Paradise Lost: Chapter Three

Paradise Lost

Chapter Three—Evergreen

"You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves."

--Mary Oliver, from "Wild Geese"

Tuesday, September 11, 2012—6:30 a.m. GMT

150 miles outside of London, aerial approach.

"Will you be having breakfast, miss?"

Hermione awoke with a start and nodded. Twenty thousand miles in the air, Virgin Atlantic Flight 23 had begun to stir as the flight attendants finished serving a continental breakfast. She pushed the dog-eared Stephen Hawking tome from her lap and rubbed the crust from her eyes, knowing she must look a mess. Which would not do—she couldn’t have her father seeing her like that.

The flight attendant was saying something else to her. "Would you like some coffee? Or would you prefer tea?"

"Coffee," she murmured without hesitation. British or not, coffee was coffee… as evidenced by the proliferation of Starbucks cafés on every corner of the isle during the time she’d spent at Hogwarts and the decade thereafter. She needed to wake up and get her bearings.

The flight attendant poured the dark liquid into a tiny plastic cup with a red-lipsticked smile, careful not to spill a drop despite the slight turbulence.

"How close are we to Heathrow?" Hermione asked.

"About thirty minutes away, miss. Will you be wanting anything else?"

She shook her head and the flight attendant left. After eating a few dry and dissatisfactory mouthfuls of the airplane food, she made her way to the lavatory with her cosmetic case to freshen up and got back just as the plane began its final descent into London.

There were very few passengers on the plane, and Hermione was lucky enough to have a seat by herself in business class. She slid over to the other seat and opened the window shade.

Bright, early morning sunlight filtered into the cabin. Hermione looked down and a lump caught in her throat. Compared to America, with its variety of picturesque landscapes, southern England was relatively monotonous. There were the obligatory fields, woods, and hills interrupted by the occasional village. You had the sense when you were flying over the United States that you were in a huge country. Not so England…everything appeared much more compact from above.

And much greener.

Indeed, she’d forgotten how very green England was in late summer. The green came in every shade imaginable, from palest ocean-foam to the deepest forest-leaf shade imaginable. There were no skyscrapers to break the emerald dream, either. She remembered flying over this landscape long ago without benefit of a plane, too…

She stopped the thought cold.

Don’t even think about it, Hermione. Not here. It’s one thing reminiscing about it all four thousand miles away. It’s quite another to do it here.

As if she needed the reminder, she replayed the one-line message she’d received in response to the S.O.S she’d sent to Malfoy nearly six weeks before.

G: Return immediately. -M

She hadn’t responded. No more blips in time had occurred since that frightening first weekend of August. Besides, Malfoy was supposed to be her Secret-Keeper… if he hadn’t compromised her security, then she had nothing to worry about. No spell could circumvent the powerful Fidelius Charm…

New spells are being invented all the time, Hermione. Haven’t you conjured up a few yourself? Even old magic like Fidelius can falter when confronted with a force that’s even more ancient…

Hermione ignored her disquieting thoughts and looked out of the window again.

They were flying over Greater London. She picked out the long silvery line that was the Thames, snaking its way northwest towards her native Oxfordshire where it became the tranquil river Isis. Even from her vantage point, she could pick out first Islington, then Chelsea and the West End in general, where Ginny had lived in Soho for many years. To the north, in nondescript Hertfordshire, dwelled Fred and Angelina and their brood. She wondered if her Hogwarts friend Lisa Turpin and her husband still called Lewisham home. Many were the afternoons when she and Lisa had met each other halfway at their favorite Victoria pub, the Shakespeare.

She closed her eyes.

I’m home. I’m finally home.

From that moment on, she became increasingly anxious. When the plane’s wheels hit the runway at Heathrow, her heart began to beat faster. When it locked into its designated gate, her breath caught in her throat.

As she began to gather her carry-on luggage, she felt very surreal. She’d phoned her father from the airport before she boarded her flight, telling him not to bother driving in. She was coming in on a weekday morning, and traffic on the M40 was typically horrendous during rush hour. The X80 coach was perfectly good, and it always was a simple matter to get a taxi from Gloucester Green during most of the year. The only time she hated to do this was at the start and end of Oxford’s terms, when transport was overloaded with students.

Customs were a breeze, as they typically were. She bypassed the gaggle of Americans and other foreigners on her way to the EEU gate, where she flashed her identification at the officer… who looked vaguely familiar.

He was stunningly handsome, with refined blond good looks that reminded her vaguely of Draco Malfoy and Malfoy’s cousin Dante Rosetti. Yet where Dante was brawny and Malfoy was slight, this man was somewhere in between. He had the finely sculpted features of a model and eyes blue as the bay of Biscay.

Hermione was mesmerized.

"Nationality, miss?" the man was saying.

She snapped out of it. "Oh! Uh… umm… British."

The customs officer flashed her a smile. "And just why were you in the United States?"

"Bus... business. Good to be back."

The officer waved her through with a nod. She smiled back.

It didn’t take long to pick up her luggage. She’d never been a high maintenance type of woman who needed four different suitcases in order to travel. Of course, when she felt how heavy her two bags were it was all she could do not to consider levitating them. Such a simple spell wouldn’t even require a wand… even certain Muggles could lift objects through sheer willpower.

Resisting the temptation, Hermione walked out and into the crowd of people waiting to pick up passengers… and looked straight into her father’s dark brown eyes.

"Dad?" She was frozen in place.

Her father closed the distance between the two of them as she dropped her bags. Then he hugged her as tightly as he could, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. Shocking her completely… she hadn’t expected him to meet her here. Or to be so emotional about it. Reserved didn’t even begin to describe her dad.

Ted Granger was a man whose very presence could fill a room. His competence in dentistry and orthodontic surgery coupled with a curt, no-nonsense manner had long ago earned him universal respect in his field. There were many who didn’t like him, but even his detractors had to admit that he was a spanking good dentist and one hell of a lecturer.

Hermione had always wanted to imitate her graceful mother but often feared that she’d ended up much more like her domineering dad. She’d inherited Ted’s hair and eyes and his tendency to boss everyone about. She’d also received a double portion of his forced self-confidence… whether it was genetic or learned behavior, she’d never stopped to analyze.

"I’ve missed you, darling," he murmured.

She knew the appropriate response: I missed you too, Dad. But she knew it wasn’t the truth. If she’d truly missed him, she would have been back long before now.

Ted drew back a bit and studied her face. Although he didn’t say it, Hermione could sense he was thinking how very like her mother she was in appearance.. She had her father’s coloring but her facial features and build were all Caroline’s. Her father used to say it all the time, especially whenever he saw her again after a year at Hogwarts. But now, such comments were all but taboo.

Looking over his shoulder, Hermione noticed a little boy of obvious Middle Eastern descent staring at her… from his appearance, she guessed he was Pakistani or North African. He didn’t seem like an urchin at all. He was well-dressed, clean and groomed… and staring pointedly at her.

Hermione blinked. The boy was gone.

Letting her father go, she took a startled step back and bumped into a barrel-chested man. She turned around… and met Heath’s broad, wolfish grin. In spite of herself, her heart turned over in her chest. Until the fright took over, that is.

She jumped and emitted a tiny scream.

Her father reached out a hand to steady her.

"Hey, lady, watch where you’re goin’…" The voice was clearly that of an American tourist, not the neutral accent of Heath and Seal’s speech. And when she looked up with a murmured apology on her lips, the face was no longer Heath’s.

Hermione moved back towards her father, clinging a bit. This behavior was so atypical for his daughter that Ted was immediately alarmed.

"Hermione? Darling, are you all right?"

"Just tired, Dad. Tired and worn out and jet-lagged. I think I’m seeing things."

He smiled and hugged her shoulders again. "Well, there’s a bed with your name on it. It’s been there for over thirty years and I’ve seen no good reason to get rid of it yet…"

"Theodore? Oh, Theodore darling, there you are!"

A blonde woman with aristocratically pinched features approached them. She looked to be somewhere in the neighborhood of her mid to late thirties, no more than seven or eight years older than Hermione herself. She sidled up to Ted and wound her arms about his neck just as Hermione bent down to retrieve her suitcases.

"No, here, let me do that… and before we go any further, allow me to do the introductions. Hermione, this is Clara Lancaster. Clara dear, this is my daughter Hermione."

Clara reached out a long hand with fingernails painted bright red. Hermione had always hated red fingernail polish with an irrational passion. On the rare occasions that she actually had time for a manicure, she preferred clear polish or very subdued peach, pink, or pearlescent shades and invariably used matching muted tones for her self-pedicures.

"So nice to finally meet you, dear. I’ve heard so much about you."

"I can’t say the same about you," said Hermione coldly, glancing over at her father. The accusation was in her eyes… how could you do this to Mother so soon? Then she returned her gaze to Clara and just looked at her.

Clara broke eye contact first, volunteering to bring the car around.

As soon as she left, Ted attempted to set his daughter straight.

"It’s been nearly three years, Hermione. Don’t be so unreasonable," said Ted curtly.

"You say it as if it’s been ages and ages," Hermione said scathingly. "You were married to Mother for forty years…"

"’Were’ is the operative word. I’ve grieved over your mother. Now I have got to live my own life."

Hermione nodded blandly. "Right, Dad. Can’t fault you for doing that."

He gave her a sharp look, but she didn’t waver. She met it measure for measure. Thinking all the things she wanted to say to him and yet never could.

I’m not a little girl anymore. You cannot intimidate me. My will is as strong as yours… I may look like my mother, but inside I am the female version of you. Ah, more’s the pity.

Speaking of that, Dad, seeing that woman here instead of my mother only served to remind me that the one who connected us is gone. I wonder if she connects us still? Or do you only want to forget her… and anything that reminds you of her?

She said none of these things, however. Instead, she allowed her father to take her bags and followed him out to the car park where Clara waited.

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

Tuesday, September 18, 2012—dawn, GMT

Headington, Oxfordshire.

On her seventh morning in England, Hermione opened her eyes to a slightly frightening realization.

Home didn’t feel like home anymore.

Her initial meeting with Hugh Turner at Magdalen was scheduled for later that day. Hermione was glad, not to mention relieved. She’d been staying around the house for much of the time—partly because she was attempting to recuperate from her last whirlwind month wrapping up everything stateside, and partly because she was irrationally paranoid about running into anyone from the wizarding world. She hadn’t even yet notified Malfoy about her presence back in England, although she was sure that somehow he knew.

Nothing was the same now that her mother wasn’t there. There were no meals unless Hermione cooked them; Ted had never been much good in the kitchen and Clara seemed afraid of mussing her perfect little manicure.

There was nowhere in the house that she felt she could be private. Clara found the most inane excuses for bursting into her room for no reason at all. She also was one of those cattish women who liked to throw stones, then hide her hands behind her back as Hermione seethed.

Hermione had been incensed to learn that her father had allowed this new girlfriend of his to take over all the closet space in her room. After she’d recovered from the jet lag, the first thing she’d done was dump all of Clara’s Christian Dior and Prada frocks on the bed that her mother had once slept in.

"Where am I supposed to put all this, then?" Clara had asked severely. In response, Hermione had shrugged and turned on her heel with a sharp "not my problem" on her lips.

In Clara’s shallow mind, it was almost as if her lover’s daughter had declared war. So the very next morning, Hermione went to the laundry room to transfer a load of her whites from the washer to the dryer only to find that they were now varying shades of pink. The culprit? A very skimpy red nylon thong, which Hermione tossed onto the centerpiece of the table where her father and Clara were eating breakfast.

"I think you’re missing something, Clara," she said in passing.

Of course, her father was furious. Hermione expected this. Upon returning to the laundry room, she counted ten and then looked up into his fuming face.

"Your behavior is outrageous, Hermione Anne. You are thirty-one, not three."

Hermione’s glare was exactly identical to his. "No, Dad. This," she held up a tie-dyed pink lab coat, "is outrageous."

"How do you know that it wasn’t yours?" her father said, veins in his neck twitching. "Certainly you’ve done that sort of thing often enough while you were living at home… not separating things carefully because your nose was in a book. Most likely it’s your own fault that your clothes were ruined."

"I don’t wear trashy thong underwear, Dad." said Hermione coldly. "But then, I don’t wear cheap nylon either. Neither did my mother, by the way… what gutter did you find this strumpet in again?"

Of course, that set Ted Granger right off. Hermione had never spoken to her father in such a fashion. She’d always been the model daughter. However, there were limits… and Clara Lancaster was hers.

Yes, Hermione knew she was being slightly catty. She knew that she was driving a wedge between Clara and her father. But it wasn’t like Clara was the most diplomatic woman in the world, either. She went out of her way to make Hermione uncomfortable. She smoked in the house until Hermione complained about it, and then used Hermione’s favorite grubby old garden shoes as ashtrays.

"They were on the back porch. I thought you meant to discard them," said Clara innocently after Hermione confronted her.

Then there was the prawn-and-vegetable soup Clara made on the one night that week she decided to become Delia Smith. She assured Hermione that there was no other shellfish other than prawns in it… Hermione on occasion had experienced allergic reactions ranging from hives after eating fried kalamari in Spain as a little girl to having to be hospitalized after eating a delicious bowl of clam chowder while visiting Darice in Boston.

When she felt her face prickle after summer pudding and tea, it was too late. A look in the mirror revealed a nasty rash the size of five-pence pieces all over her face.

"I knew there were scallops in that soup!" said Hermione angrily, bumpy face turning an unsightly red.

"Oh, dear," said Clara, looking up at Ted with concerned eyes. "Perhaps the prawns I purchased at the Covered Market this afternoon were mixed with the rest of the catch at some point?"

Ted nodded. After he saw that Hermione’s allergic reaction wasn’t life threatening, he downplayed the incident with a forced laugh.

"I’m sure Clara meant well, Hermione. No real harm done, is there?"

Hermione was too angry to say anything else. She lay in her bed later that night, angry tears making her ointment-smeared cheeks sting as she thought of all the myriad ways she could make Clara suffer. By the time she drifted off to sleep, she decided that the bitch wasn’t worth the trouble. Once she met with Hugh, she thought, she’d see if there were any rooms available for members of the Fellows Common Room at Magdalen…

Perhaps coming back here was a mistake, Hermione thought as she awoke on the morning before her birthday. Her thirty-second birthday. Perhaps if she’d been living as a witch, she wouldn’t have thought that sounded as bad as it did.

In the bathroom, she examined her face for any wrinkles and her hair for any premature grey strands. Finding neither, she sighed, staring at her reflection. In her estimation, she was neither a raving beauty nor a hideous troll. Quite average she was, with fairly good cheekbones, an expressive mouth, and dark brown eyebrows that slanted naturally upwards into twin questioning arches.

Those were her better features. She also had horribly unmanageable, unbelievably thick brown hair that she’d long ago decided was the color of mud, boring eyes with unruly long lashes that had a tendency to tangle and fall into her tearducts at the most inconvenient times, and a perennial distrust of her magically straightened teeth. Overall, Hermione thought, it was the sort of face whose pluses and minuses cancelled each other out and rendered her quite plain.

Shaking herself out of it, she splashed water on her cheeks and began to rub the sleep out of her eyes. She was to meet with Hugh during elevenses and didn’t wish to be late.

Yet there was still some time before she had to walk to the bus stop or the taxi stand. It was only six. Not bothering to dress just yet, Hermione went back into her bedroom.

It was a lovely boudoir indeed, Hermione and her mother having refurbished it while she was living here prior to her marriage to Ron. Hermione originally thought about trying a medieval "solar" theme with colors and furnishings similar to the Gryffindor common room, but Caroline had studied classics before becoming a dentist and was all for a theme that would match her daughter’s name.

"How about a Greek key pattern running around the perimeter of the room? A mosaic on that far wall? Marble and ivory for the furniture, white mesh curtains for the canopy? With rugs and cushions here and there to warm things up. We could even cover your Hogwarts chest, if you like…"

Hermione had laughed. "Mum, I’m a witch. I’ll Transfigure it into a chest of alabaster if you like."

That alabaster box was still there, edged with gold. With the cushions placed over it, it appeared as a regular window seat. Hermione, since her return, had pretended that was all it was. She didn’t want to think about what was in it. Her textbooks and the tomes she couldn’t bear to part with in the estate sale. Her old collapsible cauldron and deluxe senior-grade Potions kit. A few of the robes she liked best. Her bridal robes… no.

She didn’t want to think about that.

There were also the jewels she and her friends had been given as part of their VW2 award, wrapped in velvet… jewels that had been given to her by default by the Confederation because she had been the girl… jewels that she never wore because most of them were far too ostentatious for her taste. She’d given most of them away to the various wizarding museums and to charity but had kept a few out of curiosity. Like the seventy-two foot long strand of freshwater pearls from ancient Cipangu, and the multifaceted Golden Diamond of Teohuatican, larger than a chicken egg. Items that had been in her Gringotts vault until the divorce, they were now secreted in the deepest reaches of her chest.

And that was just the tip of the iceberg. A magically-enhanced storage vault could always hold much, much more than met the eye.

Yet even if she had wanted to open it, Hermione could not. The sealing enchantment on it was so powerful that even she required a wand to break it. And her wand was nowhere on her person… Malfoy had it in his possession, to bring to her if and when she decided to break Fidelius and rejoin that world.

Never.

Turning away from the alabaster window-seat, she went to the favorite of her many bookshelves. This was the one that contained all of her favorite childhood reads. The Secret Garden. The Hobbit. Anne of Green Gables. The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. Jane Eyre. The Borrowers. The Subtle Knife. Wuthering Heights. The Ruby in the Smoke. Pride and Prejudice. Alice in Wonderland. The Famous Five. The Dark Is Rising. Northern Lights. The Mists of Avalon. Wild Swans. Emerald House Rising. Five Children and It. The Secret of the Old Mill. There were literally hundreds of titles, now handled with care and regarded as old friends… Hermione didn’t really have many playmates during her pre-Hogwarts days, so her books had been her companions.

It also contained her one Muggle photo album. She drew it from the shelf, sat down on her bed, and opened it. The album was chock-full of pictures of her family in happier times.

In the front of the album were her baby pictures. Being an only child, her parents wasted a considerable amount of film capturing her every infantile action from sunrise to sunset. Her first bath, first crawl, and first step were all preserved for posterity underneath adhesive plastic sheets.

As she turned the pages, Hermione watched herself grow up. There was her fifth birthday party with all the neighborhood kids and the sugar-free candy that made one of the smarter older girls ask if someone in the house was diabetic. She explained her parents’ obsession with dental caries and the girl thought she was even stranger.

Then there were her school pictures. Six of them--one for every year until she disappeared from the Oxfordshire educational records altogether. Reason for leaving? Attending an outcounty boarding school, her paperwork said.

At the back of her album were the pictures Hermione treasured most of all.

First, there was the picture of her mother and father on their wedding day. September 1970. Her parents waited quite a long time to have children—they were both in their middle thirties when she was born a decade to the month of their wedding day. Now that she was thirtysomething herself, Hermione wondered if that was why she didn’t have any brothers and sisters. As a child, she’d always assumed it was because she was enough for them to handle with their busy schedules. She never really minded being an only child, though, having been the sort of little girl who treasured her space to read, think, and dream.

Hermione lifted the plastic and touched the wedding photograph, smiling at the way her dad was looking at her mum. Her father’s one soft spot had been for her mother. Caroline Means had been the love of his life… they’d known each other since university, where they were both training to be dentists. She helped to temper his black-and-white worldview of absolutes… and had been instrumental in persuading him to allow Hermione to attend Hogwarts.

Hermione looked at another picture of her father on the same page, taken when he was around thirty years old. She knew that her father loved her very much. But when it came to his only child—his little girl—Ted had always been very regimented. He’d wanted to be a doctor, not a dentist, and so that was what his daughter was going to be.

"If you go to this witch school, Hermione," said Ted on that long-ago day, looking first at McGonagall, then at his wife and daughter, "know that my expectations for you have not changed. I’ll not have a daughter of mine reading palms for a living."

Minerva McGonagall had given him a disdainful look. "Sir, there is much more to witchcraft and wizardry than that. Hermione will have her pick of professions in the wizarding world, and I daresay many of them are far more amenable to women than their Muggle counterparts…"

"There is no comparison between hocus-pocus and the hard sciences, madam. I am not denying that my daughter is a witch… remember, I am her father and have known her all her life, not just since yesterday. I will allow her to have this witch training only if she still takes her GSCEs and A-Levels and goes to Oxford when she’s done with this foolishness. That is my final word."

As she went through Hogwarts, her father’s ultimatum was always in the back of her mind. She knew only her very best was good enough for her father… he expected perfection. And in the end, Hermione came to demand the same of herself.

School distanced her from her parents. It saddened her that she could never give them a full, no-holds barred account of her Hogwarts experience. She learned the hard way after first and second years. Her parents were so electrified when they heard of the Forbidden Forest, Fluffy, and everything that was under that trapdoor that Hermione was glad that she hadn’t taken any pictures as they’d originally asked her to do.

When she was Petrified second year, Dumbledore wrote to her parents. Hermione was sure that it was a hard decision to make, but in the end, the old beloved Headmaster must have thought the Grangers and the other Muggle parents had a right to know. Her father had wanted to pull her out of Hogwarts, and it took the entire summer for Caroline to talk him out of it.

After that, she told her parents everything about excelling in her classes and absolutely nothing of her adventures with Ron and Harry or the trouble she managed to get into on her own. It was better that way, she knew. And while she didn’t mind not telling her father things, it bothered her that there was a part of her life that she couldn’t share with her mother.

Her last two years at Hogwarts were exceedingly horrific in that regard. Between the Christmas holidays in 1997 and the Missing Week of 1998—nearly a year and a half-- she only saw her parents one time, at the end of sixth year. She hadn’t been able to take the Hogwarts Express… she’d had to Apparate into Oxfordshire without a license under cover of Dumbledore’s strongest Stealth spells… and she’d had to lie.

I have to be away this summer… no, not a holiday… all my class is off to India for a special summer course… yes, Ron and Harry and everyone else is going as well… yes, it’s required by the school… no, I won’t be able to see you before term begins again… yes, I will send word every so often, but I may be too busy to write… yes, I’ll be all right… please trust me… I’ll see you as soon as I can… I love you too… Daddy. Mummy… good-bye.

"Are my parents under Death Eater surveillance?" Hermione asked of Dumbledore the second she returned to Hogwarts.

"Your parents are being watched, yes. But our side is also watching them. No harm will come to them."

Her eyes had filled with tears that time, because as much as she loved and trusted the old Headmaster, she didn’t quite believe him. And so he held her fast with only his sparkling, wise eyes.

"Miss Granger, you cannot fight Voldemort if you are preoccupied with your own parents’ welfare. The future of our world is at stake. Take up your wand against evil for their sake if you must, but you alone cannot protect them. I fear that we cannot do without you at this point… he cannot do without you… which means that without you, we are all lost."

It was a choice that she never had an opportunity to freely make. Even if she had given into the little voice that wanted to succumb to the anguish in her parents’ eyes and stay—after all, I’m their only child!—the horror would have shown up at her Muggle doorstep.

She’d been sixteen when she last saw her parents as a girl. When she saw them again at eighteen, she was not only an adult, she was a different person altogether. She had walked through the most forbidding of shadow lands. She had mastered the Pattern, the three-dimensional pathway of human physical, emotional, and spiritual sensations that Nephthys first helped her to navigate. She had partaken in the same mystical Covenant ritual that in ages past had destroyed Atlantis and Troy, founded Hogwarts, severed the entire magical world from the Muggle, and irrevocably damaged the unholy mystical alliance between Hitler and Grindelwald. She had given her body and her soul to one man and had her heart stolen by another.

