship between them to fail. However, as Hermione had told him herself, Oliver traveled a lot but he never failed to stay in regular contact and the professional Quidditch player always came back to London with some obscure tome or recently un-earthed scroll that always had something to do with her most current project.

Next to him, ales in-hands, Seamus Finnegan chatted easily with Justin Finch-Fletchley. Same year, different House – Harry didn’t see any sign of the two men being lovers. Everyone in Gryffindor knew that Seamus had a thing for Hermione since Fifth year that still burned brightly – as proved when Seamus and Oliver tussled. Justin had the Muggle-born angle. Not to mention that the former Hufflepuff’s father’s sister had apparently gone to school with Hermione’s mother. The two families reconnected during Christmas Break of Year One. Harry spent Yule sneaking his way into the library at Hogwarts looking for clues about Nicholas Flamel while one of Justin’s Yule presents was back-door access to Hermione’s good graces.

Another case of Magic ‘taking away’, he groused to himself.

“Hullo, Harry.”

Harry craned his neck to meet Remus Lupin’s gaze. This time, Harry wasn’t able to stifle the feeling that Magic was about to fuck with him one more time.

“Evening, Remus.”

If there was one person that Harry truly saw as competition, aside from Severus Snape, his godfather, and Charlie Weasley, it was Remus Lupin.

The werewolf had successfully grieved for his dead wife, was raising a son, who also happened to be Harry’s godson, was magically gifted, unfaltering kind, brilliantly intelligent, and, given the fact that Tonks hadn’t been shy about stating – more than once, much to Harry’s and everyone else’s chargrin – that her husband’s cock was so big that she wouldn’t’ve been surprised if little Teddy was conceived when Remus had shagged her up the arse, the werewolf needed a third leg sown into all of his pants and trousers. And, given the fact that Hermione repeatedly sought out the quiet scholar whenever she’d been in tears over a bad date, the werewolf definitely stood a chance tonight.

Remus’ gaze flitted around the room. He fished a pack of Wizarding cigarillos from the inside pocket of his corduroy jacket. A vintage muggle Zippo lighter made its way from his trousers’ pocket to his palm. Once lit, Remus offered it to Harry.

“No thanks. I quit four months ago.”

That detail definitely surprised the Lycan. He, Remus, and Sirius had shared many a smoke over the past six years. But since Harry wanted to be taken seriously as a Contender, then that meant certain life-style changes. One of which involved giving up smoking.

Shrugging his shoulders in a ‘more for me’ context, Remus took a long drag and considerately blew the smoke toward the ceiling. Drawn by the scent of Remus’ herbal blend, Sirius separated from Regulus and neatly plucked the cigarillo from his fellow Mauraders fingers.

Inhaling, savouring the smoke that filled his mouth, Sirius not-so-considerately exhaled in the same direction as Oliver’s scowl. “What’s got Wood’s knickers in a twist?”

Across the room, at the receiving end of Oliver’s fierce stare, stood Adrian Pucey and Marcus Flint. Harry had heard gossip to the affect that those two former Slytherin Quidditch players were ‘straight but not narrow’, but from what Harry could see, that was just a rumour. If anything, Harry would bet Bragging Rights that the two were doing a ‘if I can’t have her, then I’ll help you get her’ kind of strategy. Whether the two wizards planned to sharing Hermione after the fact, only time – and Hermione’s disposition on the matter – would tell.

“Aside from the fact that all of us are here for the same witch?” Harry knew his tone was a little too sharp and more than a tad bit scathing, but as so many different wizards and witches assembled, the confidence he’d walked in with was slowly being undermined.

“Right as always, Pup.” Sirius took another pull and passed the fag back to Remus. The winsomeness on his godfather’s face only re-enforced the conviction Harry held that if he was going to lose to anyone, it might as well be to a wizard who needed Hermione as much as he himself did.

“That’s interesting.” Remus subtly directed Harry’s attention to a crowded table.

