Seven Years Later... May the Best Wizard Win by 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!




1. Part One
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**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.**

**(*)**

**(*)**

**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?
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**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