Yet even with all of this madness and wonder swirling inside of her, she remained Ted Granger’s daughter. So she healed and researched in the infirmary alongside Neville between classes, practiced complicated attack hexes and defensive charms and maneuvers with Harry and Ron after dinner, and studied Muggle chemistry and physics until her candle burned out.

Hermione knew that her mother was very proud of her. But she never was entirely sure if everything she’d done had been enough to please her father. He’d wanted better A-Level results… he thought it a disgrace that she finished Magdalen with seconds. Never mind that she was tied with Neville for first in their Paracelsus class. Never mind that she’d been attending two medical schools at once and planning a huge wedding at the time.

She knew nothing short of perfection would be acceptable to her father.

Hermione thought of all this as she looked at the pictures of her parents. Then she reached the final page of the photo album.

She only had two pictures of her grandparents. One of them was of her father’s father and mother, Hubert and Anna Granger from Lincolnshire. Both were long dead by the time she was born. Hubert was thin and grey while a riot of brown curls surrounded Anna’s round face. Both had been career teachers and then heads of their respective schools before retirement. Both also had mouths so humorless that Hermione understood why her father often found laughter difficult, even painful.

As she’d told Devorah Holstein in the time Before (she refused to believe that the Texas case hadn’t happened), Hermione only had the faintest of memories of her maternal grandmother Helena Vablatsky. Smooth snow-white hair, a whiff of vanilla, a face that had been quite lovely once. Baby-soft hands that stroked her forehead, and a sweet voice telling tales of gallant knights and fair ladies, dragons and dragonslayers, shadowy ringwraiths and legends of valor.

"I don’t like Baba Yaga, Grandmother Helen," said tiny Hermione with a yawn. She couldn’t have been more than four at the time. "Oh, I wish I could be a witch… I’d do good. Not bad like her."

Grandmother Helen’s lips met her plump cheek. "Perhaps you’ll get your wish. If you wish hard enough…"

Her grandmother died the summer before her fifth birthday. Hermione remembered sitting with her parents at Grandmother’s bedside as they waited for the inevitable. And even as young as she was, she felt lost… as if there were things that her grandmother intended to say to her and didn’t.

After she got her Hogwarts letter in July 1991, the precious parchment that confirmed that yes, she could see fairies in her garden and there were indeed ghosts in the Bodleian, she asked her mother something she’d wondered all her life.

"Mum, was Grandmum a witch?"

Caroline sighed. Talking about Grandmother Helen always made her sad, but Hermione felt as if she had to know this. For her own sanity.

"I don’t think she was. But you know, I’ve often wondered about my father. She was very young when she fled Russia and ended up in Edinburgh. Edward Means was a dashing man, they say… and Mother loved him shamelessly… but he died in the War before they could marry."

"Is that why Grandmother gave you your father’s last name?"

"It is why, although she was called Mrs. Means in our village. She was able to collect his pension. She had a marriage license produced somehow, and lived as his widow until she died."

The picture of Helena that Hermione had was a black-and-white snapshot taken in the late thirties, just before she left old Russia. She had indeed been a exceedingly pretty woman in her day… any physical virtues that Caroline and Hermione had were obviously inherited from her, although neither her daughter nor her granddaughter could hold a candle to Helena.

"Do you have any pictures of your father, Mum?"

"That I do not. The only one was in Mum’s possession… it was on our mantelpiece for years. I don’t know what happened to it. I remember being a bit frightened of it because when I was a little girl, I thought it… it moved." She laughed, shaking her head. "Wasn’t that silly of me?"

So for her first few years in the wizarding world, Hermione searched for evidence of her grandfather and grandmother in wizarding records. She never found anything of a Edward Means or the Vablatsky family, although her grandmother shared a last name with the famous author of the text Unfogging the Future. Hermione had to chalk it all up to a strange coincidence.

"Perhaps your magic comes from further back, Hermione," Ginny had told her once when she accompanied Hermione to the Ministry to request records. It was shortly after she’d married Ron and they were talking about having children. "There are Muggleborns who have traced their lineage back sixteen generations and not found evidence of a wizard or a witch anywhere."

"But you don’t understand, Ginny… there was something about my grandmother Helen that just makes me wonder. I’m sure she was at least an empath, if not a hyperempath… did I tell you about the time I fell out of a tree and my parents thought both my legs were broken? Grandmother was visiting… she put her hands on them and they were better than new. And my mother’s story about her father’s picture… what of that?"

"Well, maybe a wizard or witch took his picture by accident or for some purpose and your grandmother found it. Sometimes the Ministry slips up, you know that."

"I can’t shake the feeling though, Gin. My mother’s always been so… she’s not magical but what we usually call a ‘sensitive Muggle’. She always knew deep down I was a witch, she says. I really believe that my grandfather was a wizard and that he died fighting Grindelwald, not Hitler. And I can’t help but wonder if Grandmother was a Squib at the very least, if not a witch herself."

Years later, Hermione looked at the picture, at her grandmother’s secret smile. What are you thinking, Helena Vablatsky?

But Grandmother Helen was silent as always.

Sighing, Hermione closed the album and readied herself for the journey to the city centre and the College.

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

Tuesday, September 18, 2012—10:00 a.m., GMT

Oxford, England.

Hermione alighted from the Park and Ride coach in Carfax Abbey amidst the usual midmorning bustle of the High Street. She loved the international university town atmosphere of Oxford and thought it a wonderful place to call home. Even after traveling extensively, Oxford was still her third favorite Muggle place in the entire United Kingdom after Greater London and Glasgow.

Of course, she thought, none of these held a candle to the magical Hogwarts vicinity or Diagon Alley or the famous witch-spas at Bath or her absolute favorite spot in the whole magical world, the Portal Island of Ayr. But since she wasn’t planning on visiting these any time soon, she could appreciate her hometown at its full worth.

Her first stop was the post office in St. Aldate’s, as she wanted to send a letter to Darice in Boston and had forgot to post it while still in Headington. She had to rant about her father’s new girlfriend to someone, but she didn’t dare use the phone with all of Clara’s snooping about. Clara would only whine to her father.

After leaving the post office, she walked back up to the High Street to grab a latte and a pastry at the nearest Starbucks. Perhaps people like her were the reason why there were now four of those infernal McCoffee joints in the City Centre, but with high prices at Caffe Nero and other places and uncertain hygienic standards at some of the other establishments Hermione didn’t much care about patronizing an evil American opportunist corporation.

She wanted to run a couple of other errands, such as stopping in Boots for a new mascara for her unruly lashes (the only cosmetic she used on a daily basis) and perhaps some paracetamol or Nurofen.… she was getting such headaches lately! She also wanted to browse a bit at Blackwell’s, but a glance at her watch revealed that her meeting with Hugh was only a few minutes away. Hermione didn’t believe in being late.

So she walked to Magdalen, going back down St. Aldate's and taking the back road, past the Bear, past Christ Church College… where she ran into one of the deans of the cathedral, the Rev. Mr. Smith, who was also a friend of her parents’. After chatting with him briefly (the conversation was all of thirty seconds) and making her excuses, she continued up the road past Corpus Christi and Merton Colleges, looking through the gate longingly at the gardens and the lovely Christ Church meadow. She vowed that the very next morning she’d take a walk beside the Isis to celebrate her birthday… something she loved to do between Hogwarts terms to clear her head, especially during the war.

She hurried on and before she knew it was in the familiar vicinity of Magdalen College, where she’d read medicine for five years. Compared to the rigor of her three-year Paracelsus mediwizarding study, the work at Oxford had seemed fairly easy. Then again, studying magic was infinitely more difficult than Muggle letters, arts and sciences simply because there was so much more to know about magic. Wizards and witches never really experienced a counterpart to the Muggle Dark Age at all and so kept on accumulating more knowledge for posterity.

Still, Hermione respected her Oxford tutors a great deal and bore an especial love for Magdalen College, which she chose simply because in her eyes it was the loveliest. It was also reknowned throughout the world for its research contributions to science and medicine. Of course, the fact that her parents were both old members of Magdalen and her father still lectured there on occasion had helped matters; she knew it would please them if she went there. So she kept her promise to her father and sat for all of her practical exams, then for her GSCEs and A-Levels in the natural sciences in her fifth and seventh years at Hogwarts, respectively, in McGonagall’s office.

"You’re mad," said Ron to her over lunch at Hogsmeade one afternoon towards the end of sixth year. "The professors are already bad enough with their business-as-usual attitude… we’re in the midst of fighting a bloody war and they actually expect us to sweat over our NEWTs next year. Don’t you feel like your head’s about to explode?"

"Oh, never that. I learned my lesson third year with the Time-Turner incident. I know my limits. Besides, this is all very easy… there are more connections between, say Chemistry and Potions, than one would think. And Herbology and Biology. And Transfiguration and Physics. Everything connects."

As she walked up the long staircase towards Hugh Turner’s office, she thought about that. What she’d told Ron so long ago remained true… in her mind, even the most abstract concepts always seemed to make sense once she related it to something else she already knew.

Hermione no longer thought that her intellect made her special. She chalked up her supposed intelligence to her father’s whip-cracking ambition for her, her mother’s constant assurances that she could do anything that she put her mind to, and the natural sensitivity that came with being a hyperempath. Which is why, in retrospect, she hadn’t been the best teacher in the world for Harry’s students… she just knew things intuitively and sometimes grew impatient with the kids when they did not.

Hugh Turner was the opposite, and ultimately, the role model of what she wanted to become. Infinitely patient and kind, he could explain molecular genetics to a cockroach. He was the Muggle answer to Remus Lupin.

I don’t think I want to practice medicine forever, thought Hermione. I’d like to teach others how to do what I love doing some day. Perhaps at Oxford, perhaps at Paracelsus. And perhaps someday I’ll be able to revamp the Muggle Studies curriculum at Hogwarts to what it could be… a course authored not with disdain for Muggle scholarship, but with understanding and appreciation for it… showing all the apparent connections between science and magic. I could teach and continue my own research into biomagical origins… finding out what makes us different in the first place.

Now, it’s not like the idea isn’t feasible. When Hogwarts wasn’t willing to make a reasonable offer, I proposed the course to Sirius and Harry for the Dumbledore School. Harry seemed interested in giving it a try, but Sirius told me that I was already doing too much and that I didn’t see enough of my husband as it was. My husband? Ha! By that time, he was already shagging that tart. But I’m sure Sirius was thinking of only himself… about the stunt he and Harry and Remus pulled and was trying desperately hard to cover his tracks. Didn’t want any guilty confessions from his godson, did he?

Her fingers trailed along the banister as she walked. I never thought I’d live to see the day that I absolutely hated Sirius. Or Remus. And I especially never expected to hate Harry. Not after loving him so.

Yes, I admit that much freely. I did love him. Certainly I’ve never worried over anyone else a fraction as much as I worried over Harry. One of the memories that will remain with me from my school days forever is the feeling of perpetually waiting for Damocles’ sword to drop… waiting for Harry not to show up at breakfast some morning and Dumbledore solemnly announcing his death. Truth be told, that was another reason why I hated that Trelawney woman so much. She was always voicing my worst fear and I simply could not remain in that course…

Was I ever in love with him?

That’s what Jack wanted to know. I’m sure he’s not the only one who’s wondered that… I’m sure there were those who wondered in our world. But upon reflection, I’m certain that I did answer Jack truthfully.

I simply don’t know.

Loving someone and being in love with them are two vastly different things. Sometimes when I am feeling particularly weak and lonely, I find myself believing that perhaps I was indeed head over heels when it came to Harry… once. And not only that, but desperately in love with him, the way that I should have loved my husband and always felt guilty because I didn’t… couldn’t.

Of course, what Ron and I had was real at one point. At his best Ron made me feel warm and comfortable and cherished, even when we were in the midst of a blazing row… that simple homespun warmth is the foundation for plenty of marriages that last forever…

I suppose in the end it wasn’t enough for us, though.

Watching him with that Ludlam woman in the Place of Echoes and at the wedding was a unique form of torture. Maddeningly, I kept thinking that Ron never looked at me like that, Ron never kissed me like that, Ron never held me like that. As much as I wanted to tell myself that she was just the most convenient pretty face around at the time, that their interaction was nothing but lust, I knew I was lying to myself. She’d had his child... that little boy meant the world to Ron, and so did she. How could she have stolen his heart in such a short time? What happened to the old adage that love takes time to grow?

As for me… well, I must be honest. Ron never caused my heart and my breath and my mind to come to a screeching halt. Total systems shutdown is what Lisa calls it, and watching her with Malcolm, I am sure she’s one witch who knows what she’s talking about.

And sometimes I wonder if Harry ever…

No!

No indeed. The other part tells me that I couldn’t have possibly been in love with someone who did such a horrible thing to me. Ever. In a way, what he did was worse than what Ron did. Much worse.

It’s like Nephthys always used to imply. Hyperempaths are good at knowing what everyone else around is feeling in the marketplace of life but have this unhealthy tendency to disregard what’s going on in their own jar of clay.

But I know this much is true. All things considered, I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. And—sad to say—I’m not so sure that any man has ever truly loved me.

She came to Hugh’s office door and knocked. A young woman with a cheerful air opened it.

"Yes, how may I help you?"

"I’m here to see Dr. Hugh Turner. Is he in yet?"

The young woman shook her head. "No, he isn’t. Were you expecting to speak with him?"

"Yes, I was. Wasn’t I on his schedule for today? Oh, bother… perhaps I ought to introduce myself properly. I’m Hermione Granger, an epidemiologist with the Centers for Disease Control. Also a former pupil of Hugh’s here at Magdalen…"

"Ah! Brilliant! What year and department?"

"’03, clinical medicine. Anyway, he’s wanting me to head up a team of visiting scientists at the new TID research facility in Manaus. I was supposed to talk over training modules with him today… we want to offer seminars for the scientists and interns who will be accompanying us.’"

"Sorry, he’s not yet back from holiday," said the girl. "Are you sure that he specified the eighteenth?"

Hermione pulled out her Charlotte, frowning. "Yes, I have it here on my calendar. Strange… it’s unlike Hugh to miss an appointment."

"Well, first time for everything, right? Would you like some coffee or tea?"

"No, thank you. Have you any idea on how to reach Hugh?"

The girl nodded. "If you like, I can phone him at home and you can leave a voice message. But as he’s in Greece until the twenty-third, I’m not sure that he’s checking every day.…"

"I have his number at home," said Hermione. "Thanks, I’ll give him a ring later."

Hermione walked out of college annoyed. She couldn’t believe that Hugh had not called to inform her that he’d chosen to extend his holiday. Now she was stuck with her father and Clara until the end of the month at least, and by then term would be starting again and the College would be at full occupancy.

She wandered about the City Centre for another hour aimlessly, not going into any of the shops or seeing any of the people. Feeling as if she was stuck in an odd limbo… Hermione Granger was unused to having nothing on her agenda and it was driving her insane.

The Haagen-Dazs parlor loomed ahead. As the day was becoming unseasonably warm—the high was a balmy twenty-one degrees—Hermione decided to stop in for a vanilla ice cream.

It was just the way she liked it. Double scoop, no toppings, with a little hot fudge dripping down the insides of the waffle cone. Leaning against one of the tables, she flipped through the pages of the previous day’s Guardian that someone had left behind. The fact that she’d already read it didn’t bother her in the slightest.

Feeling eyes on her, she looked up. A man around her own age seemed fascinated with watching her lap at the cone. Nothing about him screamed "creep" though… he was blond and turquoise-eyed and well-groomed and gorgeous and…

Oh, bloody hell! He’s the customs agent from the airport!

That was the first odd realization that hit her. The second and more disturbing revelation was that the customs agent had looked uncannily like the man whom she’d smiled and winked at in Atlanta’s Palladium six weeks before.

There was only one explanation for the strange coincidences.

She was being followed.

Hermione blinked… and he disappeared. But the back of her neck prickled. She whirled around and there he was, sitting three tables behind her. However did he move so fast? she wondered. He was still staring, smile curving his mouth into a tight bow and revealing even and stunningly white teeth. There was nothing overly sinister about the smile. And nothing invitational about it, either.

No. It was a knowing smile. An "I know something that you don’t know" smile.

Nothing could have been more horrific to Hermione. She dropped the paper, stood up, and rushed out of the ice cream shop. Only one thought was on her mind:

I’ve got to get the hell out of Oxford… right now.

Where to go? She rushed up the street, wondering how much train fare to Salisbury would be… there was an old Magdalen schoolmate who lived there with his live-in girlfriend and her daughter from a previous marriage. Hermione was still in infrequent touch with John Wimbley only because he was one of the few Muggles who’d never met even Ron.

But she couldn’t drop by unannounced on a weekday… could she?

Then the Oxford tube passed by, stops emblazoned on the tinted windows: Hillingdon. Shepherds Bush. Notting Hill Gate. Marble Arch. Victoria Bus Station.

London.

She wondered why she didn’t think of it before. Not only could she perhaps shake the irrational feeling of being stalked, it was impossible to be bored in the city.

The only problem with London was the number of people that she was trying to avoid who lived and worked there. If she ran into any one of them…

And that’s when the two sides of herself began to argue. Hermione knew them very well. The doctor-scientist within her ruled her mind and conscience. The witch-hyperempath ruled her heart and spirit and soul.

And they were constantly at war with one another.

Come, Hermione, what are you afraid of? Even if you were to run smack into Diagon Alley, it isn’t like anyone would be able to see you. They’d walk right past you and you’d be none of the worse for the ear…

I don’t think I’m ready for this yet. That’s all.

Damned if I’m going to hide anymore. You can stay here and crawl under your bed if you want to. Me, I’m off to London.

Oh, well then. I suppose if I stick to the most Muggle of places there’s nothing to be concerned about.. South Bank… that pub in Victoria I like… perhaps a show in the West End… theatres are always dark and crowded. Nice and anonymous…

Having made her decision, Hermione made her way to Gloucester Green and the waiting coaches.

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

Tuesday, September 18, 2012—1:00 p.m., GMT

London—Notting Hill Gate.

Hermione had spent most of her ride into London in a supremely odd fashion for her: daydreaming without thinking of anything in particular. It was easier to just take in the countryside alongside the M40, to reorient herself to the fact that the coach was on the other side of the road.

She hadn’t tried driving since she’d got in from the States. The monster Ford Excursion she’d left with Jack would dwarf even some of the smaller lorries here. Idly, she wondered what had happened to the Volkswagen she’d sold off in the post-divorce estate sale. For that matter, she wondered whether or not her broom’s new owner had treated the poor thing well… not that she’d never used it much…

That’s it! The next time you think about magical objects, creatures, spells, or people I am going to…

I’m sorry, I can’t help it.

Sigh.

I’ve not done the Muggle thing over the past three years very well, have I?

No, you haven’t. But I suppose it’s understandable, which is why I warned against this running away stunt in the first place.

What?

You may be Muggleborn, Hermione, but you are not a Muggle. You may be overly analytical and practical and stubborn as even the most Muggle of technogeeks, but you are a witch down to your very fingertips. One of the most talented witches of your generation. And you’ll always be unhappy if you keep denying that part of yourself. Not to mention schizophrenic. Although you’re tripping down that road quite merrily now…

Oh, shut it! And thanks for nothing.

Hermione let out a sound of frustration, clamping her palms over her cheeks and pressing her fingers into her temples. Great. On top of all her other problems, she was nearly certifiable.

She was so preoccupied with her pity party that she nearly missed her desired stop. Rushing up the aisle and down the stairs, she hopped off the coach and found herself in Notting Hill Gate.

Although the famous antiques market was on Saturdays, Hermione loved visiting the shops along Portobello Road even throughout the week. It had been a form of catharsis during the final dismal days of her marriage, as the Portobello shops were the one Muggle area in the city where she could lose all sense of time. "Closest thing the Muggles have to Diagon Alley" was what Arthur Weasley always said, and Hermione understood the sentiment. It wasn’t that you could stock up on snail’s tails or anything useful there; rather, it was the glorious dust-and-must ambiance of the place.

She’d been gifted with her mother’s eye for the antiques and a healthy affection for the classic yet unique and elegant… Hermione’s home in Chelsea had been many things, but avant garde was not one of them. Her recalcitrant streak made for an excellent haggler as well. So she walked in and out of the shops, wandering first over to an art deco statue, examining it for damage and trying to place the period and probable value, then to a fine Victorian porcelain vase.

This worked to clear her mind for a while. But in spite of herself, she began to remember another visit to this selfsame place at another time, with different people surrounding her…

"Dad, we’ve been walking around here all day," complained Ron, running frustrated fingers through bright red hair. "How about a bite to eat?"

"How about you get lost?" said eighteen-year old Fred testily, looking up from the cuckoo clock he’d been examining alongside his twin for their new Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes showroom. "You’re making my head hurt."

Hermione saw Ron’s glare and intervened. "I’m a bit hungry myself," she said. "Mr. Weasley, would you mind if we found a café? You could meet us there once you’re done shopping."

"At least someone cares whether or not I drop," glared Ron at Fred’s head. "Dad, what do you say? Dad? DAD?"

Mr. Weasley looked up from the exotic Persian lamp he was examining with a start. "Wha… what was that, son?" Ron, with extreme patience, explained his plight to his father and named the Red Lion Café as their destination. "Certainly you can. We’ll be along shortly… hmm… this can’t be enchanted, surely the Muggles would have noticed by now…" Arthur Weasley’s attention was once again diverted to the dusty lamp.

"Freedom at last," said Ron once they were out of earshot. "I’ve wanted to be alone with you all day…"

He reached down, took her hand in his, and soon they were walking very closely side by side. She blushed and tried to change the subject.

"Can there be such a thing? Seems like only yesterday that the Scourge ended. Your father’s right. Things are too quiet. In more ways than one." She looked up at him questioningly. "Have you heard from Harry? I’ve had no word from him since we left school--he disappeared after the Leaving Feast--and he wasn’t on the Hogwarts Express with us last week…"

Ron cut her off. "Well, you know he’s always with the Muggles during the summer…"

"He wasn’t with them last summer, you know that. And if he was really was going to the Dursleys, then why didn’t he come home with us on the train? Ron, I’m worried about him…"

"You’re always worried about something, Hermione."

"I am not! I just think ahead."

"That’s the problem, you think too much." Ron didn’t want to admit his own concern, although it was written all over his face, belying his words. "He’s going to meet up with Sirius and some of the others in what they’ve been calling ‘the old crowd’, that’s all. He’ll likely be back with the Muggles in no time."

"Are you certain? Oh, Ron, I’m not sure everything is all right. Remember those strange-looking Egyptian wizards who were sitting at the high table at the Leaving Feast? That cloaked man with the blue crescent-and-star tattooes on his hands and face kept staring at you. And that woman with him… she didn’t take those creepy purple eyes of hers off me, once. Wasn’t it eerie?"

Ron stepped in front of her and grabbed her other hand. They stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing other shoppers in the crowded sidewalk market to step around them.

"Can we not talk about this right now?"

"Tell me," she said, very quietly, "what are your father and brothers looking for here? I know Dumbledore sent them…"

"Yeah. He sent them and not us. So why are we wasting time thinking about it?"

"Ron, please… how can you just dismiss my concerns when you know I’m right?"

He looked at her. Then he drew her close to him in a tight, impulsive hug. The behavior was so unlike Ron that it surprised her. What he said next as he bent down and their foreheads touched surprised her even more.