The three witches and two wizards sharing a pitcher of some sort of mead were definitely food-for-thought. Natalie MacDonald, Fleur Delacour, Cormac McLaggen, Viktor Krum and Luna Lovegood were each sipping and chatting.

Harry wasn’t sure what all that was about.

Luna – she was an out-and-proud omnisexual and EOD: Equal Opportunity Dater. Harry had been there when she’d kissed her date, Sally Ann Perks, at the same time the Druid officiating Ron and Lavender’s disaster of a wedding told the groom he could, ‘kiss the bride’. Which Ron apparently interpreted as the go-ahead to lap at Lavender’s open mouth like an extra-thirsty Snuffles went at his water dish. Which, made Harry re-evaluate his own kissing skills. Now that he’d seen what Hermione had put up with, even if it was just the short time between when she and Ron started dating and when Hermione caught Ron abuse his budding Auror status. Hermione cut all ties to Ron when he built a false case against Greengrass Consolidated. Greengrass faced charges on the grounds of the wizarding equivalent of industrial espionage – the DMLE statute identified as Magical Poaching – pertaining to Pee-Three. To hear Ron explain himself, if he created enough public controversy about Pee-Three, the investors would have no choice but to pull-out, Hermione would then have to give-up Pee-Three, which would free-up Hermione so that she could marry him like a proper witch would-and-should. And, if Ron happened to discredit a family of former Snakes in the process, then bully for him!

Again – Harry could see the circular logic in Ron’s behavior. Though, that particular logic-loop definitely included a l-o-n-g lay-over in Crazy Land. But, because of his association with the Weasley family, Harry figured he owed it to George, as he was George’s silent partner at WWW, to attend Ron’s wedding.

As an EOD, Luna attended the Fifth Annual Day of Remembrance and her date for the event was Majorian’s son, Neilan. When Luna made an off-handed – Good Godric, Harry PRAYED that Luna’s aside was off-handed and not an exercise in semantics – comment about how she and Neilan never went anywhere without a bit-and-bridle. In Harry’s mind, Harry spelled ‘bridle’ b-r-i-d-a-l and permanently associated any aspect of that particular conversation with wedding planning. Any other possible definition or intentions created images and possibilities that Harry knew he didn’t deserve to carry or superimpose on the inter-species couple.

Cormac… Harry hadn’t seen the arrogant arsehole for years. He’d read about him in Wizard’s Whirl. The Quidditch referee had been featured in that magazine many times as McLaggen had cultivated quite the reputation for his single-mindedness while on the Pitch. Looking at the curly-haired wizard from across the room, Harry had to admit that perhaps a reason why Cormac appeared to have finally learned the difference between ‘confidence’ and ‘cock-sure’ might have something to do with realizing that those who possessed a genuine talent for something never needed to brag about it.

Natalie MacDonald… Harry didn’t know anything about her. But if his former dorm-mate was here, then she obviously had a vested interest in Hermione Granger.

Fleur and Hermione bonded when Hermione apologized to the quarter-Veela in the days after the Battle of Hogwarts for not standing up for her when Ginny instigated the whole ‘Anti-Phlegm’ campaign. Since then, every couple of months, well before Bill filed for an annulment, Hermione found the time to meet up with Fleur – regardless of where in the world the two witches might be. And, since it was Fleur’s Veela-ness that was behind the reason why everyone had assembled, it made sense that she’d be a part of all this. Hence the reason why Fleur had to be here tonight. Also, if Remus told the story right, Fleur’s fiancé, Atanas Paisi, was the result of a disastrous date between Hermione and Atanas.

If there was a wild-card in the bunch, it was the fifth person seated at Fleur’s table who was also Fleur’s fiancé’s best man: Viktor Krum

Harry knew Viktor was still important to Hermione. The friendship between Harry’s hopefully-soon-to-be-more-than-his-best-friend and the retired Bulgarian Seeker hadn’t floundered once during all these years. In fact, Viktor harboured Crookshanks during the year that he, Hermione, and Ron had been on-the-run. Krum masked Crookshanks’ magical signature so that no one could use the half-Kneazle to track Hermione as it was well-known throughout Hogwarts that Crooks was Hermione’s so-ugly-he’s-handsome familiar.

To this day, Viktor arranged for regular deliveries of Kneazle treats to Hermione’s flat. The reason why Harry knew this? When he’d tried to do that himself, the owner of Magical Menagerie informed him that another wizard had beat him to-the-punch and that wizard was Viktor Krum. Again, this was something that Harry could wrap is brain around: Crooks was one of those beings that, once you’ve earned his trust, respect, and affection, he permanently endeared himself to you via an extension of his Kneazle heritage. Harry had earned such a kinship with the bandy-legged bruiser of a cat when he’d finally stood up to Ron and the rest of the Weasleys when Ron’s plan had been exposed. Sirius, too, had earned Crooks’ magical kinship back in Third Year and the half-Kneazle had honoured that bond ever since. It wasn’t hard to imagine a moment where Viktor would have proven himself to Hermione is such a way that Crookshanks would’ve reached out to the burly Bulgarian the same way that Crooks connected to himself and Sirius.

As it turned out, revealed during a the knock-down, epic, shouting match between Ron and Hermione that took place a month after Hermione’s meeting with Death, all the DADA lessons that Hermione organized, which Harry subsequently taught, the source material was a combination of Lupin’s lesson plans from when Remus was the DADA professor and Krum’s personal academic summaries from his time at Durmstrang and subsequent specialized concentrations in Warding and Runic Applications. To think that Ron had gotten all jealous over Hermione’s owls from ‘Vicky’, and yet Harry’s former best male friend had eagerly lapped all the information ‘Vicky’ had sent to Hermione. It didn’t take an Alchemist to figure out that Viktor was most likely the wizard who’d supplied Hermione with the source materials from which she learned all the complicated protection and security spells that Ron took for granted during what should’ve been their Seventh Year. Irony didn’t even BEGIN to cover that!

The other thing that seventy-five percent of the wizards and witches in the room had in common?

They’d all played a part in protecting Hermione from Herbert Greengrass.

While that aspect had ended several years ago, the casual acquaintances between the protectors and the protectee – Hermione – evolved into genuine interest for the Muggleborn witch.

Harry admitted to Sirius on several occasions that he never really ‘saw’ Hermione as a romantic prospect until they’d spent that year on-the-run. In fact, the first time Harry found himself contemplating what a future without her would be like, was when they were doing ‘laundry’. An icy-cold stream in the middle of nowhere, two weeks after Ron stormed off, fingers cramping from gripping water-logged denim trousers and flannel shirts, trying their best to rinse away the worst of the stink and grime with nothing but determination and no soap, when suddenly, a sopping wet sock smacked his chest. He looked up. Hermione, hands clutching her stomach as she was laughing so hard at his expression at being ‘attacked’ by a sock, in the sunlight, in the middle of nowhere, her own pile of laundry heaped on the bank of the stream, was breath-taking. Of course, he immediately countered with t-shirt lobbed at her head. Which landed on her shoulder. Which became a full-on water-and-wet-clothes fight. Which ended when the two of them, each reaching for the last piece of clothing that hadn’t been hurled as of yet, wrestled each other into the freezing cold stream. That night, Harry stared long and hard at Ginny’s name the Map. For once, he wasn’t focusing on Ginny. He was focusing on the fact that if it weren’t for him, Hermione would be where Ginny was: at school, doing what she loved, learning everything she could about witchcraft and wizardry. Hermione wouldn’t be shivering with a rough woollen blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a wistful smile on her face, as she stirred a pot of that loathsome mushroom soup they both hated.

That happened more than seven years ago. Since then, there have been many more moments when Harry found himself realizing that Hermione was never a sister.