"Do me a favor," he whispered. "Let’s pretend just for this afternoon that we don’t know anything about the Scourge or Death Eaters or Wormtail or Voldemort, okay? Let’s not think about what happened last week or yesterday or what’s waiting for us tomorrow or two weeks from now… let’s just be two teenagers, grabbing a bite to eat."

Hermione looked up into his steady blue eyes, filled with affection. An uneasy smile played about his lips. Temporarily she felt the ever-present knot in her stomach begin to unwind… and then she felt Ron’s arms encircle her waist and pull her close…

She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes. Ron was right. Perhaps she did worry too much… perhaps another miracle would occur… perhaps the war would come no closer to them.

Hermione opened her eyes on the crowded street and let out a shudder. How naïve she’d been at fifteen. Not only had the war come closer to her, it had almost killed her two years later. She bit her lip, remembering Ron curled into a fetal position on the red-orange mud floor of a hut in the middle of Tartarus, screaming at the top of his lungs as the Dark Lord himself gouged his "third eye" out… remembered seeing Harry’s heart beating beneath his ribs as he tried to lift his wand again, all his pale, nearly translucent skin having been cruelly hexed away from his abdomen and face…

She remembered the peppery rancid smell of Lucius Malfoy’s breath hovering inches away from her face as someone jerked her head backwards, someone else lacerating her robes and skin with a bone knife, and Malfoy’s cruel hands closing around her throat.

Scream for me, you filthy little Mudblood…

No more.

She had to focus on the here and now. Not on the events of the past. Not on the nightmares that still haunted her.

Hermione walked on, slightly disoriented. In fact, she was so disoriented that she ran into the man in front of her, knocking the London Daily Telegraph out of his hand.

"Sorry," she murmured, bending down to pick up the paper.

"Not a problem," said the man in a neutral inflection that Hermione immediately recognized even before she looked full into his face.

Heath.

Hermione’s first instinct was to run. She felt extremely uncomfortable around this man and she didn’t quite understand why. Perhaps this was because of the other two irrational urges she got whenever he was around… to either put his eyes out or shag him senseless. Indifference didn’t seem to enter into the equation.

His broad smile froze her to the spot.

"We meet again, doc," said Heath, low. "And how have the past six weeks been for you?"

"Go to hell," she spat under her breath.

"Just came from there… have no intentions of heading back until I get what I surfaced here for." His voice softened as he reached out a hand and touched the side of her face. "And until I complete my mission."

Hermione jerked away for dear life, keeping her jaw set.

"So tell me, when exactly am I scheduled to die during this little mission of yours?"

Heath threw back his head and laughed. "Die? Who said anything about death? You’re worth more to us alive than dead. Which is why we’re playing this little cat and mouse game."

She narrowed her eyes and took a step forward again. "You had better have your wits about you, then. I’ve crossed wands with far better than you in my day." Yeah, like your wand is anywhere in Greater London. Nice going, Hermione.

"Have you really? Well, speaking of days… which day of the week is it, then?"

With wide eyes, she looked down at her watch. The day switch no longer read Tuesday.

According to her watch, it was now Wednesday.

"Happy birthday, doc," grinned Heath.

"It is not," sniffed Hermione. "That’s a cheap trick. Anyone can do the same with magnets and enough concentration. Really, I must say that I’m unimpressed… Wednesday indeed."

"Don’t believe me? Ask around, then."

She didn’t have to. They were just coming to a newsagents, and the headlines of every major daily confirmed the sinking feeling in Hermione’s gut.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012.

She looked around with alarm. Portobello Road was the same and yet very different in the subtle but profound way that city streets can change from day to day. The sky was slightly different as well… there was not a cloud in a sky, when a moment ago it had been becoming slightly overcast…

"You!" exclaimed Hermione. "You’ve been changing the time! But how? No one can do that!"

Heath shrugged. "Hey, what can I say? When you’ve got it, you just got it."

"Change it back!" she screamed, charging straight for him. But instead of knocking the man to the ground, she ended up simply sprawled on the crowded sidewalk herself. Causing a bit of a commotion… so much for the plan to remain incognito, she thought, self-frustration at its peak.

A burly furniture dealer pulled her back up to her feet, and his partner looked into her face with concern. "Miss, are you all right?"

"What day of the week is it?" asked Hermione, ignoring the dull throbbing in her hip… she could deal with the bruising later.

The dealers exchanged incredulous looks. "Why, miss, it’s… it’s Tuesday."

Her head jerked around as she stood up. First she took in the newspapers… the cover stories were back to normal, and she was sure the dates were too. Heath was gone too, and Hermione swore that the next time she laid eyes on him she would put his eyes out. Her life was topsy-turvy enough without his interference.

She had come to the conclusion that Heath was neither sinister nor good. Although she wasn’t sure about the blond man’s intentions, she felt that if Heath had wanted to capture her he would have. Cat and mouse was an overstatement… he was merely an annoyance and a distraction, like Peeves had been. If he ever appeared again she would make short work of both him and whoever sent him.

"Miss, again, are you all right?" asked the dealer who’d helped her to her feet. "Did you hear what he said? It’s Tuesday."

She nodded. And thanked the stars for it. Even though she wasn’t expecting anything special, missing half of her birthday would have been terrible indeed.

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

Tuesday, September 18, 2012—5:00 p.m., GMT

London—from Notting Hill Gate to Charing Cross Station and Embankment.

Hermione spent the duration of the evening wandering about the West End in no particular direction. When she was hungry, she stopped for a bag of crisps or a biscuit. When she was thirsty, she stopped for a bottle of still water. She wandered in and out of shops—clothing stores, booksellers, chemists—never purchasing anything out of the ordinary.

She felt inexplicably restless. It was a Herculaean task to keep her mind focused in the moment. Either her thoughts ran backwards with memories of walking down this selfsame road with those people, or they rushed towards the future and what awaited her in Brazil… and back in the States.

Rather than end the life she’d built for herself in Georgia, she’d put it on hold. Instead of selling her house, she let it to Kathy from Wayne’s lab with a veiled warning about dropping gum on her hardwood floors. She also took a formal leave of absence from the EIS, keeping a foot in the door so she could return to the Centers after her stint in Brazil was up.

She also didn’t formally break things off with Jack. Even when she knew she wasn’t in love with him. How could she tell the man that she dated him for all the wrong reasons? Or that she was welcoming the position in South America so she wouldn’t have to think about men?

In fact, Hermione decided that now was as good of a time as any to really find out what it was like to be single. And celibate. Yes. She wanted to concentrate on herself and her own healing… and she couldn’t do that being bothered with yet another bloke.

As if they could read her thoughts, the couple in front of her stopped in their tracks, looked deep into each other’s eyes, and proceeded to engage in a lengthy liplock. Hermione groaned and stepped around them, her heavy Louis Vuitton handbag swinging to hit the woman’s hip with a dull thump.

"Ouch!" exclaimed the woman against her lover’s lips. But Hermione didn’t offer an apology. She was already halfway up the street.

Once she noticed the first couple, she began to notice others. Indeed, it seemed as if the whole of London was filled with nothing but pairs… and it irritated her. Not to mention made her feel more alone than she already felt, if that were possible.

Before she knew it, she was in the rush-hour bustle of Trafalgar Square, shoulder to shoulder with people rushing to and fro, speeding towards tube and train stations. Rushing. Hermione had a sudden epiphany… it was the first time that she’d ever walked through central London without rushing herself.

So she took everything in, savoring the sights, sampling a spring roll at one of the Thai restaurants across from the Square… until she found herself at the head of Charing Cross Road.

The way to Diagon Alley…

Well, she certainly wasn’t going down that route. Muggles could see her even if Squibs couldn’t, and the Ministry was being extremely liberal with the issuance of MagiCards these days. Thank goodness that under Fidelius, anyone other than Malfoy who was specifically looking for her wouldn’t find her.

She decided to have a bite at the Shakespeare in Victoria… she’d not had fish and chips since she’d returned home. The Shakespeare had the best beer-battered haddock that she’d ever tasted. She could take the tube from Embankment to Victoria and from the Shakespeare get a coach back to Oxford in Grosvenor Square…

The way to Embankment was jammed solid with commuters, rushing towards the tube station and back up the street to Charing Cross station for their trains. Without thinking much about it, Hermione joined the bustle and descended into the tube station.

She arrived on the District/Circle line platform as soon as the train whizzed up. In spite of the computerized voice admonishing riders to "mind the gap", Hermione’s shoe wedged between the unusually narrow space between the train and the platform… and stuck there. At the same time, she fell forward… for the second time that day. Her hands went before her to break her fall… and her right wrist protested.

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed hoarsely. "Wait, please…"

But the doors were closing… Hermione knew that they were supposed to stop if there was an obstacle in the way, but the train doors did malfunction sometimes… and her ankle…

Two pairs of hands grabbed her shoulders and with one great tug, pulled her into the train.

The normally jaded passengers seemed concerned. A couple gave up their seats so that the two middle-aged men could elevate her fast-swelling ankle, then remove her sock and trainer to evaluate the damage.

"There you are, miss… let’s see here… no bones broken, but you might want to get it examined anyhow," said the one man. His accent was distinctly Irish, most likely Dublin… Hermione had been there quite a few times on business and knew the inflection well. His sandy curls had a bit of grey in them, and his blue eyes twinkled.

The other man seemed about the same age as his Irish friend. Tall and Afro-Caribbean, he was not very dark. Something about his hair and eyes suggested some sort of Mediterranean or Latin mixture. "Bit of a nasty fall you took there," he said. "Where are you heading? You’ll be needing some help… can’t walk on that ankle, can you? Do you have a phone?"

Hermione nodded. She knew that to heal herself just then would cause many eyebrows to raise. Damn. If she could just get away from the crowd once she arrived at Victoria, she could take care of both hip and ankle and make it home. Merlin only knew she didn’t want her father called… she could just see the look on her face.

"So you do, then. Perhaps you’ll want to phone now?"

"I will once I get to my station, thanks," she said, forcing what she hoped looked like a smile of appreciation.

Just when she thought the situation couldn’t get any bleaker, the worst case scenario occurred.

The sandy-haired Irishman had been looking at her strangely ever since they helped her sit down. Hermione glanced up and became a bit nervous. For he looked distinctly as if he was trying to place her.

The minute she spoke, his eyes widened.

"You… you went to school with my boy, didn’t you?" he said, lowering his voice.

It was Hermione’s turn for wide eyes. "Uh… oh, I…"

The black guy looked at his friend, then at her. His eyes widened too.

"Yes, you look familiar," said the man. "Aren’t you married to a tall redhead? You’re… you’re Helen…"

Hermione shook her head with alarm. For she now recognized them both, from a few weddings, a few parties, at least one funeral… and a couple dozen sightings and encounters on Platform 9 ¾. They were Muggles. They’d had MagiCards for over two decades.

And they also knew the very people she’d been trying to avoid!

"No," she laughed uneasily. "I’m sure you’ve mistaken me for someone else…. I’m …"

But there was no fooling the Irishman.

"Bless my soul, you’re Hermione Granger!" he said. "Patrick Finnegan, Seamus’ father… and this is Daniel Thomas. We’re off to Chelsea for a dinner party… Danny’s Dean and his Eleanor are celebrating their third wedding anniversary. Is that where you’re headed as well?"

Danny Thomas seemed tickled by the coincidence. "Long time no see, my dear! I’m sure we can get a cab from the station and have you at Dean and Nell’s in no time flat."

Hermione could find no words to speak. She didn’t have her wand… she couldn’t Obliviate them… she couldn’t run or hide or…

Damn, damn, damn!

"Actually, I need to get home to change first," said Hermione quickly, eyeing the current stop. They were speeding out of St. Pancras and would be in Victoria at any moment. "Tell everyone I said hello and not to wait on me."

"It’s really no trouble…"

"No, I’m quite all right… really I am… thanks for your concern…"

The train whizzed up to the Victoria platform. Hermione stood up quickly, ignoring the sharp pain shooting up and down the length of her leg.

"Hermione, dear girl, you’re hurt," said Mr. Finnegan. "Even if you think you can handle the walk to the coach station, you’ll pay for it later…"

"Remember, I can take care of myself just as well as anyone at that dinner party can," said Hermione, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "Really, I’ll be fine… and thanks for all your help."

Mr. Thomas shook his head. "Be careful, then."

"Certainly," she said. As she limped off onto the platform, her final statement to the two men was a lie.

"Nice seeing you two again."

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

Tuesday, September 18, 2012—8:15 p.m., GMT

Back home to Headington.

Hermione did only two things on the Oxford tube home: mend her ankle, wrist and hip, and play "what if". At first, she tried to tell herself that the chances of either Mr. Thomas or Mr. Finnegan telling the others about meeting her on the Underground were slim to none.

Then she tried to tell herself that any wizards who were there would think the two middle-aged Muggles were both insane. Why would they believe she’d be riding the Underground after all this time? She wasn’t sure if she’d been reported missing to the Ministry or not, or if anyone had bothered looking for her. She hadn’t much cared at the time she left… now the information was vital.

At any rate, she was now only one fireplace message or owl away from all the witches and wizards she knew being notified that she was in England somewhere. Of course, if they were looking for her, they couldn’t find her… but then again, Dean and Seamus’ dads hadn’t exactly been looking for her either.

She thought about not going home, of heading to Heathrow and hopping on the next plane to Outer Mongolia. Or somewhere where no one could find her…

Why were you Sorted into Gryffindor, then? Do you run away from your problems, or do you face them head on? I expected more from you than this, beautiful…

As if someone had audibly spoken to her, Hermione clapped her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to think about seeing him face to face. Not after the way she’d left.

Then she recalled something she’d said long ago in Tartarus, on what she’d thought would be the last night of her life.

What do you mean, don’t be afraid? Of course it’s all right to be afraid sometimes! Without fear, there is no real courage and no heroism either. Yes, fear is nothing to embrace… but even in this hellish place, we cannot let our fears overcome us. They know our hearts and minds…yes, and they are trying to make us lose heart… they want us to flee in fright so that they can hunt us down like dogs and kill us. That’s why we must stand our ground, and remember… remember what Hagrid told us… we have to meet whatever comes with the best that we’ve got… and indeed, whenever it comes.

So Hermione bravely hopped off at the Headington Shops stop, paying no attention to the driver’s amazed stare at her miraculous recovery after limping painfully onto the coach a mere hour or so before. Ten minutes later, she could see the distinctive life-sized plastic shark sticking out of the roof of the house that was up the road and around the bend from hers. Rolling her eyes, she wondered for the millionth time why her parents chose to remain in their starter home for forty years…

And then as she rounded the bend that led to the lane her childhood home was situated on, Hermione had little chance to wonder about anything else other than the strange sight that greeted her.

For the waning evening sunlight revealed her home… and what appeared to be a flock, no, a veritable swarm of owls flying to and from it.

Stop panicking. No one magical can find you under Fidelius that you don’t wish to see. No one can find you unless they aren’t looking for you and have no ill intent...

Hermione fought the urge to run in the other direction. She took a deep breath and walked straight up the drive to her home as if everything was normal.

Her father greeted her at the door, a curious look on his face.

"There’s a few people here to see you," he said slowly, studying her face. "And by the way, you’ve got mail."

This seemed to be the understatement of the year. She not only had mail, she seemed to have an avalanche of it. It was all swept to one side of the vestibule… owls of every shape and size.

"There’s more in your bedroom," said her father. "I’ll carry this latest batch up."

"Where is Clara?" asked Hermione, remembering that Clara did not have a MagiCard and likely had no idea that her lover’s daughter was a witch.

"Off visiting her mother," replied her father. "You’ll want to do whatever’s necessary to stop this up before she returns, although I expect she won’t be back before the morning. Now, go on and greet your guests… there’s a girl."

Hermione watched her father tramp up the stairs, a sheetful of letters slung over his back. Then she walked out into the living room.

Draco Malfoy was sitting there in her father’s favorite easy chair, looking so much as Hermione remembered him that she suffered a sudden moment of wondering if he was real. Upon second glance, she revised her opinion… he appeared a bit older than her memory, his cheeks slightly more rugged. He was dressed in a black woollen roll-neck jumper and a pair of black canvas trousers. His legs were crossed, showing mid-calf boots underneath the hem.

He wasn’t looking at the doorway at all. Instead he seemed entranced, completely preoccupied with watching a very familiar-looking redhaired woman turn the pages of a pop-up book for a tiny tot that Hermione did not know, an impeccably dressed little girl-babe with strawberry blonde hair, pale skin as translucent as milk, and starry grey eyes.

"Ginny, is that your… daughter?" asked a shocked Hermione, rushing forward to greet her. But Ginny made no sign of having heard her, even after Hermione repeated the question. She stopped in her tracks.

"She can’t hear you," Draco said. "But she knows that you’re here."

She turned to face him and his eyes left his wife and child for a moment to face her. A slow smile curved her lips as his eyes appraised his old friend in a purely aesthetic manner.

"There’s obviously something to be said for sabbaticals in the Muggle world, Granger."

Hermione blushed. "And marriage too, from the looks of you. I’d say more, but I trust you don’t need to hear it from me."

"Oh, I never tire of hearing my virtues expounded upon," Draco replied, grey gaze returning to his wife. "That’s why I married her."

Following his eyes, she sat down on the sofa opposite oblivious Ginny…but the child glanced up in her direction. Where Draco was virtually unchanged from when she saw him last--on the morning of the spellcasting--Hermione could tell that there was something very different about Ginny. Her very aura seemed calmer and more settled… and there was a maturity and depth to it that Hermione had never noticed before.

The girl had been lovely, but judging from appearances the woman Ginny Malfoy had become was divine.

"Who else knows I’m back?"

"Practically everyone. The Ministry, the media outlets, and all of the wartime Hogwarts set. Expect a mention on page one of tomorrow’s Prophet… and I do believe the postmaster has sent all of your owls that have been accumulating for the past three years."

"Damn it, hasn’t that old warlock ever heard of a ‘Return to Sender’ stamp?"

"Apparently not," said Draco. "From what I understand, the announcement that Finnegan and Thomas’ fathers made at the dinner caused quite the stir. Owls, fireplace messages, and Incredimail went out immediately… come, Granger, you couldn’t have thought that you were just going to slip back into our world unnoticed."

Hermione rested her chin in cupped hands. "I had hoped."

"You’ll find that your affairs have been well taken care of in your absence. I’ve hired a family of house-elves to manage your Gringotts account, tend your home, and file the stealth owls that were sent to your Chelsea address…"

"Very kind of you, I’m sure…"

"I’ll owl you the bills by week’s end," he said. At her raised eyebrows, he replied, "After all, you’re the one who pushed for unionization in the first place. That meant I had to pay benefits on top of their salaries. You do believe they ought to be paid a fair wage, don’t you?"

"Yes… well, I…"

"And since I consider you a friend, Granger, I’ll only ask five percent interest on the principal," he said magnanimously. "There isn’t a wizarding bank in all of Europe that’ll give you a rate like that."

Hermione folded her arms. "If you’re quite done expounding upon exactly how you plan to make a profit from my absence, Malfoy, I’d like to know if you have my wand."

Draco looked at her strangely. "You don’t have it?"

"No, I left it with you. After the charm was cast…"

"We used Gin’s wand to cast, or don’t you remember? You didn’t have yours and you said you were in a hurry. Have you really spent the last three years without it?"

She nodded. He stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she had been so stupid.

"You forget, Malfoy… our enemies hate Muggles. Why should I worry?"

"Because you sent me Incredimail about time changing and being stalked. Even when I spent that year living amongst the Muggles in Seattle, I kept my wand close at hand just in case. You’re not exactly the most obscure witch breathing, Granger…"

Hermione shrugged. "I’ll just slip into Diagon Alley tomorrow and get a new one. It was only my second one anyway... although I was a bit attached to it." They’d all had to change wands after the war, Draco included. "What about a broom and cloak? Or should I slip to the Chelsea house and pick those up as well?"

"First things first," said Draco. "Are you ready to break the charm?"

Hermione glanced back over at Ginny. The toddler was bobbing up and down on her lap. As Ginny read, she tried to catch one of the miniature eagles that were flying around Rapunzel’s tower, her tiny voice crying out "Want birdie!" with a giggle. Instead she poked Rapunzel in the eye with a wee pinky.

"Ouch!" said the storybook princess, using her fantastically long red ponytail to swat at the little girl. "Hey, watch it!"

This seemed to amuse the child to no end. She giggled in her wee baby way and even Ginny had to smile.

Hermione turned back to Draco, eyes shining.

"Yes, I’m ready. Let’s do it."

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

Later that night, Hermione sat on her alabaster box-made-window seat, looking out at the star-studded deep blue sky. Trying to figure out why she felt so content when the very worst had happened.

The accumulated owls were piled in a corner high as her waist. Hermione planned to send them off to the Chelsea house the next day so they could be sorted by the house-elves. If she was going to have to pay for the caretakers, she planned to utilize their services to the fullest extent possible before she let them go.

Her reunion with Ginny had been joyous. Hermione had always seen Ginny Weasley--now the estimable first lady of an international empire--as a younger sister, someone to be protected and coddled and given advice long after she reached adulthood. Marriage and motherhood had served to settle her, though, and she seemed very happy with her new life.

"You don’t mean to say that you’re not with Gladrags any longer?" Hermione had asked incredulously, bouncing Draco and Ginny’s daughter gently on her knee. "I can’t believe it!"

"Believe it. Jean-Claude Rancier felt as if my marriage to Draco represented a conflict of interest."

"How so?"

"Well, at the time, Draco was purchasing Gladrags outlets at Firebolt speed and Jean was afraid of a hostile takeover. Then, too, Rancier’s one of those who hates Malfoys in general… he lost both his children in the May Day Massacre at Beauxbatons, and nothing will ever convince him that Draco had nothing to do with it. So headquarters in Paris began to punish my Emerald City store… owling me substandard garments, cheating my associates out of their commissions and bonuses, and being really very petty."

"She told me none of this," Draco said, sending a harsh look in his wife’s direction. "Suffered for nearly a year in silence without a single word to me…"

"That’s because I knew what you’d do, and I didn’t want to be blacklisted," Ginny had replied. "It was all I could do to put on a good face and pretend nothing was the matter… and then I was fired without pay… and had to hide that from him too by leaving every day as usual and enlisting the girls at my store as accomplices. But…"

"At any rate, she couldn’t keep it from me forever. I still found out. It just so happened that I returned home early one afternoon and found her." Ginny laughed. Draco didn’t. "By day’s end, we owned Gladrags International."

"Rancier hasn’t had a proper job since," Ginny said with some satisfaction. "Draco offered the corporation to me, but as Paris headquarters remained loyal to Jean, I would have had to run it with an iron fist. Besides, I was pregnant with Hazel and didn’t want to Apparate or fly that far every day. So Maddy runs Gladrags to our satisfaction… and now I’m chairwoman of the Malfosoft Foundation."

"Which means she spends all her waking hours giving my money away," complained Draco. "You wouldn’t believe some of the projects she’s financed…"

"My Diagon Alley Beautification Initiative was a success, darling," she said. "Even you must admit that the banners and the welcome mats make things look so much more festive. And with the economy the way it is, people welcomed the new job opportunities… we were able to employ a few dozen sweeps."

"Economy’s down?" said Hermione, trying to coax the restless tot into settling down. "Well, it was bound to slow a bit, wasn’t it? We’d been in boom mode since war’s end… and gold is gold. What’s the Rainbow curvature right now? Forty-five degrees? Fifty?"

Ginny looked at her husband, a frown creasing her russet brows. "She doesn’t know, does she?"

Draco shook his head sharply at her. "It’s a long story, Granger," he told Hermione. "Perhaps tomorrow."

"It’s past our little one’s bedtime," said Ginny. She reached out for her child, then snuggled her close in a sweet, inimitable maternal gesture.

Hermione grinned, feeling a slight pang that she couldn’t even begin to explain. "Little Miss Malfoy indeed. The fact that you two are actually parents still hasn’t registered yet. Shouldn’t have ever been allowed, if you ask me."

"Oh, Hazel came as a complete surprise," Ginny grinned. "I can’t say I was terribly thrilled about it at first… but he was."

Draco shrugged. "I mean, look at the child. You’ve got to be born looking that good… that child is all Malfoy."

"I see she’s got the Weasley hair, though," Hermione replied, winking at Ginny.

"He doesn’t mind, of course," said Ginny, with a twinkle at her husband. "It just so happens that he fancies redheads."

After promising to drop by the next day, the Malfoys left. Hermione went into the study and had a brief chat with her father. In the end they decided to wait before telling Clara about the wizarding world. It wouldn’t do any good to secure an extra MagiCard if Hermione was going to breeze in and out of England, they agreed… the Ministry application process, including evaluation and processing took several days and could be grueling.

Now Hermione was alone in her room. The crescent moon was reflected in her dark brown eyes, giving them an otherworldly pearlescent gleam as she gave her thoughts free rein.

Draco was right. She couldn’t continue to live in the Muggle world without a wand… if she’d been properly armed, perhaps the encounters with Heath and Seal and the blond man could have been prevented as well as that strangely repeated August weekend.

She wondered what had happened to it. All this time she could have sworn she’d left the blasted thing with Draco… most likely, it had been packed in something at the estate sale or tossed out.

Her eyes traveled the length of the room over to her bed. Even if Draco planned to get his money back for being caretaker of her estate, his wife had been extremely generous. Knowing that Hermione had given away nearly all of her witchy implements, she’d gone shopping. She’d got Hermione a new designer broom, a glistening pewter and bronze cauldron, and even a few critical items of clothing.

There was a deep wine-burgundy hooded cloak made of the finest wool, lined in dyed shearling. Robes for every day of the week in every stylish shade of the spectrum… Hermione was thrilled to know that trailing sleeves and dramatic necklines were back in style, as were long, full skirts. The straight, slit look that had been in style when she left did little to flatter her or anyone unfortunate enough to not look like a coat hanger.

There was boots, too… boots she’d given Ginny right before she left… boots that Ginny claimed she’d never dared to wear. They were the one seventeenth birthday present Hermione had kept over the years. Made of fabulous Hebridean Black dragonhide, the footwear cradled her legs and ended in heels that could either go flat and rugged or extend three inches depending upon the charming desired. They were charmed for comfort and for fit, ensuring that they would never wear out. Not only did the boots protect from hazardous terrain and harmful spells from the knee down, they looked damned good on her. Yet conservative Hermione had only worn them twice.

Once in Tartarus.

Once upon a time that she couldn’t remember…

She blinked with a sigh, looking away from the window and down at her folded hands. Her foray into the wizarding world tomorrow would be no more than a visit—she didn’t intend to stay very long. She’d slip into Diagon Alley first thing tomorrow morning, purchase her wand, and get back to Oxfordshire in time to contact Hugh and let him know if he could arrange the training modules, she’d be heading off to Brazil early. England no longer held anything for her but old wounds, pain, regret, and horrible memories.

Too much pain. Too much loss. I want no more losses.

A single tear trickled down her cheek.

Don’t you know there’s nobody left in this world to hold me tight?

Don’t you know there’s nobody left in this world to kiss good night?

Good night… good night… good night.

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

Below the Granger home, hidden amongst the shadows cast by Caroline’s favorite rosebush, the watcher stood. Hooded eyes gazing upward, but not at the moonlit, star-spangled night. His current fixation was the woman who sat curled up on the window seat, clearly visible from his vantage point.

A red haze of fury flashed behind his eyelids. His mouth hardened into a cruel slit. Here was the source of all his misery. Here was the witch who was to blame for everything that had gone wrong for him over the years.

After all this time…

The watcher was fortunate enough to have had a friend who worked at the Daily Prophet. It was also his good fortune to have had a late evening date at the Leaky Cauldron with the friend in question.

"Sorry I’m late," the friend had said. "Angelina Weasley’s been having some trouble coming in as usual, so I got stuck covering a breaking story down in Kensington."

His lips had curled into a derisive sneer. "The Weasleys seem to think they’re above working for an honest wage like everyone else. That’s new money for you."

"Not much of that to go around these days, is there?" his companion had replied nonchalantly. "Speaking of which, story’s sort of interesting. You’ll read all about it in the morning edition…"

"What?"

"It seems that Ron Weasley’s estranged ex-wife is back from the dead. Turns out she went deliberately missing… I’m not surprised. I’ve met Hermione Granger on several occasions, and I was always of the opinion that she was slightly unbalanced…"

The watcher had fought the urge to stand straight up from his bench. The news that his loathed nemesis was not missing and presumed dead had come as the biggest shock of his life. After all the gold he’d paid to have her disposed of three years back…

Now here she was, alive and breathing. The watcher didn’t see the sigh or the tears. He only took in her presence… a presence that angered him into gnashing his teeth and clenching his fists.

Stop this foolishness and seize the opportunity! You have only to aim…

He raised the directed energy laser rifle to his eye. Hermione’s figure was visible, the side of her head clearly outlined by the crosshairs…

In the next instant, the watcher felt a silken thread wrap around his throat. He dropped the gun, struggling to free himself and regain his breath. He and his attacker fell to the grass, him on top, thrashing about, trying to gain the upper hand. Meanwhile the attacker was engaged in an attempt to use his hands where the cord had failed.

A lucky elbow saved the watcher. He jabbed his attacker in the neck, stunning him enough so that he could free his hands, scramble up to his feet, and begin kicking the attacker around the head and abdomen and thighs.

When he was sure the man was unconscious, the watcher snatched back up the rifle and glanced upwards.

There was no sign of Hermione Granger. The lace curtains at her window had fallen back into place.

His mouth opened wide in a silent scream. Wild thoughts of rampaging through the tidy suburban home and murdering everyone inside danced through his head. It wouldn’t be a hard task either… he had the element of surprise on his side.

Whirling around, he took a step forward… and stopped dead in his tracks.

The attacker was no longer on the ground. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen.

The watcher gasped and loped off, clinging to the shadows from which he came.

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

Wednesday, September 19, 2012.

Dawn.

Hermione stirred while it was still yet dark. She sat up in her bed, spine tingling.

I’m thirty-two years old today. Unbelievable.

She considered this for a moment in the bleak grey light. Half a lifetime ago, she’d been a sixteen year old girl. And in many ways, she still felt very much like the selfsame girl… much as every woman always is all of the ages she has ever been and will be at once.

The events of the prior evening pricked her. She wondered what the day would bring… but she didn’t plan to languish in bed waiting on it.

Or for those who would wish to find her.

She dressed quickly. There weren’t many clothes she’d brought along with her; most of her Georgia-weather gear had been sent ahead to Manaus. She didn’t think she wanted to wear the beautiful robes Ginny had selected for her quite yet, though.

The forecast had been for cool, overcast weather, so she dressed in Muggle clothing--a short sleeved cream cashmere sweater and a calf-length grey woolen skirt. Considering her plain leather loafers for a moment, she shook her head and her glance fell on the Hebridean boots. Why the hell not? The boots went over her stockinged feet and she laced them tightly.

Gathering her cloak and broom in hand, she made her way downstairs quietly. No time for breakfast… she could get something to eat in Diagon Alley. With any luck she would be there and back long before noon.

The cloak was glorious. She fastened it around her neck, admiring the intricate braid and twin pearls that held it in place. Once it was on, she twirled around a bit, grinning. She’d always thought that cloaks were perhaps the most magical garment in a witch’s ensemble… and Ginny had great taste.

Smiling to herself, Hermione opened the front door… and came face to face with Clara. She looked at Hermione as if a bad smell was underneath her nose, taking in the fabulous cloak and a broom that obviously wasn’t used for sweeping. Hermione smiled in turn.

"Good morning, Clara! Had a nice time at your mother’s?"

Clara gave her an evil look. "And just where do you think you’re going this time of morning?"

Hermione’s smile didn’t waver. "Just tell my father I’ve gone to Diagon Alley and I’ll be home before lunchtime."

"Diagon Alley?" asked clotheshorse Clara, eyes sparking with interest. "Is that a new store? Did you get that posh new coat from there?"

"You could say that."

"Well, however do you get there?"

"Oh, I’m afraid that it’s a ‘members-only’ sort of venue," she said. "And unfortunately, you don’t qualify."

Hermione reached over and patted her father’s girlfriend on the head as if she was a nasty poodle. Then she swept past in her magnificent cloak and stepped outside into the chill, crisp early morning air.

She knew exactly where to pick up the ABFN… from her own garden. Muggle homes were not supposed to be directly linked. When it had been built, she’d used all the clout she’d possessed to connect her parents’ home just in case. The portal was just behind the rose trellis… just as it had been in her Chelsea home…

The rose garden had seen nearly the last of its blooms for the year, but a few hardy flowers lived on. She looked around… she hadn’t been out this way since she’d been home, since roses always reminded her of her mother Caroline…

It was obvious that something was amiss. The grass underneath the trellis had been trampled into a most curious shape… and there was an odd red stain right in the center.

Goosebumps formed on her skin which had little to do with the wind that was blowing through the trees. She looked around, senses heightened, all of the hyperempath under full alert.

Something had happened. The garden that her mother so loved was not safe for her just then… whatever had transpired, she knew instinctively that it had something to do with her return.

There was no time to lose. Perhaps she and her father had their differences, but she didn’t want anything to happen to him. And in order to cast a proper protection charm, she needed a wand. Especially since she was out of practice.

She had to get to Diagon Alley straightaway.

Hermione stepped into the portal, mounted her broom, and took off at a very modest clip. She made it all the way to Christ Church Meadow before she decided to slow down and test out the new broomstick’s maneuvers before getting on the ABFN where loop-de-loops and rotations were part of normal commuting. Again, she missed her wand… one of Hermione Granger’s biggest secrets was that she was deathly afraid of unprotected heights. She flew out of necessity, but much preferred to Apparate. And she couldn’t Apparate all the way to Diagon Alley without a wand. At least she couldn’t any more…

She decided to try a simple loop-de-loop to begin with. Speeding up just a bit, she pulled up, then ignored the queasiness in her stomach as she turned back on her previous path, went upside down—she thought she would be absolutely ill—and then suddenly the color above her was no longer green but pearl-gray and she was right side up again.

She had been so preoccupied with her maneuver that she didn’t notice that she had company… that someone was watching her from behind the trees, along the path beside the Isis River.

"Well, that went well," she panted, trying to regain her breath. "Now for an easy spiral… Merlin help me…"

She leaned forward on her broom, trying to ignore her fear, trying to gain momentum. Then all of a sudden, the broom seemed to… drag.

Hermione frowned. Was there a malfunction in the charming? Broomstick sellers and professional Quidditch players were the only people who really bothered to learn the complex magic required to correct broom malfunctions. She knew a bit, but could only use the appropriate spell if she knew exactly what part of the charm needed reincantation.

"Come on, come on!" she said impatiently, lips set into a serious line. Yet the more she tried to push forward, the more resistance the broom gave back. Soon she was traveling at a whopping five miles per hour.

Hermione screeched with frustration.

From behind the trees, her unseen guest was attempting desperately to stifle peals of laughter.

"All right, then, have it your way," said Hermione viciously to the new broom. Placing a firm hand on the handle, she pulled up quickly… and got stuck in midair.

She screamed with fright. She was at the very least thirty-five feet up in the air. She’d repaired enough flight injuries in her day to know what the fractures would look like when one fell from this distance. And no one was around to help her…

Her heart was beating very fast and her breathing was shallow. The sweaty hand that gripped the broomstick handle began to slip… it didn’t help matters that she’d pulled the broom up into a seventy-five degree angle…

"Help! Somebody, anybody, please…"

The guest had stopped laughing some moments before. Hermione vaguely heard footsteps rushing forward but as she was too terrified to look down, she couldn’t see who they belonged to. All she knew was that she was not alone… she didn’t have to hold on any longer… she knew she couldn’t…

Despite her determination to stay on the broom at any costs until she could make sure that the person below wasn’t that infuriating Heath character, she blacked out momentarily… and fell earthward like a velvet-wrapped stone.

A few moments later, she came to. She felt a hand examining her neck, then stroking her forehead. Another hand held hers tightly. Before she opened her eyes, she assessed the damage. She was sore in several spots but nothing seemed to be broken, twisted, or sprained. Groaning, she wondered why she’d fallen so many times in a less than twenty-four hour period… and why this falling kept getting her into trouble.

Since she hadn’t been badly injured, she supposed that her rescuer was Heath again. She groaned a second time out of frustration. This time she was going to demand a more satisfactory answer than that infuriating wolf’s grin.

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

"Are you all right?" Her rescuer came into focus slowly. Hovering about a foot over her, he was seated on the ground and propped up on one hand. His brows were furrowed with concern. "You gave me quite a fright there…"

Hermione couldn’t speak or move. She couldn’t even blink. It was all she could do to continue staring up into a pair of bright green eyes that she’d never intended to see again.

Total systems shutdown…

Shut up, my brain is still working!

Really? Could’ve fooled me.

"Hermione, say something. Or at least grunt… you’re fairly conversant in Troll, if I recall correctly."

"I’ve got the luck of a Malaclaw," she finally moaned to herself, closing her eyes again. "What else could go wrong?"

"Well, blimey, it’s great to see you again too, Hermione," Harry said with the smile that always made her feel inexplicably warm all over. "I’ve been awake all night… you’re a sight for sore eyes."

"I would think a strong cup of coffee would be far more appealing," said Hermione, trying her best to keep her voice steady.

"Perhaps you’re right. Cup wouldn’t have landed straight on top of my head."

"No one told your damned head to get in my way," said Hermione, eyes sparking. "I knew perfectly well what I was doing, thank you very much."

Harry sat back and folded his arms, grinning and shaking his head. "I must have forgotten who I was speaking with. Wonder Woman herself… I suppose there’s some lost and arcane art to plummeting to the ground in a dead faint, then?"

"Oh, be quiet and help me up."

He stood up, still holding on to her hand. "Now, this is the part where you say, ‘Thank you, Harry, for catching me. All things considered, I really appreciate your becoming a human rescue net and saving me from a possible broken neck… how can I ever repay you?’"

She glared at him.

He pulled her up so swiftly that she teetered a bit and fell forward… straight into his arms, for he caught her easily. As she felt his embrace tighten around her, she found that she had neither the strength nor the will to push away. All she could do was listen to the beating of his heart against her own--she could sense it even through all the layers of clothing and skin and sinew that separated the two--and quietly quelled the tears that stung behind her eyelids.

"Maybe you ought to go back to bed and start all over again," he said into her hair, voice a bit harsh.

"Maybe you ought to explain why you turned up here all of a sudden. I didn’t exactly disclose my location or my itinerary in a Daily Prophet advertisement."

"I was there when Dean and Seamus’ fathers told everyone they saw you at Dean and Eleanor’s anniversary celebration. Been looking for you since. Not that I haven’t been looking for the past three years…"

Hermione looked up at him questioningly, stepping out of his embrace with a tinge of regret that she quickly tamped down. "But I told you that I was going away, Harry. I also told you I didn’t want to be found."

"Fidelius," he said, studying her face. "Yes, I know. I thought I’d talked you out of that foolish business…"

"You know how stubborn I am."

He looked her up and down, letting his gaze sweep over her slowly. Unlike Malfoy, it wasn’t an overtly appraising glance, as if she was a gem that he was rating according to some set standard. Indeed, Draco had a tendency to look at all women in that manner save Ginny… and even his own wife used to be subject to the same general scrutiny.

Yet there was nothing of the sort in Harry’s eyes. No. This look was the one that had always been in his eyes whenever she was reflected in them, the look that once upon a time had made Ron clench his jaw in suspicion and had set outsiders to whispering. It was a look of gratitude and tenderness and wonder… and something else that she could never quite put her finger on.

Something she’d always tried to ignore.

"Apparently I underestimated you." He closed the distance between the two of them again.

"Apparently," she whispered dazedly, still caught up in that gaze. Damn his eyes, she thought helplessly. Almost could make me believe that he’s…

Stop it, Hermione.

He took both of her hands in his. "Thank you for coming back to… us," he said, tacking on the "us" as an afterthought. For she’d been watching his lips form the words, and she’d caught the voiceless "me" beforehand.

And there she was, frozen in place for the second time in mere moments.

This is absolutely ridiculous…

Ridiculous was perhaps a more apt term to describe how attractive he appeared to her. Many of the last traces of boyhood had disappeared from his face, only lingering in gesture and in the lightning scar that would mar the smooth skin of his forehead forever. He was wearing his hair in the same mid-length cut as before, but it wanted trimming. He hadn’t been lying about being up all night… she could tell from his Sirius-like five o’ clock shadow that it had been more than a day since he’d seen the business end of a razor.

He was dressed in black and green… that much hadn’t changed. Hermione knew this was because Harry had never been much for fashion and trends. Upon his return from Avalon, a bit after her engagement to Ron, she’d gone shopping with Harry for Muggle clothing at Selfridges and then Debenhams.

Despite her colorful suggestions, she’d watched him purchase the Muggle bulk of his entire adult wardrobe: ten pairs of trousers, a couple of jumpers, a few pairs of jeans, a good number of t-shirts and dress shirts, a pullover with a hood, and a few pairs of shoes. With the exception of two items (both checked) and the jeans, all were either black, grey, or green.

"And you call me boring," she’d teased him at the time.

He had just shrugged. "I never know how to match stuff up. Easier this way."

Easier perhaps, but ridiculously attractive. He was wearing a pair of black trousers, a button-front dark green shirt, and over it all, his everyday black cloak that she used to say reminded her of the vampirish frocks Snape used to skulk about in at school. He would give her an exasperated stare every time she said it, she would dissolve into giggles, his own laughter would ring out… and usually at that point Ron would come into the vestibule of the Chelsea house and tell them both that they were nutters…

"Hermione… earth to Hermione…" Harry was saying. "I mean, my flies aren’t open, so why are you so riveted by…"

For she’d been staring at his trousers as she reminisced, nostalgia softening her eyes. She looked up, cheeks flaming.

"Oh! I mean…. I, well, my broom…. and the fall… I was just…"

"Uh-huh."

The rational side of her took charge and began smacking her upside the head. This is only Harry, damn it! Get a grip… But it was only when she unlaced her fingers from his that she regained her train of thought.

"Really I was just… looking at my broom over there," she said, indicating the splintered broom, which was visible from her vantage point only if she looked between his legs. "Don’t you know broom repairing charms?"

"Some, but not for a Moonbeam 3000," he replied. "Where on earth did you get such a girly broom anyway? Dead expensive, for certain, but girly. It’s for show, you know, if you want to powder your nose in midair. No one uses a Moonbeam for serious flying…"

"It was a gift, if you must know," she said, a trifle annoyed.

"That’s right, it is your birthday today," said Harry. "I have something for you as well."

"How can you have something for me when you didn’t even know I was coming back into town?" Her expression was quizzical.

"Because I always knew you’d be back someday. Witchcraft is in your blood. You would have never been able to turn your back on it forever."

She sighed. "I tried. Merlin knows I tried."

"Well, I for one am glad that you didn’t succeed at it," said Harry. "Do you want to take your broom into Diagon Alley and see if the folks at Quality Quidditch Supplies can do anything for you? While they work on it, we could have a bite at the Leaky Cauldron and I could catch you back up on everything that’s been going on in the wizarding world…"

"Could we eat here in Oxford, please?" she asked, stunning herself. What was she saying? She didn’t want to eat breakfast with him! Why couldn’t she just tell him that she would check in with him later? Why couldn’t she just be distant and cold, wiping that grin from his face and that sparkle from his eyes?

Why couldn’t she admit to herself that her very first thought was only that she didn’t want her first talk with Harry in three years to be in the wizarding equivalent of Waterloo Station? The Three Broomsticks and the Leaky Cauldron were both horrible locations for a private talk, and all things considered, they would be interrupted and eavesdropped upon… and then there were the yellow journalists like Rachel Ratliff who would make up all sorts of stories if her first public appearance was with Harry… when all she wanted deep down was to retain this solitude.

If we were the only two people in the world…

"Seems like you still care more about public perception than I do," said Harry with a laugh, lacing his fingers through hers again. "Remember this? ’Oh, Harry, think what’ll happen if McGonagall were to find out!’ And this? ‘Whatever will people say? Like it or not, we are in the public eye, so at the very least you two ought to try and pretend that you’ve got some sense!’"

She was so startled by her belated remembrance that he was telepathic she didn’t think to pull away at first. She’d never had to worry about him reading her thoughts before because she told him everything anyway… and most of the time he didn’t pry. Harry used to be considerate, if nothing else.

Things were different now. What else had he heard her thinking? And why did he think it necessary to read her thoughts telepathically? Didn’t he trust her anymore?

Hermione should have been furious. Instead she blushed again. Well, two could play at that game. Perhaps she couldn’t read his thoughts, but he couldn’t read her emotions accurately. She, on the other hand, could tell that he was experiencing joy mixed with anxiety just from a mere touch. Good. For whatever reason it was, let him sweat.

"Well, someone had to be the voice of reason back then. And I’ll thank you to stay out of my head unless invited," she said, pressing her lips together in what she hoped was a stern expression.

"Sorry about that, bad habit," said Harry, not sounding very sorry at all. "Anyway, your idea is grand. I’d much rather be alone with you… best not to go into London before we absolutely have to. You know I can’t stand being the center of attention…"

"It’s inevitable," said Hermione with a small smile, ignoring a certain part of his last statement. "I’m sure witches everywhere still swoon when the famous Harry Potter walks by… a living legend of our time."

"Not as famous anymore. Thank Merlin all that was a long time ago… people have short memories, and now I can walk down Hogsmeade’s High Street without disguising myself first."

"Well, you needn’t look so pleased with yourself. Especially when I know you’re pulling my leg. I don’t care how much time has passed, Harry. Certain people have presence… you’re one of them."

Harry laughed. "Yeah, but I can dream, can’t I? Most days I’d rather chat with a witch who sees me as just Harry, average guy with an average name who just wants average things out of life." He looked down at their clasped hands. "With average dreams, too…"

When he looked back at her, Hermione was mesmerized again, rooted to the spot. Long ago, she’d known what those dreams were… she could only guess at what they were now.

She released one of her hands and used the other to pull him in the direction of the path.

"Come, I know exactly where we can get a decent breakfast. Hope you’re hungry."

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

7:45 a.m.

The walk to the Head of the River pub was about seven minutes from the meadow, just at the point where St. Aldate’s became Abingdon Road. Both Harry and Hermione were quiet for the duration of it, keeping their own counsel.

But everyone who they passed took it for granted that they were a couple. There was plenty of evidence that the man and woman knew each other inside out… it was in the unconscious way he guided her through the narrow, traplike gate that led out of the meadow she’d been visiting since infancy, the manner in which she drew closer to him instead of crossing in front whenever they had to make room for passers-by in the opposite direction, the fact that the personal space between the two was negligible.

Thankfully, Harry and Hermione were oblivious to these idle observations, and made it to the pub without incident. They’d left their brooms secreted away in the meadow, and Harry had Transfigured their cloaks into generic-looking overcoats. Hers the rich burgundy shade of her cloak, his the usual basic black.