Separating himself from the concept of One Big Happy Weasley Family was liberating. Especially when Molly continually blamed Hermione for Ron’s dismissal from Auror Control in the wake of Green-Gate. What Ron had done was completely of Ron’s own doing, including being held accountable for framing Herbert Greengrass – Greengrass, Green-Gate, as termed by the newspapers – for Magical Poaching.

Harry wanted a family. But, he wanted a family of his own – not to be assimilated into someone else’s family. He needed carry on the Potter name in deed and in spirit. He couldn’t honour his family’s legacy if he became the first raven-haired Weasley. Nor did he want to become the first green-eyed Black. Unlike Molly, Sirius understood this and didn’t begrudge him his epiphany.

That was five years ago, when Molly laid into him for, ‘turning his back on those who’d loved him the most’.

Love didn’t work that way. Love was protective, yes. Love didn’t come with a guilt-trip and possessiveness.

Since that moment, when Harry walked out of Molly’s kitchen and with a final nod to Arthur, Harry Potter was his own man, his own wizard, his own person.

It was good to be Harry Potter. To offer Hermione his name, for her to accept him as more than her best friend, would be even better.

One last wizard entered the room. Atanas, Fleur’s fiancé, nodded at some, shook hands with others, kissed a few cheeks, and clapped a few backs as he made his way to his intended.

Standing by her shoulder, he pulled out Fleur’s chair and gallantly offered her his hand. She accepted with a smile that, had Harry been a few years younger and a lot less experienced with a Veela’s Allure, would’ve reduced him to a state of vacuous admiration.

Beside him, Sirius muttered, “Here we go.”

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

With Atanas at her side, Fleur exuded just enough Allure to ensure that she had everyone’s complete attention. Her fiancé cast the Translation Charm on everyone assembled. Fleur did not want there to be any chance of her being misunderstood because of her word-choices or her accent. Every witch and wizard now understood and spoke fluent French.

“Thank you all for coming tonight.”

A light smattering of murmurs acknowledged her attempt at pleasantries.

“We are all here for the same reason. There is a witch we all know, who deserves the kind of ever-lasting love that should exist between those who truly belong to, and with, each other.”

“What you do not know is this: Hermione Granger has been Cursed.”

She held up a hand to stop the impending stampede of those intent on rushing to her side.

“This is a burden she accepted willingly and told only a select few. Myself being one of them.”

Fleur looked at Severus Snape, who remained impassive despite the fact that he was the only other who knew of Hermione’s predicament.

“Death is a blessing and a curse. In this case, Death’s blessing was the return of four amazing wizards. Death’s curse was the emotional toll of living a life devoid of romantic love. A price Hermione paid gladly and willingly and without regret or remorse.”

Fleur’s stern expression prevented anyone from casting aspirations at either Black brother, Master Snape, or Remus Lupin.

“There is a way to break this Curse, once and for all.”

Any and all whispering abruptly stopped.

“As you all know, in three days I will stand before you, with this wizard,” she gestured to Atanas, “and we will commit our lives, magics, and souls to one another.”

Atanas reached for her hand, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“Each of you brought your invitations?” She ran her gaze over one and all. “If you would please lift them above your heads?”

The entire company brandished over-sized cream-colored linen envelopes.

Fleur and Atanas drew their wands. Together, in perfect unison, a wash of shimmering blue-purple magic flowed from their wands. Like steam rising, it curled and tumbled across the ceiling, and, literally, rained down on everyone. Each envelope glowed brightly as it absorbed the magic. Across the room, each invitation shifted from a cream-coloured envelope into either a boutonniere or simple corsage of white lavender.

“In three days, after our ceremony, Atanas and I will bestow our Blessing on Hermione. Immediately after our Blessing, if you are our Hermione’s True Match, your enchanted flower will take on the same color as Hermione’s posy.” Fleur looked at one and all, to make sure everyone understood every word and felt her sincere compassion. “Atanas and I thought very hard about this. If there is one thing that is…cruel…about a Blessing is that there can be only one – multiples are also considered ‘one’ – Match. Everyone else has to come to terms that they were not Matched. Those not Matched do not deserve to have her know that they were…for lack of a better term…passed over. Hence the reason why, in this case, only you will know if your boutonniere or corsage matches hers.”