After ordering breakfast, they sat quietly for a moment. Hermione studying the grain of the rough-hewn table. Harry watching her do this.

When the waitress set small pitchers of milk and juice on the table, Hermione looked up with a start. She left, saying their food would be ready in a moment… and Hermione was left with only one thought on her mind.

"This is hard for me, Harry."

"It doesn’t have to be."

Sigh. "I wasn’t really prepared to see you just yet."

"Are you sorry that I sought you out?"

She studied his face for long moments, knowing she couldn’t bear to lie to him. "No. I’m not sorry at all."

He smiled. "I’m glad, Hermione." He looked as if he wanted to say more, but didn’t. "So you’ve had no contact with the wizarding world for over three years? How did you manage it? Where were you, America?"

Her mouth opened. "How did you know?"

"Well, that’s where your mother said you were to begin with."

Hermione gasped. "She told you?"

"As a matter of fact, she did. So did you… the night of Draco and Ginny’s wedding."

Her face grew hot. She did not want the conversation to go there, towards the last time she’d seen him. Hermione wasn’t proud of her actions at all. She’d wanted to get back at Harry and she had, in the worst way imaginable.

Hermione had spent the better part of the past three years being sorry for the way they’d parted.

"It didn’t take long to put two and two together. I learned that you were in Atlanta, that you were working for the Centers for Disease Control and lived nearby. I even later found out that Malfoy was your Secret-Keeper. And he was a damned good one, too… nothing I tried could get him to betray you." He laughed to himself. "Who would’ve thought Draco Malfoy could be so damned loyal?

"Then I went to your mum’s funeral… we all did…"

"I know. I saw you. All of you."

"Right. We knew you were there too, but no one could see you."

"I didn’t want to be seen. Draco knew that. I talked with him later that day before I flew back to the States."

Harry’s eyes seemed to darken. "Why now, then? Why did you decide to break the Fidelius Charm? Even if Finnegan and Thomas did see you, you could have very well stayed protected."

Sighing again. "It was time, Harry. Deep down I missed being a witch. Like you said, it’s a part of me I can’t ignore. I nearly went insane living without magic."

The waitress brought their breakfasts. Typical English morning fare: fried eggs, thick slices of ham, sausages, a pile of toast with little jars of assorted jam and marmalade on the side, and sliced tomatoes. There was also a basket of fruit to top things off, largely consisting of apples, bananas, and fat red grapes.

"Bet you missed this," Harry said, piling her plate high.

"Oh, they fed me well enough in Georgia," she said, noting that he remembered how she invariably arranged her breakfast—a single egg on top of one slice of toast, a dollop of plum jam on one side, tomatoes on the other. "You get eggs and meat and thick biscuits and pancakes… but it’s all very fattening and I found myself refusing a lot. The one thing they eat that I could never get used to was grits. Nasty stuff, that… reminds me of porridge. Yet everyone I knew there absolutely loved them and had their own favorite way of eating them."

"Were these magic grits?" asked Harry. At the look Hermione gave him, he hurried to qualify his statement. "Joe Pesci… My Cousin Vinny, won an Oscar… ah, never mind about the Muggle films. Anyway, I suppose every locale has their one food that only a native could love."

"You’re right about that. My American colleagues were always making wisecracks about how horrible our food is. But I thought I’d died and gone to heaven when I bit into a ploughman’s the other day."

They ate for a moment, thankful for the food as a welcome distraction. Hermione finished her toast and wiped her fingers before she spoke again.

"Right, then. How’s everyone been doing?"

He swallowed a mouthful of milk before answering. "Where shall I begin? Let’s see… I’m guessing you’ve spoken with Malfoy and Ginny…"

"Yes, and they had their baby daughter with them. Isn’t she sweet?"

Harry laughed. "Yeah, but Hazel has her moments, and I’ve seen plenty of them. We’re all hoping against hope that she takes after her mother… but Bill says Ginny never threw a tantrum in her life, so it may be a losing proposition."

Hermione laughed too. "Is Hazel the only new baby? Who else has had children since I left? I mean, out of those we know?"

"Everyone."

"Everyone? Are you serious?"

"Yeah, come to think of it. Just about everyone that we know, practically… I’m thinking that there’s something in the water as of late. Let’s see here… Dean and Eleanor are expecting, Seamus and Lavender welcomed triplets not to long ago… all girls…"

"Triplets? They already had three kids! I don’t believe her… she had a baby a couple of months before I went away! What does that make for them, six?"

"Six. I don’t think they’re going to have any more, but Lav’s a different person now. You wouldn’t recognize her. She’s almost exactly like a young Molly Weasley in looks and personality. Anyway, Neville and Susan married a couple of years ago and their son was born this summer… Simon and Cassandra have one and are expecting another."

"Cassandra? Is she still over the Prophet, then?"

"You know Cassandra. She’s the epitome of the superwitch--wife, mother, still running an award-winning paper. Lavender opened up a posh daycare center in the Emerald City… made it dead convenient for all the witches in our set to work and have as many kids as they please. Molly thinks it’s scandalous, though."

Hermione grinned in spite of herself. During her last few weeks in the wizarding world prior to this, Molly had gone from blaming Hermione for all the trouble between herself and Ron to overtly trying to make amends. "How are Arthur and Molly? Well, I hope."

"Very well indeed. Getting on a bit in years, but then again, they’re not yet eighty. Still have got plenty of time on their side. There was a bit of trouble with Arthur’s heart a while back, but he got to your clinic and Neville mended him right up… clinic’s doing just fine. You’ll be proud when you see how well your partners managed things."

"I never doubted that they could manage without me," said Hermione flatly.

"No, don’t get me wrong, they miss you. Blaise and Ernie talk about little else… at parties half of their statements begin with ‘Remember when Hermione…’ Drives their wives batty… you have a way of making other women jealous, you do know that?"

"Just one of my many talents, I suppose. I didn’t know that Ernie was married… and Blaise and his wife couldn’t have kids from what I recall. I remember how hard they tried. Sort of like what I went through." She was careful not to mention Ron.

"Well, Ernie married a widow with two small children. And the Zabinis adopted a little girl from Malaysia last year… Sirius and I helped to arrange that through Black and Potter."

"Oh, how wonderful!" said Hermione, face glowing. "There are so many children who need good homes… I can’t say that the thought of adoption hasn’t crossed my mind, although not very recently." Her throat felt rather dry as she remembered her own sterilization charming. There would be no children for her now. "So… how is Sirius doing?"

Pause. "He’s still Sirius, of course. No longer teaching full-time, though… he runs Black and Potter and I run the school. Turned out it was a far more amicable arrangement than crossing functions so much. He and Carole married the autumn after you left and have a little boy around Hazel’s age."

"And Remus?"

"Still wandering about… but he’s finally found someone as well. Russian werewitch by the name of Tatiana who he’s known for years. They both consult for Black and Potter, but travel for a great deal of the year."

Harry continued to update her on all the births and marriages she’d missed. Fred and Angelina had twin boys, Sean and Michael, who ironically shared a birthday with Hermione and were much more like their mother than their father and uncle. Little Malinda, according to Harry, was fiercely protective of her brothers and was just about the swiftest thing anyone had ever seen on a broom in well over a decade and a half.

"I’ve never seen the like of it," said Harry. "The child can nearly outfly me…. she can play any Quidditch position, Hermione, and she’s only eight years old. The Hogwarts heads of houses are all salivating in anticipation, and disgusting as it is, so is the League."

"She’ll be a Gryffindor," said Hermione with a grin. "We always get the best… I see I’ll have to start attending matches again."

George and Anya had tied the knot at a spectacular Christmas 2009 wedding, were the parents of a little girl named Katarina who was exactly a year younger than her twin cousins, and were expecting another child early the next year. Anya was balancing her new role as a wife and mother with part-time work and her final year’s courses at Paracelsus—she was studying psychiawizardry.

"She’d be perfect for it," said Hermione. "Anya’s so sweet and compassionate… no one deserves happiness more."

"And they are happy," said Harry. "Almost giddy with it, and Fred gets a kick out of teasing them both about it."

Percy and Penelope and their brood were all about the same. Maggie, their eldest, was working for the Ministry as a young undersecretary and had a sweetheart that her father and mother disapproved of. The eldest boy, P.J., had just begun his final year at Hogwarts as Head Boy. Mary and Paul and Joe were all matriculating through Hogwarts with a minimum of trouble, and the nine-year old twins Gryff and Rave were looking forward to beginning soon. Charlie and Liz and Elizabeth Molina were all doing quite well--Elizabeth was now a second year Ravenclaw, her parents having chosen to send her to England to be educated--and Bill and Madeleine were still lovebirds.

"Those two haven’t married yet?" laughed Hermione.

"No, and they say they aren’t going to. Both are divorcees, and their former spouses were equally shallow, so their conclusion is that marriage takes all the fun out of life. They are expecting a little one, though… Madeleine says she’s due in February."

"Great wizards! Did Molly die of shock?"

"No, Bill and Ron have more than prepared her for this with their unconventional behavior in the past. I think she’s beyond shock."

Significant pause.

"Well, then," said Hermione slowly. "Is he… did he…"

"Yes, he married her," said Harry slowly. "You knew that, though, didn’t you?"

"I knew--after all, she wore her bloody ring to Draco and Ginny’s wedding, how could I have missed it?--but I want to know how long he waited after I left to do the despicable deed."

Harry shook his head. "Hermione, surely you’re not still… that’s all water under the bridge…"

"Perhaps for you it is, Harry. But for me it’s almost as fresh as if it all happened yesterday. Do you think I really left because I had a sudden urge to exile myself to a world where seventy miles per hour is considered speeding?" She looked up at him with imploring eyes. "When did they marry? Are they still married? Whatever became of that babe of theirs?"

He took his hand and covered hers. Knowing the questions she wanted to ask, but couldn’t: Are they happy together? Is he happier than he was when he was with me? And if so, where’s the justice in this world?

Harry let out a deep breath, then began.

"Well, if I recall correctly, your divorce was finalized in September, three years ago…"

"It was three years ago today," said Hermione. "My twenty-ninth birthday. Mum phoned when the papers were owled from the Ministry. I remember it distinctly."

He looked extremely sorry for her. "Right, then. Ron and Maureen married the first of October that year… about two weeks later, I think."

"Did you attend?" she snapped.

"Yes, I did."

She glared at him.

"Hermione, attending didn’t mean that I endorsed what they did. You of all people should know I didn’t…"

"Well, you certainly played the role of accomplice well." She folded her arms.

"What else would you have had them do? Not give that child of theirs a family? Anyway, you can console yourself with the knowledge that it’s been an uphill battle for them. Their reputations were mud and still are… they were almost universally blacklisted. The Lions refused to offer him a new contract after the season was out, and no one else would sign him. Maureen lost a good three-quarters of her clients. She had to fold."

Hermione was surprised that hearing this didn’t make her feel better. "What are they doing now?"

"Ron’s working for us part time… don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if he and I are the same any more, we’re not and we haven’t been since before you left. It’s purely a business arrangement. He’s also coaching the junior Quidditch league club that Fred’s Malinda is playing with and trying to start up a flight training gym.

"As for Maureen, she’s doing some consulting, but she’s mostly consumed with being the perfect wife and mother. They have had their ups and downs, and certainly public perception didn’t help, but they’ve managed to hold things together so far. She’s pregnant again, so that’s a good sign I suppose."

Hermione’s smile was sad. "I’m sure Maury will be glad to have a little brother. Being an only child isn’t all it’s cracked up to be."

"Tell me about it," said Harry. "Actually, Maury’s already got a little brother. Artie—that’s Ronald Arthur Weasley, Junior—was born about five months after you left. This will be their third child."

Hermione pushed her plate aside, face blank. Placing her bare elbows on the table, she cupped her chin in her palms thoughtfully.

"Seems he’s recovered nicely. Some people have all the luck."

"Well, I wouldn’t say that. He never talks about you… at least, he and I never have. I know he’s missed you…"

"Spare me the sentimentality, please," she said. "I certainly didn’t miss him."

Silence. As for Harry, he seemed as if he had a lot more to say than he was divulging. So finally she just spat the question she was wrestling with.

"And what about you, Harry? You’ve told me about everyone save yourself. Did you finally meet the girl of your dreams? Are there a lot of little Potters running about that woodcutter’s cottage on Ayr?"

He stared at her. Hermione wondered if he would ever weary of looking at her… it was making her uncomfortable.

"No, I’m not married. No little Potters, either."

"I’m sure everyone teases you because of it," said Hermione, exhaling a little even as she smiled. "Confirmed bachelor that you are, I suppose none of that matters to you any more. I understand the sentiment myself…"

"Of course it matters," he interrupted. "There’s nothing in the world that I wouldn’t give to have what I see that some of our friends have. I’m doing all the things with their kids that I would love to do for my own someday.

"And as for marriage… well, you’ve got one thing right. I suppose I’m waiting on the girl of my dreams to come around, even if it is little more than wishful thinking on my part. What I am finding, though, is that forever is taking a bit longer than I suspected… and sometimes it doesn’t do to dwell in dreams and forget to live. Something Dumbledore told me long ago…" He switched gears. "So what about you? Have you got some Muggle husband secreted away back there in Georgia?"

"No indeed," she giggled. "I’m quite like Madeleine Rancier… I don’t ever want to marry again. Being a rich divorcee with a medical degree has its privileges."

"Perhaps the right man could persuade you to change your mind."

"Perhaps. Miracles do happen, they say. But most of the time I love my life. Maybe all the women in our set have taken to the whole wife-and-mother traditional role very well, but I fear I would be terrible at it." She sank a little into her palms. "I certainly was terrible at my first stint as a wife."

"You were not," said Harry sharply. "You did the best you could. It’s just that… you two just grew to want different things out of your marriage and from life. Could have happened to anyone." He laughed to himself. "Hermione, you’re a lot of things, but you’re not terrible at anything. Trust me."

"You’d be surprised, Harry," she whispered, thinking of Jack. Another one bites the dust. "I’ve made so many mistakes…"

He lifted her hand from where it rested on the table and took it between both of his.

"Haven’t we all? But tell me one thing. Aren’t you tired of dwelling on the past and the future? Are you ready to just live in the moment, without thinking of yesterday or tomorrow? That philosophy has kept me sane over the years… I spent my entire wizard’s training looking backwards and forward. Living in Avalon taught me to take each day as it came." His fingers traced the lines of her palm idly. Carelessly, almost. "You ought to try it sometime."

Merely a comforting gesture it was, but Hermione felt her cheeks grow warm at the feel of his fingers caressing her hand. She wondered cynically what demon or mischievous sprite had taught him exactly how to touch a woman… that with careful tenderness a skillful gardener could cause even the most difficult of flowers to open its petals to the sun…

She snatched her hand away, taking a sudden interest in her wristwatch.

"Gracious me, look at that time! It’s nearly half past eight. I must be off to London… I want to be in and out of Diagon Alley well before the lunch hour." Then she remembered. "Oh, bugger! I don’t yet have my wand…"

"As if you need one to Disapparate," said Harry. "It isn’t as if you’re turning this pub into an Indian elephant. You know this place, you know the Leaky Cauldron, you know your own body. Just project your…"

"Well, Mr. Know-It-All, you try living without magic for three years and we’ll see how good you are at it."

"Mr. Know-It-All, eh? Well, I can’t say I mind the surname change. About time someone gave you some competition in that department… you’ve held the crown for years."

She stood up angrily. "Oh, just forget it. I’ll walk up to the High Street and get a coach. Good-bye…"

He stood up too and put a detaining hand on her arm.

"You know, you’ve developed this frightening habit of storming away with dramatic flair whenever something upsets you, Hermione. Wherever did this fiery temper of yours come from? You used to be so much more patient and considerate."

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. "Patience? Well, between you and that friend of yours I married, I’m sure I used my share of that virtue up a long time ago."

Harry took a mock-stumble back and laid a hand over his heart. "Ouch, that hurt."

"Harry, really. I’ve got to run my errands, I don’t have time for idle chit-chat right now…"

"And you’re right. You don’t have time to take the coach, either… after all, you’ll still have to take a bus or the Underground from Oxford Circus to Charing Cross Road. You’ll not get into the Alley until at least eleven… but I know a way you can be there inside the hour."

She caught the gleam in his eye and laughed. "You’re mad. There’s no way under heaven I’m going to fly that fast."

Harry grinned.

"Who said anything about you doing the flying?"

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

8:45 a.m.

The wind whistled in her ears, lifted the hair from the back of her neck and danced amongst the wispy curls that clung to her neck before disappearing into the back of her cloak. The rest of her was snug enough, between her outerwear, the boots, and the fact that her face was buried somewhere in the dark folds of Harry’s voluminous black cloak.

She felt them dip and soar. In response, her insides turned upside down and inside out. Moaning in fright, she tightened her arms around him, desperately trying to shield her eyes from the view.

"Harry…" she said, voice slightly muffled against his back as she shut her eyes tightly. "I… don’t… don’t like this. Please… slow… down."

"No can do. We’re not even out of Oxfordshire yet." He pulled down into an elegant swoop. "Sky’s great this morning, isn’t it?"

"Harry! Stop it… how fast are you going?"

"Not sure… it’s not as if there’s an airspeed indicator on this thing, you know… from my estimates, somewhere between 90 and 100. Not fast at all."

"No, that’s way too swift. I haven’t flown in years… you know I don’t like it…"

He slowed down considerably then, almost coming to a full hover. "No, I don’t know. You never minded flying with me before. I’m not the one who used to spin his broom in place while you were on the broom... or plummet suddenly into a death drop just for the hell of it…"

Hermione felt green at the mere memory of Ron’s antics. "Don’t remind me."

"What’s the matter, then? Why so nervous?" He peered over his shoulder at her.

"I don’t know…" Hermione sighed. "This morning shook me up is all. I’ve always been so afraid that I’ll fall to my death… I’m not a natural flier, you know it’s my witches’ heel…"

"You’re not doing the flying. I am. And you’re not going to fall unless I throw you off, which isn’t likely. Just hold on tight, relax, and enjoy it."

"How can I enjoy it when I absolutely hate it?"

"Hermione, it’s all in how you look at things. If you approach the broom thinking ‘oh, I hate this and I’m going to fall and break my neck’ then the worst will happen. You won’t enjoy it at all. If you flip the Galleon and tell yourself ‘I am going to love this, I’m flying with a trusted friend and it’s a privilege to be able to do what most human beings can only dream of’, this can be a lot more pleasant for you."

She was silent as she let his words sink in. It’s all in how you look at things…

He sped up. And she summoned all of her courage and opened her eyes.

Harry was right, she thought. There was nothing to be afraid of, even at this fantastic speed. There was only the silver sky above and the green carpet of forest and meadow and glen below… the clouds her constant companions, the wind her friend.

She began to laugh. Throwing her head up to the sky, she let the laughter swell up like a fountain from deep inside her. It was cleansing, this laughter and the wind all around her, and she felt herself tingle with excitement from head to toe. Soaring, sliding… tumbling, freewheeling… over, sideways, and under…

An eerie sense of déjà vu cascaded over her like an Invisibility Cloak. Hadn’t she felt this way before? Certainly it had been a very long time since she’d flown with him… perhaps long before her marriage… but she couldn’t quite remember when exactly it was.

One thing was for sure, though.

Whenever I’m with him, I feel so oddly… safe.

"Having fun yet?" called Harry, wind animating his already wild black hair.

She rested her chin on his shoulder and smiled. "You’re right. I don’t mind flying with you at all."

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

They arrived at the deserted ABFN station in the Leaky Cauldron’s beer garden one minute before nine, hair in a fantastic state of disarray, panting from the great swallows of crisp, clean autumn air they’d gulped down as they landed.

"Well, I suppose this girly broom has some juice in her after all," said Harry, leaning the Moonbeam 3000 against the wall. "Who would have thought?"

"Thanks for the ride," Hermione said, tone’s softness surprising even her.

He walked over to her, reached out, and smoothed a stray wisp of chestnut hair back behind her ear.

"The wind loves that complexion of yours," he said. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so rosy before. You ought to fly at high speeds more often."

She stepped back, putting some much-needed personal space between the two of them. Never mind the fact that she’d just spend the better part of the past half hour clinging tightly to him, inhaling him, feeling his exhilaration. She was so disappointed and frustrated when the ride ended… and the feeling had not yet dissipated.

All she could think about was what she’d done on her last night in this world three years before. Where she’d been. And who she’d been with. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up in the same place and the same state before the day was out. Hearing the same insane proposition whispered headily into her ears.

His arms. His bed. His life. For always.

No. You know exactly where that road leads, Hermione. You don’t want to traverse it again.

She took another step backwards… and banged her head against the wall that led to Diagon Alley.

He shook his head, not bothering to hide his amusement. "That sure isn’t the way to go about things, is it? Or do you remember?"

"Oh, sod off," she said, clapping her hands over her ears to stop them from ringing. "I haven’t done this in a long time."

In a instant, she was trapped between the wall and his wand. Or rather, the wall and him.

She inhaled, which may not have been the best idea. For her senses quickly were filled with his presence… and all of her resolve melted.

"Oh, it’s dead easy," he said huskily, face inches away from hers. "Like riding a broomstick… you never forget how to do it."

For a split second, she thought he was going to kiss her. Her lips softened and she fought the urge to wet them. Her mouth, Merlin help her, watered slightly in anticipation.

And then he turned away and tapped the brick just to the right of her.

"Pardon me a moment, will you?" he said, pushing her gently aside. "Let’s see here…" After a few quick taps, the gateway to Diagon Alley appeared, and he finally turned towards her. "Ta-da."

The look on Hermione’s face was eloquent indeed.

"Well, let’s get going! Time waits on no one, even if she is a beautiful witch who looks rather as if she wants to bite my head off presently... after you, my dear…"

She pushed past him and walked out onto the bustling wizarding street.

That was at least the second bad idea she had within her first five minutes in Diagon Alley. She only walked twenty steps unaccosted. On the twenty-first step, she was recognized.

"Flying toads!" exclaimed a woman who had been pointing into the windows of Eeylops Owl Emporium for the benefit of her companion when Hermione caught her eye. "It’s Hermione Granger, just like the Prophet said this morning!"

"That isn’t the Hermione Granger," said her partner grumpily. "The Hermione Granger would have never put that Muggle streaky stuff in her hair…"

The woman elbowed her companion sharply. "It’s called highlighting, you prat, and that is the doctor if I say it is… besides, just look at who’s directly behind her…"

Hermione had frozen into place at the sight of the woman’s wild gesticulation. Now she turned around and…

"Blimey, it’s Harry Potter!" said the woman’s companion. "Bloody hell, you’re right and so was the Prophet… that is Dr. Granger!"

The news spread like wildfire. Soon the entire street was whispering and pointing and staring at them.

"What the hell did they tell these people?" asked Hermione angrily as she pulled Harry into Flourish and Botts, faces peering in the window after them. The shop was nearly empty, as Hogwarts term had started a fortnight before.

"Well, quite a few rumors have arisen surrounding your leavetaking, although Draco and Neville told everyone the truth… that you were taking a sabbatical to do some research in the Muggle world. No one quite believed it, though. So they came up with all sort of strange stories."

"Such as?" she asked as they found a deserted aisle near the back of the store.

"Well, you were supposedly murdered in a good three-quarters of them. And Ron and Maureen play the villains in about half of those."

"Oh, honestly."

"Right. A lot of people are suspicious of the Ministry of Magic these days. Your average wizard on the street thinks that you were done away with, and the Ministry was paid off to cover it all up neatly."

"One would think that people would have something better to do with their lives than to spend so much time prying into ours," Hermione hissed. "I mean, Muggle celebrities get some respite from this sort of thing… but I suppose our world doesn’t believe in fifteen minutes of fame."

"Fifteen years and counting is more like it," said Harry. "Times have been hard around here lately… it’s hard to analyze this sort of thing, but I think we remind people of the hope everyone felt during the Pax Dumbledorica."

"The hope that… Harry, why are you speaking of the Pax in past tense?"

"Because it is a thing of the past," said Harry. "You mean that neither Malfoy nor Ginny told you?"

"No, they haven’t, they said they’d speak to me today about the economy or something… whatever has happened here?"

Harry’s voice lowered. "The wizarding world has changed, Hermione."

"Changed? Changed how? Harry, stop being cryptic and mysterious and just tell me what’s going on."

So, there in the dusty aisle of Flourish and Botts, he told her. And what he told her nearly made her hair stand on end.

In the fall of 2010, Victoria Jenkins, editor-in-chief of Witch Weekly, sent confidential communiqués to the international news desk of the New York Times and the city desks of several major London newspapers. In the letter, there was a proposition: for a million dollars each, she would show them proof that there was indeed magic in the world.

During her trial much later, Victoria insisted that she was not the author of the letters. No one believed her, though. She had developed a gambling problem, spending up many of her Galleons at the Exploding Snap-and-Crap tables offered in abundance at many wizarding resorts. Her creditors were threatening torture… nothing was more frightening to a debtor than a goblin collector. The circumstantial evidence against her was considerable… and the handwriting was hers. She was sentenced to four hundred years of Deep Petrification and Charm-Suggestion in Azkaban, the new way to handle convicted felons.

"No better than Dementors," sniffed Hermione. "I was totally against that sort of thing, and I’m rather sorry I wasn’t around to lend my support against the Magical Criminal Rehabilitation Act… what did you say about it?"

"Absolutely nothing," said Harry. "Her trial led the Ministry to push the act through at the speed of a Snitch, and anyone who questioned it was called in for questioning themselves. There was a frenzy that surrounded the trial, the like of which I’ve never seen before in my lifetime, not even during the Scourge and the Sponge epidemics during VW2. Sirius and Remus said it reminded them of what things were like during the first Voldemort War, only worse…"

"But Harry, it isn’t as if the Minister of Magic is someone like Fudge, weak and ineffectual… Lucy Goosey would never allow anything like that to happen…"

"Of course she wouldn’t," said Harry. "But you see, Lucy was assassinated the same week the letters were sent out."

"What? Harry, you can’t be serious! Such a thing… why, nothing of the sort could ever happen! Has a sitting Minister ever been killed in office?"

"Not for four hundred and twenty-eight years. Mind, the official cause of death was heart failure… but she was poisoned. The tea she took that Monday afternoon would be her last… by dinnertime, she and her top aides--everyone who’d had a sip from that pot--were dead."

Hermione sank back into the bookshelves. "Who’s Minister of Magic now?"

Harry’s expression was grave. "Brian Riordan."

"Harry, no!" she gasped. "Whose bloody idea was that? Brian is not Minister material and he never will be! Why, the only reason he’s got as far as he has in life’s because of his evil father and that slave-driver of a wife he’s got…"

"Right," he said grimly. "Brian is a thousand times worse than Fudge ever was. He’s weak, and ineffectual, and craven. Worse still, his wife sits in the Cabal, and its affiliate groups are growing stronger by the day…"

"Diane Riordan running the Cabalistica? Why, poor Angelina must be devastated… oh, I always knew that sister of hers was one disagreeable woman." She frowned. "Harry, how do you know all this? Have the Confeds or Black and Potter been able to penetrate the Cabalistica?"

"We do have our spies," said Harry. "But the fact is that the Cabalistica no longer bothers to hide in the shadows. Their activities are still clandestine to a degree, but everyone knows of their existence… and many people are clamoring to join affiliate groups…"

"Why didn’t you stop all this?" asked Hermione sternly.

He was laughing bitterly. "Et tu, Hermione? I’m not omnipotent or even close to it. Yet that’s not the first time I’ve heard that question over the past couple of years."

"It’s a valid question, Harry. I know if I had been here, I would have tried my best to stop this insanity."

"As did I," he said. "We all tried… the entire Order. That is, until the day the Muggles found Hogsmeade… and Hogwarts."

Hermione’s eyes were like saucers. "No."

"It was almost the end of us, Hermione," he said. "You know very well how Muggles are. Most of the reporters laughed off Victoria’s supposed offer, but two took her up on it. They did an excellent job of disguising themselves—after all, they must have had several wizard guides--and things would have been much different if they hadn’t been followed by Scotland Yard… and the damned CIA."

"Oh, no…"

"Once they followed the reporters into and around Hogsmeade, they detained them and notified the British and American governments. Of course, there are certain Muggle governments who are aware of our existence, and those are two of them. Perhaps things could have been covered up and the snoops Obliviated if one of the reporters hadn’t Spidered the story to the Guardian."

"And of course, Parliament had to respond in some fashion."

"Yes, but none of us anticipated what they did. They deemed us ‘a subversive movement, perhaps fostering terrorism’ and decided to take immediate action. They swooped down upon Hogwarts without warning. Thousands upon thousands of Muggle troops... the teachers fought them off, but there were too many of them…"

"No, it’s not possible, Harry! How could such a thing happen?"

"Well, it did happen. They arrested children, Hermione, little first and second years, and carried them away... as I’ve said, they must have had wizarding help. By the time we got there they were long gone."

Harry told her the rest quickly. There was a time that winter in which everyone in the wizarding world felt that all was lost, that the days of persecution would return… and their fears were justified by the proceedings of the first United Nations/International Confederation of Wizards summit on Valentine’s Day 2011.

The Confeds wanted the young British wizards and witches, who were being kept in high-security labs around the world, back. The United Nations stated that this was impossible… for how would they have any guarantees that there would be no wizard retaliation in return?

The United Nations began to make demands. They wanted lists of all registered witches and wizards worldwide and temporary quarantines for all. Maps of the approximate location of every single wizarding settlement on the planet. And the right to run "harmless" laboratory tests on the children.

The Muggle world did not greet the news of the hidden magical element within it with joy. Most people were angry to learn that there could be witches living right next door to them. Dignitaries from the three major Western religions were horrified. The Christian fundamentalists cried that the apocalypse was at hand, the Muslim extremist mullahs used it as more justification for their shrill cries of jihad, and a few radical Old City rabbis saw it as a way for the Third Temple to be rebuilt, for surely the magic could make the Dome of the Rock disappear…

"What a mess," said Hermione. "Now, since I don’t remember any of this being in the Muggle news, what else happened?"

"Several things… we ended up having to work with the damned Chalybians of all people. Drakkar was instrumental in getting them away from the Cabalistica…"

Hermione smiled. "How is he?"

"The same," said Harry. "As intense as the day he stormed into the Great Hall at Hogwarts sixth year and stared Ron down…. anyway, we were able to get all of the children out. In scale and scope, it was perhaps the largest magical operation in history."

"But the Muggles still knew about us," said Hermione.

"Yes, they did. Although they couldn’t breach our barriers without magical help, they knew we were here. And you know how dead persistent Muggles can be… it was only a matter of time before they figured it out, and there would be a major world war that no one could predict the outcome of.

"Well, along came this relatively obscure bloke by the name of Sebastian Borgin. Jack of all trades, it seems… an apothecary with Pansy’s company, Parkinson and Locke, he put himself through St. Mungo’s pharmawizarding course by working as an Obliviator. His father was a Death Eating Dark sympathizer, but Sebastian renounced his family’s ways. Anyway, he came to the Ministry and offered to coordinate the cover-up. And… he did it."

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. "How?"

"Well, Sebastian merely pointed out how our retreat from the Muggle world was handled in the seventeeth century. We handled things much the same way this time around. A few very public recantations, a small number of memory charms at a high level, and pretty soon everyone thought the whole thing began with a hoax and developed into mass hysteria. The international Muggle press outlets ran articles announcing that the kids were all found to be normal, it was regrettable that people were so misled, but there was nothing to it after all."

"Like flying saucers and cold fusion… no wonder I heard nothing of it," laughed Hermione. "I was completely immersed in my work with the CDC at the time, so much so that I often missed the international news, and you know that Muggle scientists are the biggest lot of skeptics." She read something more on his face. "That’s not all, is it?"

Harry shook his head. "No, it isn’t. In fact, those were good times compared to what we’ve been living in since." He paused. "Hermione, you’re Muggleborn…"

"Yes…"

"Well, it seems that blame for the close brush we had with an apocalypse was laid on the shoulders of allowing Muggleborns into our world. Victoria was Muggleborn."

"That’s ridiculous."

"Ridiculous as it may sound, it’s true. The Ministry has not issued a single MagiCard since last spring. No more little Muggle-born witches and wizards are admitted into Hogwarts. And the Muggleborns already in our world… well, suffice it to say that they are not having a picnic."

"Persecution?"

"Yes."

"As bad as during the Second Voldemort War?"

"Worse. They’ve all been required to register with the Confederation and wear an amulet that tracks their comings and goings… it seemed that the Confeds liked some of the United Nations’ ideas after all, the damned hypocrites. Businesses of Muggleborns are now marked with placards that read ‘Mudblood Owned’ and they are almost universally reviled. It’s affected the entire wizarding economy… Gringotts is nearly impregnable now."

Hermione sighed. "This is what comes of not requiring Muggle Studies of everyone who goes through magical schooling…"

"What?"

"The Holocaust, of course."

"Oh. Well, it hasn’t come to that yet because I’m sure they’d find themselves in a situation much like what occurred in Denmark during the Second World War. There are too many who disagree wholeheartedly with what has been happening, even if there isn’t much vocalized protest yet. No one is going to sit back and allow them to be harmed."

"No, you’ve only allowed them to be marked for death," said Hermione softly. Sadly. "What about me, Harry? You keep saying them, when I’m one of them too."

"I’m sure the Ministry will grant you an exemption, Hermione, even if they think to send you an owl about registration. No one thinks of you as Muggleborn anymore… you’re the heroine of the Second Voldemort War and the co-creator of the Danae Project, and that’s that."

"I am Muggleborn," she said. "I don’t want any ‘exemptions’. I will wear their damned amulet, I will put a placard in the Granger-Longbottom Clinic window if they want, and I will spit in their faces if they try to go any further than that."

"Hermione…"

"No, Harry. If it wasn’t for the Muggle strain in the wizarding genetic pool, there would be no more magic. Muggleborns and halfbloods tend to have advantages that purebloods don’t have! Think about it, Harry… most of those who we know who are extraordinary in anything have recent Muggle ancestry! Your own mother was Muggleborn, and you saved our world twice over! Think of the others… one of our best doctors, Simon Branford, had two Muggleborn parents. Dean and Justin are Muggleborns, Seamus is half-and-half, and they are three of our most talented businessmen. Penelope’s Muggleborn, and they call her the ‘sharpest magilegal mind in a century’.

"Malfoy’s a notable exception, and the Weasleys and many other old wizarding families are respectable, but most of the families that pride themselves on their ‘purity’ are fearfully inbred and minimally talented.

"I think Lee Jordan says it best… what does he always say? Oh, yes.… ‘That blood shit is a piss-poor excuse for those who think that the world owes them the right to look down on their betters.’ Or something like that… what he says is much more funny, of course, involving something or the other about hummus and rotting fish. But the point is the same… I think it’s just sour grapes, is all. We can move about in both worlds… they and their Neanderthal ideas are stuck into a marginalized corner of only one."

"Be that as it may," said Harry, "their ideas aren’t so marginalized anymore. Many people do think that the Muggleborn habit of going back and forth between the worlds is dangerous…"

"And you, Harry? What do you think?"

He looked into her eyes. "Me? I think we all might need to sit back down at that stone table and make it gold again before there’s a bloodbath. I think we need to rip the entire Cabalistica network up from its roots and purge its foul presence from all the Thousand Worlds. Yet all in the Order are urging for moderation."

"Not all," said Hermione. "Don’t forget I’m an inducted member of that Order too, Covenant or not. What else has changed?"

"Where shall I begin? Any imitation of Muggle technology has been at best frowned upon and at worse shut down. They stopped the Hogwarts Express from running… parents have to fly their kids up to Hogwarts and ship their trunks ahead of time as they used to do prior to the King’s Cross station being built. The WWN is no longer broadcasting. Malfoy had to cut the entire magitechnological side of Malfosoft… but you know Malfoy…"

"Oh, yes. Kingdoms may rise, and kingdoms may fall…"

"But Draco Malfoy will endure forever," they both said together.

"Or find a way to make money, at least. Does he really love his gold more than his wife?" asked Hermione. "I still can’t understand how that marriage works."

"Well, he does love Ginny, that I’m sure of," Harry said. "But if asked to choose between the two, I don’t think it’d be a pretty sight."

"Well, I doubt if he will. You know Ginny loves being rich as much as Ron does… or did," she said, slowing down with some self-surprise. It was the first time since dinner with Jack that she’d said Ron’s name aloud.

Harry merely acknowledged it with a brief knowing glance, then said:

"Shall we finish up here, then, and head to Malfoy’s? You said Ginny’s expecting you by afternoon tea…"

With that, they started down the aisle towards the front of the store.

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

11:15 a.m.

It was shaping up to be the best birthday she’d had in years. After leaving Flourish and Botts, Harry and Hermione finished up in Diagon Alley, going from store to store before the heavy lunchtime crowds arrived.

Hermione felt a bit like she was starting Hogwarts again. Only this time, Harry was by her side instead of McGonagall and her mother. She purchased parchment and ink, a new cauldron, some very basic potions ingredients (the storerooms in Ayr would suffice for the more exotic stuff like extract of dragon liver, re’em blood, erumpent tails, and rumpwort spines), and a great horned owl for her mailings.

"What will you call him?" asked Harry.

"I don’t know. I’ll let you decide."

He cocked his head to one side as he looked at the sleeping bird in the cage that he was holding. "Let’s see here… how about… Achilles?"

"No, I’m tired of Greek names. I think I’ll call him Duskchaser. That’s satisfactory enough. How is Hedwig, by the way?"

Harry sighed. "I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in years."

"Oh, no, Harry! What happened?"

"I don’t know. Sent her off for the post one morning during the crisis with the Muggles and she never came back." He shrugged. "Don’t look so sad, it’s not the end of the world. Hedwig was getting on in years… and although enchanted owls live a long time, they’re not immortal."

"Have you got a new owl yet?"

"No, couldn’t bear to. Hedwig was my first friend after Hagrid… she’s irreplaceable. I just use the owlery at the school if I need to send a message or parcel."

Their last stop was Ollivander’s, and it took quite some time for Hermione to be fitted for a wand. But even as she paid for her new one, Ollivander was frowning.

"Not an exact fit, Dr. Granger," Ollivander muttered. "This one is not a perfect fit by any means. It can only mean one thing."

"What’s that?" asked Hermione absently, opening her purse and extracting the pouch that contained the bit of gold she’d had taken out of her Gringotts vault… Ollivander’s was one of the few shops in Diagon Alley that did not accept the GringottsCard.

"That your wand is still somewhere in the world, calling out to you. Like an extension of yourself trying desperately to find its way home. And trust me, Dr. Granger, you will find it, for you still have much work to do with it."

Harry held the door open for her, and she stepped out of the wand shop, clearly puzzled. "Wonderful. This wand’s a dud, and I’ve got to cast some sort of shielding charm posthaste."

"What’s wrong? Did something happen recently?"

Hermione looked about, still noticing the attention they were gaining. Here and there, a camera flashed. She groaned. It had been a long time since she’d been under the microscope, and it wasn’t any more pleasant of an experience than it had been before.

"Not here… wait until we get back to the station," she whispered.

They were back in the beer garden less than five minutes later. Harry took a seat on one of the benches, settling all of her parcels and the owls on one side of him. Hermione sat on the other side.

"Who’s been trying to attack you?"

"Well, I’m not sure that their motives are sinister. But strange things are happening all around me. And something else, too… time’s changing and I’m being followed." She told him all about what had transpired in Chicago, meeting Heath on several subsequent occasions, and the strange blond man who seemed to be everywhere.

At first she’d planned to be a bit guarded—after all, the information could potentially implicate her as being mentally ill—but this was Harry. After keeping everything that had transpired over the past two months to herself for so long, she found that the words came gushing out like a fountain. He was so easy to talk to… always had been.

And when she was all done, there were only his eyes.

"Is that everything?" asked Harry.

"Well, not exactly… I’m also hearing voices, Harry. Always at night. Strange dreams too. Some are nightmares, and some are rather…" here she blushed, "pleasant. It’s strange. Usually I don’t remember my dreams in such vivid detail. And then the bloodstains in the garden—I can’t shake the feeling that something is badly wrong, but I haven’t been able to investigate."

"Have you shared any of this with Malfoy?"

"No, not much at all. I sent him a very cryptic Incredimail while still in Atlanta after that blip in time frightened me so. Other than that, I’ve been keeping it to myself." She rested her chin in her cupped hands. "I hate not being able to figure this out."

"Well, now you don’t have to figure it out all alone. Tomorrow we can go to Ayr and alert our network. If this Heath character shows up again, this time you’ll have your wand and a lot of support." He laughed. "You may even need a bodyguard."

"Whatever for?" she scoffed. "I’m armed now. A couple of simple hexes are bound to put him in his place."

"You said the man is playing with time, Hermione, and without the benefit of a Time-Turner. I’ve never heard the like of it, have you?" She shook her head. "No matter how benign he seems, he is dangerous. Changing time is almost always disastrous… look at all the anxiety attacks you had when we were kids and you were taking all those classes with the Time-Turner, and then again when you were using it to attend two medical schools at the same time. And that was just traveling a few hours at a time…"

"Harry, there’s something else too." She told him about the mysterious epidemics that were covered up by the time blip. "Perhaps I’m wrong, but I think all of the victims were witches and wizards living in the Muggle world, either Muggleborns too young to be trained or the elderly who retreated away from magic for one reason or the other. There were so many signs of a magiparticular infection… and everyone knows those don’t affect Muggles, just us."

Hermione told Harry all about the green orbs, strange objects she believed were the disease-carrying agent. She also recounted the fact that Heath was carrying one without seeming to be any worse for the wear, although she’d already determined that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t magical… perhaps the disease only affected the very old or the very young, or the orb had to be charm-activated.

"He could very well be a Cabalistica agent," said Harry, jaw tightening. "In fact, that’s exactly what the bastard sounds like… isn’t it obvious?"

"Well, if he was Cabalistica, why didn’t he kill me? He could have done so very easily on two different occasions. I would have been unable to defend myself…"

"Why didn’t Lucius Malfoy kill you when he had the chance in Tartarus?"

"Well, he would have if he hadn’t taken the time to stop and try to rape me. I never understood that about dark wizards or villains in general… it isn’t enough to decapitate your female victim, but before that you have to stop and degrade her in the most humiliating and vile manner imaginable… wait a minute," Hermione frowned. "That still doesn’t make sense, Harry. Just as he could have killed me, Heath could have taken advantage of me and yet he didn’t."

"Well, why did Lucius try to rape you?"

"Can we please not talk about that? It’s certainly not a memory I care to re-live…"

"No, it’s important. These dreams that you’re having… the fact that you’re obviously drawn to this slimy piss-ant despite your knowing that something is amiss… don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Amoricum Mortis, the Kiss of Death spell?"

Hermione had not forgotten. The Dark Lord had wanted her hyperempathy, had lusted after her ability to kill or heal with a mere touch. Voldemort had also wanted to violate Harry in what he’d thought was the worst way possible. Although she was dating Ron, everyone on the Dark Side still assumed that she was the Accursed One’s true love. She supposed that being a villain meant that you automatically thought in cliches… that there was no way that the sidekick was allowed to have a girl while the hero stood alone.

So when she was found and captured, she had been secured in Voldemort’s chambers in the deepest and most secure part of Crystalline Pedale, his Tartarus stronghold on a foggy rock in the midst of the dark Sea of Lethe. She’d been bound and prepared, wrists and ankles suspended from the posts of the bed via enchanted rope, a filthy shroud crawling with roaches and bedbugs and flies underneath her…

She’d thought she was going to die on that night, and she remembered thinking that seventeen was far too young to die. She thought of her Muggle parents, who had no idea where she was or what sort of danger she’d put herself in… but then she thought of Caroline, and knew that her mother would get no sleep that night. Hermione was sure that at the moment of her death, her mother would someone know that her daughter slipped into the next world.

What is that next world like? Hermione had wondered, allowing her mind to slip away into daydreams so that she would not lose her slippery grip on sanity. Will I see my Nana, my dearest Grandmother Helen? Will she tell me that she or my grandfather were magic after all? How about Dumbledore? Snape… oh, how I wish for old times, that I were in his dungeons sweating over Potions… what I wouldn’t give to see him again! Katie Bell’s there too, she can show me the ropes… and there are so many others…

Maybe I’ll even get to meet Harry’s mum and dad. Oh, that would be just wild! I’ll get to tell Lily and James Potter all about the man he’s become… they’ll be so proud. For one thing I am sure of is the last thing we told Harry before we made the preparations for the Covenant. Ron may die, and I may die, but nothing can happen to Harry until he defeats Voldemort.

And if I die helping him defeat evil, my death will not be in vain.

At that moment, Lucius entered the chambers of his lord and his master. The sickening scent of death and pestilence filled Hermione’s nostrils as she struggled with her bonds…

"Hermione?" Harry’s hand was on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

She snapped out of it. No, they weren’t seventeen anymore. They were thirty-two… not in Tartarus, but sitting in the Leaky Cauldron’s beer garden. They had overcome that hellish place. They were alive.

"Sorry," she replied. "Old memories."

He nodded in understanding. "You still have nightmares, too?"

"I think," Hermione sighed, "that we might always have them. If even living a decade’s worth of time in a fairy world couldn’t rid you of yours…"

"I shouldn’t have brought it up."

"Of course you should have!" protested Hermione. "It makes sense now that you mention it… if Heath were trying to cast the Kiss of Death on me, then he’d get more of my power if I wasn’t resistant. Seduce… rape… kill… absorb. What a vampiric curse… and indeed, if I recall correctly, it was first conjured up by a bitter wizard who was bitten by some female vampire."

"You need a bodyguard," repeated Harry. "Until we or the Confeds can capture this Heath bastard. Even I can’t rearrange or reorder time…"

"And just who do you think would be qualified to be a bodyguard, then?" asked Hermione. "If I can’t protect myself against him, who in the world do you think would be able to? There aren’t too many magical folks walking about who are a match for me, witch or wizard…"

"You don’t need many, you just need one."

Their eyes met.

"After all, there’s only one wizard who’s ever bested you in every single duel."

A smile played about her lips. "Not every single one. I’ve utterly trounced you before…"

"You didn’t exactly ‘trounce’ me, Hermione. And anyway, all those times it was best two out of three anyway."

"Only because I wasn’t trying hard enough." Then she sobered up. "You don’t have to worry about me, Harry. You’ve got your own life. I’ve done all right on my own up until this point."

"Perhaps you’re not concerned about your safety, Hermione, but…"

She stood up abruptly. "Can we discuss this another time? I need to get back to my father’s house."

Harry hesitated, then relented. Hermione instinctively knew that the discussion was merely tabled until later, but far from over.

It was a simple matter to get back to Headington from the Leaky Cauldron, and the weather on the journey back was a bit warmer. The sky was still overcast, but every now and then the sun glowed through the fluffy grey blanketing of clouds like a platinum platter.