Fleur didn’t think it would be so difficult to tell twenty-two people that they all stood an equal chance to be Chosen and to be Refused.

“However, there must be some indication, easily recognizable, as to who was Matched. Which is why the witch, wizard, or any combination thereof will make himself, herself, their selves known by being the one to escort Hermione onto the ballroom floor for the second dance. Once your hand – hands, if the case may be – touch hers, the Curse will be broken.”

She found the strength to keep her voice steady and her posture straight when Atanas wrapped his hand around hers.

“Being Matched does not mean ‘happily ever after’. It does not mean that you will automatically be granted eternal bliss. A Match means just that: you are her best Match. It will be up to you and her to foster and nurture your relationship, despite what life, and work, and other people bring into your life and into her life. You will not automatically be perfect people nor perfect towards each other. What you will have is something that so many overlook or take for granted: the security in knowing that out of all the witches and wizards who want a witch like Hermione Granger as a life-partner, you were –and are – her Match. What you, and her, do with that, is entirely on you.”

With that, she offered one final benediction.

“So mote it be.”

To Atanas, she murmured, “May the best man win.”

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

Three days later…

The ceremony brought tears to her eyes.

There was so much love between Atanas and Fleur, that the Bonding was bright, beautiful, and awe-inspiring. So much so that Hermione felt like she was intruding as she looked on as the couple kissed before two-hundred-fifty friends and family.

Caught up in the moment, as well as temporarily blinded by the flare of magic that emanated from the newlyweds, Hermione felt a second wash of magic flow from where she stood at the altar and out over the guests.

Fleur had told her that twenty-two witches and wizards assembled at the Leaky Cauldron three nights ago, all intent on making their feelings for her known. Fleur refused to name names or offer any clues as to who had been there that night. Hermione was still hesitant to believe that the Curse she took on willingly could be broken.

Her deal with Death was fairly iron-clad. She’d won four out of seven arguments. Death needed balance. The price paid for Remus, Severus, Sirius and Regulus was her ability to romantically bond with another.

What if Fleur’s Blessing wasn’t enough to break the Curse? What if her Match never asked her to dance, never declared him – or her – self? What if she had to spend the rest of her life finding fulfilment in her work and her friends without that ‘je ne sais quoi’ that makes work, life, friends, and love all that much ‘more’? It wouldn’t be a bad thing, to have a work-centric life. To live the next hundred and fifty years or so with friends wouldn’t be a bad thing. It would be more than most people experienced during their entire lives! She would be fortunate to have the people in her life in her life for the rest of her life, to do what she does, to help people, to tackle the previously unexplored or overlooked or deemed ‘undoable’.

If all that wasn’t such a bad thing, why did she feel tears in her eyes and a horrid heaviness in her soul and a sense of mourning running the length and breadth of her magic?

A gentle touch to the underside of her chin lifted her eyelids.

A warm smile from two feet away chased away the heaviness in her soul.

Her magic hummed – HUMMED! – at the sight of the wizard in front of her.

A different kind of tears flowed from her heart and out her eyes.

A joyous smile spread to from her lips to her cheeks.

She reached forward. Her hand now cupped the side of his face. Her thumb traced his cheekbone.

“I am so glad it’s you.”

“May I have this dance?”

“Always, Harry.”

FIN

For anyone interested, the Fire Festival in the Shetlands DOES happen every year, on the last Tuesday in January. I’ve never been, but I want to! Here’s a link!

http://www.uphellyaa.org/about-up-helly-aa

The choice of flower for the Blessing, white heather lavender, was deliberate. I know that there are MANY interpretations of what flowers mean, especially since meanings can change with the era. Here is a link to the website I used. Heather lavender appears alphabetically. In this context, it represents protection and a secret love.

http://www.theflowerexpert.com/content/aboutflowers/flower-meanings