There was a Cargo Charm that could be used to transport packages via broomstick, and both Harry and Hermione had aided in attaching her parcels so that they levitated alongside the broom. Of course, they let Duskchaser out of his cage so that he could stretch his wings and fly ahead.

This time, Hermione found it a bit more uncomfortable to fly with him. Certainly there was the feeling of exhilaration from before, but added to this was a strange sort of unease that she really didn’t want to examine… a funny knot that seemed to have settled somewhere in the lower region of her stomach, accompanied by a generalized tingling.

It’s because it’s nearly my time of the month, thought Hermione loftily. Yes… odd things always occur to hyperempaths then.

Secure with this rationalization, she held on tight and enjoyed the ride for what it was worth.

They arrived in Caroline’s rose garden at a quarter to noon. While Harry detached the packages from the hovering broom, Hermione ran over to the spot in the garden… and gasped.

"Something’s changed."

Leaving the parcels behind, Harry walked over to her, Duskchaser perched on his shoulder.

"There was a bloodstain here earlier," said Hermione. "And the grass was matted in the shape of a man… Harry, tell me I’m not going insane."

"Well, I’m sure that whoever was responsible wanted to get rid of the evidence. You know what you saw, and I believe you."

She picked up the folds of her cloak and ran towards the house. "I want to make sure my father’s all right," she called over her shoulder.

The front door was unlocked, but that wasn’t so unusual. Hermione stepped inside, wand drawn, ready to cast at a moment’s notice.

"Dad?" she called. "Dad, are you all right?" There was an answering noise from the vicinity of the kitchen. "Dad, say something…"

That’s when she saw the dark shape glide across the hall from the kitchen to the dining room. Her immediate first reaction was to call out for Harry, but she restrained herself… she wasn’t sure if the intruder was aware of her presence, so it was possible that the element of surprise was on her side.

"Silencio," she mouthed, rotating the wand in a careful circle around her head. A silent shower of glittering black dust descended all around her. Without a sound, she took a few steps down the hall, stopping just before she came to the doorway of the dining room… then she pounced into the room, wand ahead of her, ready to cast.

"Freeze!" she shouted.

And a frightened Clara Lancaster dropped the manicure tray that was in her hands.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" spat Clara. "You almost made me piss my pants… what is that?" She pointed at Hermione’s wand.

"Oh, this?" Hermione stared at it, just as much at a loss. "It’s a… ah… um… a stick I found outside on the ground."

Clara began to snicker. "What were you going to do with it, put my eyes out? Suppose I was a real intruder with a blade or a hunting rifle… oh, my God, that’s the funniest thing I’ve seen all day…"

Hermione was debating on whether or not she should put Clara’s eyes out, as this would have certainly been an improvement, when she felt Harry’s presence beside her.

Clara’s entire face changed. Her nice-nasty smirk was instantly replaced by a coquette’s eyelash batting.

"And just who is this, Hermione? The ex-husband or the ex-boyfriend?"

"The best friend," said Harry. "Emphatically not an ex of any kind."

"Of course you are, dear," said Clara, brushing Hermione aside to size Harry up from a closer vantage point. "Excellent… exquisite… and I’d wager exciting to boot."

Before Hermione could kill her, Harry said, "Oh, there’s nothing exciting about me, rest assured. I’m a teacher."

"Professor," Hermione corrected. "Clara, this is Harry Potter, one of my oldest and dearest friends. We’ve known each other since we were children…"

"Oh, an Oxford don? And at such a young age… I must say that I’m impressed."

"Not Oxford," said Harry. "I teach at a private secondary school in Scotland."

"Oh, which one? Gordonstoun? Fettes?"

"None of the above," said Hermione. "Knowing you as I do, Clara, I’m certain that you’ve never heard of it, and I don’t have time to explain. Socializing amongst the educated doesn’t make you a member of the club by any means." Clara was so dumb she didn’t even realize she was being insulted. "Anyway, I didn’t come here to shield my friend from your passes. I wanted to speak with my father. Where is he?"

"He’s working, you know that."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, I’m certain, I just spoke with him a few moments ago. He said nothing about you, however…"

Hermione could tell from the fleeting look on Harry’s face that he cared very little for this woman. "And you’re currently employed with…" he asked harshly.

Clara reddened a bit. "Well, I was with an interior decorating firm until last year. Since then, I’ve been concentrating on Ted and things around here. I’m thinking about starting up a catering business soon…"

"Really? Nothing looks any different than the last time I was here, and that was well over three years ago. And Hermione says that you don’t cook. Funny."

It was satisfying, seeing Clara’s embarrassment. Obviously her malice was reserved for women only, because she quickly muttered her excuses and went into another part of the house.

Hermione stifled her giggles. "And that is supposed to be my mother’s replacement."

"No one could replace your mum, especially not that bat. I can tell that she’s been making your stay here miserable, and I give you full permission to hex her toes off the next time she treats you nastily."

"How about a nice Ton-Tongue Toffee?" Hermione winked. Although she hadn’t been present on the long-ago day the Weasley twins turned Dudley Dursley’s tongue into something resembling a pink eel, she’d seen the toffee’s effect on other helpless victims.

Harry shook his head. "Too bad 3W’s folded at the beginning of the year. No more wizard wheezes… and during a time when we need them at that."

Hermione sighed. "What a shame. They opened during the worst wizarding war since the Middle Ages, only to get trounced by the downturn in the economy. How are the twins taking it?"

"With the sense of humor that all of that lot have," said Harry. "Both of them have excellent wives… Angelina and Anya are still working, and Fred and George have been peddling their wares from Zonko’s in Hogsmeade. They’re trying to open up some sort of comedy club… the Golden Snitch’s been shut down for over a year and a half, so it’s left a void in the nightlife. Both Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade have gotten as dour as a Victorian parlor."

"I’m sure," said Hermione. "Happens when you make a substantial segment of the population out to be scapegoats."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Something will be done about it, Hermione. I promise you that we’ll…" She started to say something, but he stopped her by placing two fingers upon her lips. "Promise."

"I ought to change into one of the robes Ginny bought me," she said abruptly, turning away swiftly and racing in the direction of the stairs. "Go into the fridge and make whatever you find into a lunch for yourself… and steer clear of Clara’s claws."

Safely back in her bedroom, Hermione undressed, washed, and began to redress. Suddenly, she stopped and stood for a few moments in her slip, holding her cloak closely to her. Inhaling, engaged in a futile battle with herself. She couldn’t understand why she wasn’t as angry at Harry as she had every right to be… why she’d just spent half of her birthday with him… why that fact made her extremely happy instead of very upset.

It also made no sense that she still felt the fleeting pressure of his fingers upon her lips…

No, Hermione. Don’t even think about it.

I’m not thinking!

Yes, dear. That’s the problem.

She picked up the tracking amulet that they’d hastily purchased from the Diagon Alley owlery, where you could get many official Ministry documents and implements. Suspended from a leather cord was a dark brown stone, the size and shape of a robin’s egg yet shot through with liquid gold. It seemed to swirl around like a cloud of dust. It also made her heart feel oddly heavy when she placed it around her neck.

Knocking, insistent and firm, upon the door. She knew who it was before she heard the voice.

"Hermione, have you buried yourself in there? Come downstairs, I’ve made you a birthday lunch."

"Oh, really, you shouldn’t have…"

"Too late, damage’s already been done. You’ve been up there twenty minutes, how long does it take to change a robe? Women…"

Afterward, she could never figure out why she padded over to her bedroom door and flung it wide open. All she could do was add it to the registry of Strange Things I Did On My Thirty-Second Birthday.

"I am not going to Tamburlane looking like something the cat dragged in," she snapped. "Ginny’s evidently planned some sort of tea for the ladies, and I’d like to look my very best, all right? That is, if you don’t mind."

"Mind?" he said. "I should say not. Of course, if you ask my opinion…"

"I didn’t."

"… there’s nothing wrong with the way you look right now."

Hermione’s blush this time extended a bit beyond her neckline. She honestly hadn’t been thinking about what she was wearing when she opened the door… or perhaps more accurately, what she wasn’t wearing.

She was now paying for her forgetfulness by feeling rather as if she would burn to a crisp. And to think she’d been grateful to see the other side of the long and sweltering Atlanta summer… Georgia’s heat had nothing on this.

Instead of muttering apologies on her behalf, excusing himself, and retreating, Harry stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, and stood a few inches away from her. Hermione felt her heart and her breath stop… the air between them seemed to crackle with electric intensity…

He reached out and picked up the amulet from where it rested, nestled in the valley between her breasts, and examined it.

"Don’t wear this."

"Don’t? I thought you said I had to."

"The law says you’re supposed to have it on your person. You can put it in your handbag or in your cloak’s pocket. If you wear it, it’ll only make you depressed… I’m sure the charming has something to do with that." He hooked his finger underneath the leather thong and slid downward, grasping the amulet again.

She covered his hand with her own.

"All right, then, I’ll take it off…"

Before she could reach around her neck to untie the knot, Harry lifted the entire device away from her chest, over her head and hair, and then off. Hermione had to admit she felt much lighter.

"Better?"

She looked up at him and nodded, eyes filled with appreciation in spite of herself.

He crossed the room and was sitting on the covered alabaster chest before she knew it. "Your room certainly looks different since the last time I was up here," he remarked casually. "Not half as lavender and frilly."

"Yes, the two of you always liked to make fun of my preferences. I suppose you were really secretly disappointed that I wasn’t some rough-and-tumble Quidditch playing tomboy. But having that sleepover just before the thick of the war was so much fun… do you remember?"

"Fifth year, Easter holidays? Of course I remember… your father wanted to know why you were having a bunch of boys overnight… the only girl was Ginny."

"Well, it was just for those in our year--I’d arranged that intensive study session for our O.W.L.s, remember--Lavender and Parvati were spending the holidays with Padma and the rest of the Patils in Spain. I invited Ginny so Dad wouldn’t burst a blood vessel."

"He still watched us all like a hawk," said Harry. "Your father’s always made me slightly nervous… I got the impression he never liked me much."

"You’re being ridiculous. If he didn’t like you he’d never let you into the house, trust me," she said. "Of course, he took to Ron like a Bundimun takes to dirt, which may be why you felt that way. Mum loved you, though… always wanted to know why… oh, never mind." She went to her closet and extracted one of the new robes, a rust-colored one. "You know how parents are."

"Nope," he said absently.

She turned to face him again. "Oh, Harry, I’m sorry."

"What for? Not over something that happened over three decades ago, I hope." He shrugged. "You can’t miss what you’ve never experienced as much as something that you once had and you let just… slip away."

Hermione lifted her arms and let the robe slide over her. "Yes, I certainly miss my mother. She was the only one who understood me completely and accepted me just as I am. I confess to feeling a bit lost without her."

"She was an amazing woman," he replied. "One in a million… something like what I think my mother would have grown to become in maturity, although yours was a Muggle and mine was a witch. I hope they’ve met, wherever they are."

"They’re in heaven, I’m sure of it," said Hermione, reaching for a brush and sitting down at her dressing table. "And just before she died, I told Mum that after she finished her reunion with Grandmother Helen, to look for a pretty redhead with green eyes just like yours…" Her voice broke, and she dropped the brush on the table, burying her face in her hands.

Soon she felt him lift her up from the chair, and then there was only the bed beneath her as he cradled her against his chest and she cried her eyes out.

"I feel so selfish," she sniffed at last. "Mum was in such pain when she died… the look on her face as she passed away was one of sheer peace… and yet all I can think about is that it’s my birthday and she isn’t here with me."

"I understand."

She looked up at him, wiping her eyes. "You do, don’t you?"

"I’ve been alone for so long that I don’t even know what anything else would be like." He sighed. "Hermione, there’s something I’ve got to tell you…"

"Oh no, not another deep dark Harry-secret. Should I be afraid?"

"Ha, ha. It’s not such a huge secret anymore… practically everyone knows…"

Just then, there was more knocking. "Hermione? Open up… Clara said you were looking for me earlier…"

Hermione sat up and stood from her bed regretfully. Wishing like everything that there was a way to capture the warmth that she felt whenever she was cocooned within his arms, to carry it with her always. If I could bottle that sort of comfort, she thought, I’d never have to work another day in my life. Everyone in the wizarding world would empty their Gringotts vaults to have it…

She walked over to the door, twice glancing back at the man sitting on her bed. The first time he seemed to be staring out of the window. The second time their eyes met and she came to a sad realization. She’d made the wrong decision three years before.

Well, maturity is learning to live with the choices we make. I’ve made a laundry list of mistakes, starting and ending with him…

Because Nephthys was right. Hyperempaths know all the joy and sorrow, the pain and glory of all of humanity, yet rarely take time to look at what’s in their own hearts.

And I think that I just may have been in love before.

Hermione opened the door and smiled her daughter-grin, face revealing nothing of the consternation she felt.

"Here I am, Dad… and guess what? Harry’s here."

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

4:10 p.m.

Tamburlane—the Malfoy estate.

"Correct me if I’m wrong," said Hermione as she and Harry walked up the drawbridge to the front door of Draco and Ginny Malfoy’s country manor later that afternoon, "but didn’t they used to live somewhere else? I mean, I feel like I’ve been here before, but the house looks different."

"It is different. These are the ancestral Malfoy family lands, and there was actually another mansion on the grounds… about an acre or two in that direction," he pointed.

Hermione looked and saw only an elaborate and well-trimmed garden of vast expanse. There was a wood directly opposite the gardens, through which a stream flowed and curved around to circle the house much like a castle’s mere from days of old. There were several punts tied just under the drawbridge.

"Imagine having to clean a home this big," Hermione idly said, appreciating and yet not coveting the picturesque surroundings of Shropshire.

"They don’t, of course. They have a very capable house-elf who runs their staff of mostly Squib servants. All are well-paid, trustworthy, and ensure that Ginny doesn’t have to lift a finger."

"Lucky her."

After only three quick poundings of the elaborate brass knocker, the front door opened and a liveried house-elf opened the door and bowed.

"Afternoon, Mr. Potter," he said, in the careful English that house-elves now acquired in special trade union sponsored charm schools. Draco had sent all of his house-elves off to be educated long ago, professing to hate their natural undereducated inflection.

"Hello, Nod. I don’t think you’ve met my best friend, Hermione Granger, who’s also a friend of your employer."

Nod bowed again to her, this time more deeply. "I have heard great things about you, miss… I assure you that I did not expect them to be attached to one with such a lovely face."

Hermione looked at Harry and laughed. "Oh, come now," she said to the butler. "The flattery is totally unnecessary… we’re here to see the Malfoys. Where are they?"

Nod looked over his shoulder, then withdrew a well-worn memorandum book and studied it. "That depends on which invitation you’ve received. Today we have a number of events going on here at Tamburlane… high tea with Mistress Malfoy in the Red Drawing Room at 4 p.m… children’s birthday party in Little Miss Malfoy’s playroom at 4:45… dinner in the main dining room at 7…. and cocktails and dancing at 9 p.m. in the Grand Ballroom."

Hermione frowned. "They have an event calendar?"

Harry shrugged. "I suppose they have to have one. I’m sure they still have noontime tours of the house and grounds for the public during the summer. Am I correct, Nod?"

"Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays," supplied Nod helpfully.

"Oh, that’s horrible. A lot like living in a fishbowl by choice," Hermione said.

"No, no, Master and Mistress Malfoy aren’t here during the summer, miss. Either they’re on holiday or they are in residence at one of their other homes."

After this exchange, Hermione and Harry followed Nod down the varnished wood floors of the entrance hall, up a dark green carpeted staircase, and down a long hall to a few feet from a wide doorway.

"Here is where I leave you," said Nod, turning to leave and resume his duties. "Enjoy your stay at Tamburlane."

Harry turned to Hermione. "I’ve got to help set up for the kids’ birthday party…"

"Whose birthday party?" queried Hermione.

"Oh, I forgot you don’t know! Angelina’s twins were born on your birthday in 2009, and George and Anya’s oldest, Katarina, was born a year later on the eighteenth. So all the kids of our set are invited to this huge event… we’ve even got Martin the Mad Muggle to perform."

Hermione shook her head. "How hilarious. Well, I’ll pop my head in later, kiss the children, and grab myself a piece of birthday cake… thanks for spending the day with me."

With a soft smile, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek as in days of old. He returned the favor, pressing his lips to her temple, then her forehead.

"Don’t forget, I want you to come to Ayr and brief Sirius tomorrow. I still think you ought to take what’s been happening to you more seriously."

"I do, Harry, I really do." She lowered her eyes. "Perhaps after the children’s party, I could come there tonight..."

Once again she was caught up in his presence. "Ah, but I told your father this afternoon that I’d bring you home safely and at a decent hour…"

Hermione shot him a knowing glance. "Let me handle my father."

"If you insist," said Harry. "But tell me, beautiful, who’s going to handle you?"

The answer was in her eyes as he pulled her close. Finally, Hermione’s brain whispered as her senses applauded and her hands went to his hair and his hands settled low on her waist and everything within her rose in anticipation in the instant before their lips met…

…and yet never met because there was Ginny, who’d stepped into the hallway and spotted them.

"Hermione! There you are!" said Ginny, face shining with glee.

They embraced quickly and stepped apart. Guiltily, but Ginny didn’t seem to notice this much. She hugged and kissed Hermione warmly, then punched Harry on the arm, seeming more like the carefree, sweet girl she’d been once upon a time than the trend-setting and elegant woman she’d become.

"I see you took your time collecting her and bringing her here, Harry Potter," she said with mock disapproval.

"That’s because we had a lot of catching up to do," Harry said lightly.

"I’m sure. Come, Hermione, the girls are all here… and Harry, don’t you have something or the other to do?"

"Whoa, dismissed like a stray Kneazle," he said, shaking his head. "I’ll see you later, Hermione… Ginny, where’s Hazel’s playroom again? I have no desire to get lost in this museum again… last time I had to battle a dozen suits of armor at once, and I’m not sure that I’m up to it today…"

As Harry and Ginny walked down the hall, Hermione watched them. She had a sudden, irrational urge to stop him… to have Ginny tell the other women that she would meet up with them later… to do what she should have done this afternoon instead of watch her father interrogate Harry for the better part of the two hours after lunch… to grab him and Apparate together to his cottage on Ayr and snog him for the better part of an hour, but now she’d have to wait…

Oh, please. Only snog? You might be a liar, Hermione, but you’re not pathological yet. You know very well that you won’t be satisfied with just kisses.

Yes, I would. What part of "celibate" don’t you understand?

The part where I spent the whole of today restraining you from jumping the poor man’s bones…

You give yourself far too much credit, damn it.

And you overestimate your willpower. Celibate, my fat arse. Bet you’ll be polishing that broomstick within the next twenty-four hours…

Merlin, you are crude!

Well, so are you. Remember, I’m not only your reality check, but your imagination too… and really, love, you ought to be locked up away from decent society... some of those fantasies of yours are really quite frightening…

"Hermione? Snap out of it, dear!" And here Ginny was indeed snapping her fingers in front of her old friend’s face.

"Oh! I’m sorry…" Hermione laughed. "It’s been quite strange, trying to get readjusted to all this, you know."

"Well, I’m glad you’ve had Harry to help you find the ropes again. He’s told you everything, hasn’t he?"

She nodded. "Yes, I’m fully updated."

"Good, I’m glad. Well, then… shall we rejoin the girls? I think so."

Hermione followed Ginny into a parlour that vaguely resembled the Gryffindor common room from Hogwarts days. Everything was rich scarlet and gleaming gold and polished ivory. As a redhead, Ginny perhaps could have chosen a more flattering color scheme for her wing but she couldn’t have looked more regal in her rich purple robes.

"Everyone, I’d like to introduce to some and re-introduce to others our own dear Hermione Granger, who’s recently come back to us from her research in the Muggle world. Make her feel welcome."

There was applause, and excited talk, and she was immediately surrounded by faces familiar and strange.

"Oh! Hermione!" Parvati Patil had been standing near the door with a crumpet and hugged her warmly… as closely as her extended stomach would allow.

"It’s great to see you too, Parvati…"

"Seven months," said Parvati, answering the question in Hermione’s eyes. "I married the Indonesian Minister of Magic a year and a half ago… I’m due in November."

Before she could fully express her congratulations, they were surrounded Parvati’s best friend Lavender Finnegan came over with Eleanor Branstone Thomas and Lisa Turpin Baddock. They loved what she’d done with her hair… they envied her slight tan… they wanted to know what American Muggles were like… did she hear about this or that… and she’d been missed by everyone.

She felt rather caught in a whirlwind on the inside. Overwhelmed. She showed none of this on her face, though. Hermione Granger had long ago become the past mistress of maintaining composure under pressure… letting her emotions get in the way of rational thought had been one of her few weaknesses as a young witch, and that innate tendency had surfaced just before the time of her divorce. Even as intelligent and rational as she could be, Hermione by nature could be extremely impulsive when it came to those things, causes, and persons she was passionate about. Indeed, this passionate nature of hers sometimes in the past had made choke when she needed to act… to become paralyzed and frozen with fear.

This was why Nephthys had taught her to shield, to throw up a barrier between ration and emotion. It was how she’d learned to function as an adult. Rarely did anyone see her unmasked.

She was shielding now, greeting each woman with the cordial and cool grace that had become her signature. Embracing each one with only a tinge of warmth, asking after husbands and children and work and parents without any trace of passion in her voice. For she knew if she let the shield slip, she would dissolve into stormy tears. Especially when her Weasley sisters-in-law came to hug and kiss her… Liz and Madeleine and Penelope, saying that Angelina and Anya were setting up the party and were wild to see her as well… and that all of the children had missed their Aunt Hermione terribly.

She hadn’t realized how incredibly lonely she’d been while living in Georgia, how much she yearned for female companionship… her? The woman with a legion of male friends and not a single female amongst their ranks?

Maybe it was because she no longer had her mother. Caroline had been more than a mother to her, she had been a dear friend. Maybe it was because Ginny was now married and Hermione wasn’t, and they no longer had Ron in common, so there wasn’t the same emotional meeting place for them. Maybe it was because she’d made the terrible mistake of marrying one of her best friends and now there was this unmistakable tension between her and the other…

I do need a good girl friend, thought Hermione. The problem is that I have so little in common with these witches, great and wonderful people though they are. They’re so into their men and their babies, even the ones with careers… I can’t imagine that being the center of my world.

Over the shoulder of one of the women who was hugging her, Hermione saw a young witch of no more than twenty-five standing near the tea table. She was staring back at Hermione pointedly, face unreadable, tea cup in hand.

The girl was easily the most striking woman in the room, and if there had been men about she would have certainly drawn every eye. She was blonde, and every strand of her pale golden hair seemed alive thanks to the autumn afternoon sun that was filtering in through the open window. Her face was exquisite, and although she was quite tall, her figure was as proportioned as a Greek statue. The strange thing was her skin was not pale--she had the golden complexion of the southern European countries--but her eyes were as bright as her hair. Hermione couldn’t tell the exact color, but they looked like twin stars shining from her face.

She looks like a goddess, thought Hermione wildly. Diana of the Ephesians, indeed.

Hermione muttered a few pleasantries, saying that she wanted a cup of tea, and made her way over the table.

"Coffee or tea?" asked the Squib before she could say anything to the girl.

"Tea, please. With milk and one of those sprigs of mint… thanks."

"I have a fondness for mint as well. It’s one of my favorite tastes."

Hermione turned to the girl, who was standing right next to her. "I can take it only in small doses, usually when I’m under the weather. I was flying earlier today and have a tickle in my throat. I’m Hermione Granger, by the way…"

"Yes, I know. Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Granger. I’m Diana Oliveira, a new teacher at the Dumbledore School. So I know all about you already."

"Oh, excellent! You have a great staff there… so you’re working with the Linsenmayers and Carole Stanford Black, Jocelyn, Janet, and of course…"

"Harry," finished Diana. "You could say that. I’m a visting lecturer in telesthetics, so I’ve been working rather closely with the Professor for the past two years. He’s a wonderful man. The best I’ve ever met, in fact."

Hermione’s smile was indulgent. Obviously the girl was the latest in Harry’s long line of conquests. Poor thing.

But now a gleam caught Hermione’s eye, and it was coming from the direction of Diana’s teacup. The saucer was in her right hand, but the hand that held the cup sported a showy diamond solitaire on her ring finger.

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Hermione. "Are you engaged, then?"

"Yes, I am," said the girl. "Have been since Valentine’s Day this year. We’re getting married in December. Christmas, to be exact."

"How exciting. You know, I was around your age when I was married for the first time. I remember how anxious I felt, and yet how elated I was when the day finally came. If I may be so presumptuous as to offer advice…"

"Please do," Diana said.

"Make sure you savor each moment, and treasure the good times…. store up the good memories so that when the storms come, you can draw back on them. I wish you all the happiness in the world, dear."

Diana looked like she wanted to cry. "They were right. Everything I’ve ever read or heard or imagined…you’re exactly as they say," she whispered incredulously. "Thank you."

Hermione hugged her. "You can thank me after you tell me all about the lucky man. Chances are I know him… does he work on Ayr by any chance?"

"Yes, he does. I’m sure you already know him very well. In fact, I’d be so honored if you would come to our wedding… and I know he would be too."

"I’ll be back at work in Brazil by then," Hermione said, "but I’m sure I’d love an excuse to travel to Scotland for the holidays." Especially if Harry’s there, she thought in spite of herself. "You’ll make a lovely bride, and if there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know."

Diana nodded. Hermione was going to ask for more details, but at that moment, Ginny came over and retrieved her.

"Hi, Diana, glad you two have met… guess who’s here, Hermione?"

Hermione turned. There stood Angelina and Anya Weasley, Alicia Jordan, and Cassandra Branford waving her over.

"We’ve got to get back to arranging things for the children’s birthday party," Angelina called in her usual loud and boisterous voice, "but we just couldn’t wait to see you!"

She grinned, said good-bye to Diana, and went over to greet her old friends.

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

5:30 p.m.

It had been a long time since Hermione had attended a wizarding kid’s party. Yet even she couldn’t have ever forgotten how loud and colorful and messy and fun these things were for the sproglets.

She sat on a divan, watching the action, recovering slowly from being attacked by a plethora of nieces and nephews of all ages and young family friends. As she watched them all, laughing at the antics of Martin the Mad Muggle, occasionally using her wand to animate one of the colorful sand-art creations, she marveled at how ridiculously fast children grew up.

A case in point was little Maggie, Percy and Penelope’s oldest daughter. She was no longer the tiny, quiet and bookish girl that Hermione remembered from the long-ago days of her engagement to Ron. Margaret Weasley was now a young woman of twenty, watching over her younger brothers and sisters, blushing whenever a certain young Gringotts curse-breaker was mentioned.

Then there was Mary, who Hermione had left behind as a giggling eleven year old, now a moody, brooding girl of fourteen. Robes, fingernail polish, and lipstick were all black… as was her hair dye and her multiple stud piercings.

"Mum nearly died when Mary came home from school this summer," P.J. had said. "Dad knew, of course, and he almost had a heart attack." Of the children, he was much the same as he had been, save that he’d stretched out considerably. He was in his last year at Hogwarts and was very interested in becoming a mediwizard, so he regaled her with questions… and also hinted that he wouldn’t say no to an owl of recommendation from her.

Fred and Angelina’s Malinda was being extremely helpful along with her cousins Gryff and Rave in the decorating. Hermione thought it strange to see that they were no longer little babies, but older kids on the verge of Hogwarts… big sisters and brother to the current baby boom.

"Uncle Harry says I can almost fly better than him," said Malinda happily, taking time out for a moment to chat with her beloved aunt. "Which makes lots of sense, because I have wings like Mummy now."

Hermione laughed. "That’s right, you do. Are they strong enough for flight yet?"

"No, and I can’t use them in Quidditch anyway." She giggled. "It would be cheating, you know."

"Yes, I know. Have you thought about what position you’re best suited for?"

Malinda shrugged. "I can’t decide, and they all want me to be something different. Daddy and Uncle George want me to be a Beater… Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron think I’d make a good Seeker… but Mummy and Aunt Alicia want me to be a Chaser."

"And you, Linda?" asked Hermione. "What do you want to be?"

Malinda got a strange sparkle in her eye. "I want to be all of them. I want to be the best Quidditch player ever."

Hermione was floored by the child’s determination. "I’m sure you will be. Never lose sight of your dream. And learn from our mistakes."

To this Malinda laughed, and the laugh was just like her father’s. "Don’t be silly, Aunt Hermione. You guys are perfect. Everybody at school knows we’re the best family in all England… I’m lucky."

In the midst of the fray was Diana. Evidently she was in her element around young people, and since she taught them for a living Hermione wasn’t surprised. She flitted from game to game, danced with Martin the Mad Muggle, and helped Angelina and Anya arrange the presents. It made Hermione dizzy just to look at her.

"Storytime!" she called after a while. And the kids came racing over to hear of deeds of valor, fairies and elves, witches and wizards, epic quests, dragons and the dark arts, courage and perseverance and friendship and true love.

I used to be the storyteller, thought Hermione. Perhaps I don’t have Diana’s gift for children, but they always loved my stories… the difference was that I lived most of mine…

And the tiniest frisson of jealousy snaked into her heart.

Soon the room was enchanted by the sound of Diana’s lovely voice. The children were all sitting around her, listening to the spellbinding tale. Even the adults who were monitoring the children and arranging the party slowed down to listen.

"Thereupon the Prince seated himself against the curtain which divided the outer from the inner chamber and wrote the following prescription: ' He whom estrangement hath afflicted is cured when the vow of the beloved is accomplished; and the heart of exile findeth restoration in union with that which was lost. Love alone can heal those whom love hath persecuted'…

"Then, having enclosed the ring which at their first meeting he had exchanged for his own, he sealed the missive, and putting it into the hands of the servant bade him carry it to his mistress.

"No sooner had the Princess received the missive and the ring than she knew at once from whom it came. Whereupon joy overthrew her reason, and leaping up in a transport of exultation she pressed her feet against the wall, and breaking the chains which bound her ran forth and threw herself into the arms of the Prince.

"The servant ran in swift haste to the King, bringing tidings of the event. ‘What?’ cried the King, ‘can such news be true?’

"’O my lord,’ answered the servant, "let thine own eyes look upon her and be blest; for she hath broken her chains of iron, and coming forth she falleth upon him and kisseth him, and never will she let him go…"

Hermione had stood up and was moving slowly towards the doorway. She was beginning to wonder where Harry was… surely he was still somewhere in the house, even if she hadn’t yet seen him at the party…

She stepped quietly out of the playroom.

A very familiar, absurdly tall redhead was walking down the hall, walking towards her, bouncing a little boy of about four with auburn curls, freckles, and snapping blue eyes about his shoulders as he squealed and laughed.

When she saw him, Hermione froze. Mask off. Shield cast aside.

And when he saw her at last, he stopped in his tracks as well.

The little boy looked down at Hermione, curiosity written all over his tiny face. "Daddy," he asked, "who’s that lady?"

Ron couldn’t speak. Neither could Hermione at first. But unlike her ex-husband, she could see the growing alarm on the child’s face and snapped herself out of it. What could she say? "A friend of your father’s" wasn’t quite right, and certainly not "a friend of your parents" considering who his mother was. Neither was "Dr. Granger" or "Hermione Granger" appropriate. "Hermione" was too casual, especially for an adult he’d never met before…

"I’m your Aunt Hermione," she said, reaching up to shake his tiny hand. "You must be Maury."

He nodded. "Nice to meet you." Then he giggled.

"What’s so funny, son?" asked Ron, looking up.

"She’s… she’s pretty," chortled Maury.

"That she is," said Ron slowly. "That she is… here," he kneeled so that Maury could climb down, "go and join the fun." Maury hugged his dad’s neck, then Hermione’s waist, and ran down the hall and into the playroom.

Hermione couldn’t even look him in the eye. Why isn’t there a book somewhere for this… 14 Easy Steps Towards Dealing With Your Ex? She felt awkward and empty and angry and a trifle annoyed… and strangely sad.

"How have you been, Hermione?" asked Ron, voice calm and even. She’d never heard his voice sound like that. Ever.

"Well, thanks." She finally summoned the courage to look up at him. And surprise--she didn’t melt into a puddle of any kind. Neither did she feel very angry anymore… Ron’s deep blue eyes were strangely disarming.

Her misery increased a hundredfold. And of course, it wouldn’t do if she went flailing on the floor, bawling.

"That’s good to hear," Ron said slowly. Where was the wit, where were the jokes and teasing, where was the laughter? Where was the sparkle in his eyes, mirrored in her own? If they were all gone, why did they ever have to grow up? What was the damned point?

Long, uncomfortable awkward silence. It wasn’t that there was nothing for them to say to each other. No. There was far too much.

Time, please be my friend for a change… please let me somehow go back and make things different…

Or at least, show me where we can begin again.

"Hey, there you are, Ron," called Harry from down the hall. "Fred and George and I have got all the balloons animated on the grounds for the kids… give us a hand, will you…"

Harry stopped when she saw Hermione and Ron standing there, staring at each other. Now instead of two people frozen in place in that hallway, there were three. And indeed, it was the first time the three of them had been alone in the same vicinity together in ages… since long before she ever left.

That’s when something larger than Hermione snatched her up and made her take charge of the situation. This was because while she was ever Caroline’s daughter, she was also very much Ted Granger’s progeny as well.

"Oh, this is just absolutely damned ridiculous," Hermione said, grabbing Ron’s upper arm and pulling him down the hall towards Harry. "There are balloons to prepare for those kids, there’s a Fizzing Whizzbee ice cream cake to cut, and if I don’t get a corner slice with lots of frosting I will hold you two personally responsible." She grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him along too. "This is not As The Wizarding World Turns, it’s my birthday and I’ll be buggered if I am going to rehash the bloody past again after living three years without the unnecessary melodrama and angst. Let’s go."

"Sounds as if we don’t have much choice in the matter, Harry," Ron remarked after she let them go and sped ahead to lead them downstairs and out.

Harry shook his head. "Right. Not sure we ever did."

And with those words, the famous Trio emerged onto the grounds at Tamburlane to gather balloons.

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

6:45 p.m.

Everything might have ended up quite differently if Hermione hadn’t enjoyed herself so much outside before dinner. She’d planned to get the balloons together, sit on the sidelines, and control the charming so that none of the littlest children were hurt. But Fred and George had pulled her from her perch on the chaise and set her on the back of an inflated, purple-and-pink spotted elephant. So she’d spent the better part of an hour playing with the children and many of the adults, enjoying the great balloons that had come to life on the grounds… she hadn’t done anything of the sort since the snowball fights at Hogwarts.

By the time they were called back inside for the cake, Hermione was flushed and her hair was all over the place. She was in no state to sit down in the elegant Malfoy dining room and have dinner. But Ginny wouldn’t hear of her leaving.

"Here, I have just the thing," said Ginny, pulling her into a vast upstairs room that was obviously used solely for her wardrobe. "I love those robes I bought for you, but they’re really for everyday. Not nice enough for the sort of dinner we’ve got coming. Try this on…"

The fabric glided down over Hermione’s head. It was a lovely pink color, shot through with silver.

Ginny cocked her head critically back and forth. "Hmm… no, I don’t think that’s the best I can do. Here…"

With her wand, she lifted the garment away from Hermione and put an apple-green frock in her hands. Evidently that wasn’t satisfactory, because Ginny quickly divested her of that and gave her robes of flame-red.

They went through at least two dozen garments. All of them ended up in a growing pile that Ginny said the house-elves would take care of later… "after all, that’s what they’re paid for, isn’t it?"

As Ginny went deeper and deeper into the racks of clothing. Hermione sat down on the dressing stool in her slip, looking at herself in the three-way mirror.

"You look better than you have in years, birthday girl," said her reflection.

Hermione winked. Yes, I know.

"Aha!" called Ginny. "Hermione, try this on for size… I think this is it!"

She helped Hermione into robes of peacock blue that shimmered under the lamps. Unlike the square neckline of the everyday robes Ginny had gifted her with, this one had a plunging v-neckline ("you’ll have to get rid of the slip and that frightful granny bra… don’t worry, I’ll charm you so you won’t be uncomfortable"), plunging waist, and a skirt that flounced like the petals of a morning-glory.

"I should have known, you’ve always looked great in blue, although jewel tones and metallics usually don’t do half as much for you as pastels and neutral colors can… they tend to overwhelm you a bit, if you know what I mean. But the undershimmer softens up the blue, so it works. And I’d give just about anything to have your stomach again," said Ginny wistfully. "Although I love my daughter, I miss my figure at times. There’s not a charm in the world that can tuck you fully back in after you’ve had a child, and neither can exercise."

Hermione kissed her. "You’re still gorgeous and you know it."

"Yes, of course. I have a certain Galleonaire who reassures me about that all the time, so I’m not envious. Anyway, you’re lovely, I’m sure… and will be even lovelier with the appropriate accessories."

With that, Ginny fastened a chain of sapphires around her neck, gave her sapphire earrings for her ears… and a plunging sapphire belt for her waist. The stones that hung from necklace and belt rested on her chest and on her lap, accentuating both strategically.

"You can keep those fab boots," Ginny said, flicking her wand quickly here and there, "I’ll only make them match the dress," flicking, "and you need heels, never flats for dress," and flicking again. "Hair… hmm… here’s some pins, let’s put it all up like this… there you are… and did you bring any facial potions?"

"No, only some Muggle stuff for my lips and a basic mascara..."

"Oh, heavens no," said Ginny. "What have I always told you, Hermione? That Muggle make-up is terrible for your skin, I don’t care how expensive or hypoallergenic they claim it is. You are a witch, darling, which means you’ve got to remain in your skin about twice as long as they do…. you have got to take care of it."

Twice as long as my mother did, at least, she thought, watching in the mirror as Ginny fixed her up.

Once Hermione was together, Ginny told her she had to change herself and get Hazel ready for the children’s entertainment and dinner. So she left Hermione alone with the mirror, reminding her that dinner was in just a few minutes.

Hermione allowed herself a good twirl or two. She liked pretty clothes just as much as any other redblooded witch, and she knew she looked lovely. Smiling to herself, she anticipated the look on Harry’s face when he saw her like this…

In the mirror, she could see the door open. A redheaded toddler ran into the room to play hide-and-go-seek amongst the clothing racks, followed by a very pretty, very pregnant brunette.

Maureen, also known as Mo.

"Artie, come back here this instant… you little imp, just wait until Mummy catches up with you!" It took her a moment to notice Hermione, but notice her she did. "Hello, hon, I heard you were back in town. What’s shaking?"

"Maureen, what a surprise," Hermione said flatly. "Don’t you look… healthy."

Her inflection and choice of words were not lost on Maureen. "Yeah, and you look like a blueberry… if I were you, I’d take those gloves off. Don’t want to overdo it."

Hermione looked pointedly at Maureen’s yellow maternity robes. They were nice enough, but she sure wasn’t wearing DasGupta originals any longer. Instead of jewels, her hair was topped off with a yellow rose pinned behind one ear… and there was a wide wedding band added to the engagement ring Hermione remembered from all those years before.

Then she looked down at Maureen’s hands and remembered something.

"Perhaps you’re right," said Hermione, removing her gloves and examining her clear-polished, even nails pointedly.

It was Mo’s turn to narrow her eyes. As pretty as she was, Maureen Ludlam had always been a nail-biter and her hands had never been her best feature. Like all born hyperempaths, Hermione had glorious hands.

"So exactly what else are you flaunting tonight?" asked Mo pointedly. "Or should I say, who are you flaunting?"

"Absolutely no one," returned Hermione. "Unlike you, I don’t need to be on some man’s arm or in his bed to feel absolutely fabulous about myself. It’s called high self-esteem… you ought to try it sometime."

"That’s interesting. Seems to me like all the esteem you’ve ever had came from your close association with a couple of men… and if I recall correctly, you were married to one while you were sleeping with the other."

Hermione clucked her tongue. "No indeed, my dear. Your memory is obviously playing tricks on you… remember, I was married to one while you were sleeping with him."

Mo looked extremely angry. "And you’re back because…"

"I’m back because evidently people wanted me here. I didn’t seek anyone out, they sought me out, which I’m sure is a totally alien experience for you. And the ‘couple of men’ you speak of happen to be my best friends. Even if you don’t think I should be around, they and lots of others seem to."

"Well, one of those ‘best friends’ is a married man, and the other shortly will be. Therefore, there shouldn’t be any confusion on your part…"

Hermione’s challenging look slowly faded away. In spite of her best efforts, she couldn’t keep the shock from her face.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Come on, hon, you mean to tell me you didn’t know? Oh, this is rich, just rich." She threw back her head and laughed.

"I don’t see what’s so bloody funny. Yes, I know that Ron’s married to you, and I must say that even after all was said and done I felt sorry for him, because no man deserves that kind of punishment. But Harry isn’t married, he told me so himself."

Mo continued to laugh so hard that her son emerged from the clothing. "Mummy laugh?" he asked, obviously puzzled.

"I know, sweetie. It’s just that this lady is hilarious." She sobered up quickly, and two pairs of dark brown eyes stared at Hermione. "Hermione, Harry’s not married yet, but he’s going to be before the year is out. Haven’t you bothered to meet his fiancée at all? Ron says she’s been here all day."

"No, I didn’t meet his damned fiancée, because you’re obviously making all this up…"

"I can’t believe this," Mo said, shaking her head. "You’re still in love with him. Oh, great wizards, what a tangled web we weave…. because you can’t seem to keep yourself out of those triangles, can you…"

Hermione’s wand was now at Maureen’s throat. The little boy screamed in fright.

"Tell the truth," Hermione said, "or you won’t be saying another word tonight."

"I am telling the truth," said Mo, pushing Hermione’s hand and wand aside to comfort her child. "Think about it, Hermione, why would I lie about something like that? He’s been engaged for over six months now, and he’s getting married to her in December. Ron’s going to be in the wedding, and I must say that I’m pleased…"

"What gives you the right to be so nasty?" said Hermione slowly. "You started all this. I did nothing to you. Nothing."

"No, Hermione, you didn’t. And I know that I wronged you, blah blah blah, and you plan to make me pay for what I did for the rest of my life. You did an excellent job in gaining public sympathy before you left, so excellent that I may never be able to play this tough crowd or fit into his family. But what you fail to see is that you’re not an innocent victim here. If you hadn’t alienated Ron so much, he would have never looked twice at me and you know it. Well, perhaps he would have… some things are simply meant to be.

"But you had your chance with Harry… I know exactly what happened the night of Draco and Ginny’s wedding, and what that man went through for years over a selfish, spoiled witch who seems to only love herself. So yes, forgive me if I am glad the man has found a slice of real happiness with a woman who loves him desperately and would never do anything to intentionally hurt him. Which is much more than I can say for you…"

"Knock, knock," said a male voice from the doorway. "What’s going on here? Dinner’s started."

As little Artie bolted towards his father, Hermione looked daggers at Mo before sweeping out of the room and brushing past Ron down the hallway. She was so furious that she was shaking. How dare Maureen? She was a liar and a whore and evidently had Ron completely fooled. Most likely she had Enthralled him after all, and was leading him about by the nose. She felt a little sorry for Ron for being such a horrible judge of character.

Hermione calmed down a bit with every step she took. Why had she let Maureen get underneath her skin? That witch was several notches beneath her notice and she would do well to remember it in the future.

As she approached the dining hall, she noticed that it was dark. She turned back and looked at Nod, who was giving instructions to another servant.

"Are you certain the party is in there?" she asked.

"Yes, miss, fully certain. Go on, you’re late."

Hermione shook her head to herself and turned back towards the double doors of the hall. She opened the door… and stepped into pitch black.

"What on earth…"

Then there was a firm "Lumos", and a great shout…

"SURPRISE!"

The candlelight and torches came up with a swoosh… there was dancing confetti and sparks shooting out of wands and the collective pop from a dozen champagne bottles and quite a few of the old Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes special effects…

"Happy birthday, Hermione!" shouted Bill and Madeleine, and the chorus seemed to emanate and echo from the walls. Happy birthday, Hermione! Happy birthday, Hermione!

She was completely floored. Certainly she hadn’t been expecting anything special… she’d only been back a day!

Ginny, ever the gracious hostess, came up to her and kissed her cheek. Idly, Hermione thought that only her former sister-in-law and dearest female friend of yore could have pulled off something of this scale in the mere twenty-four hours that had passed since Hermione’s return.

Draco came on the other side of her and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Welcome home, Granger," he said, and together husband and wife led her to the place of honor at the table.

Yet despite her broad smile and the general good cheer of the guests, the apparent sunshine in her eyes hid the unshed tears she was keeping bottled up.

For there in the midst of the confetti and sparkle and glow stood Harry. Avoiding her eyes.

Clinging to him easily, one be-ringed hand glittering from his shoulder was the goddess-girl Diana.

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

10:05 p.m.

The roof garden was lovely this time of the evening. Hermione walked to the very edge of it, sitting down on one of the stone benches. The clouds blotted out many of the stars but the crescent moon still hung like a silver Sickle overhead. The last of summer’s flowers lent their heady perfume to the air from the pots and plots amongst the benches.

Yet Hermione was oblivious to the beauty that surrounded her, oblivious to the fact that it was her birthday and she looked like a veritable queen. Even royalty crowned have their unhappiest hours. Hermione had just suffered through three of them.

It wasn’t enough that the dinner had been delicious and dessert afterward had been divine. She’d missed the pre-dinner cocktail hour due to her dressing, but afterwards there was dancing and more drinks. She hadn’t lacked for partners, either… many of her friends insisted on dancing with her and there were a few single strangers from Malfosoft that Hermione knew had been invited for her benefit, as just about everyone in their set was now married or otherwise partnered off.

Colin Creevey and Presh Patil were only one of the couples who’d found each other during her hiatus. They’d taken her for a delightful spin around the dance floor… after the Weasley twins decided that it would be hilarious to dance with her all at once, other pairs followed their example.

"You two are such lovebirds," Hermione remarked as they kissed over her head. "Perfect for one another."

"Oh, you’re a sweetheart, Hermione," said Colin. "Always have been, no matter what anyone says. If you’d been a guy, I would have married you."

"Over my dead body," replied Presh with a wink.

Then madcap Angelina and Alicia announced loudly that they were jealous that their husbands had got to dance with her, and they hadn’t. So then there was a great and unforgettable all-girl whirl on the dance floor that all the other women joined in and wasn’t soon forgotten.

The party was still going on without her, and she was glad. For in spite of all the fun that was in the ballroom behind her, in spite of all the cheer and well wishes she’d received from those who wanted to celebrate her day and her return with her, in the end she only saw four faces.

Ron, who was watching her like a hawk.

Maureen, who couldn’t stop smirking.

Diana, who kept looking at her quizzically.

And Harry, who wouldn’t look at her at all.

"Who," she whispered to the moon, "has been the biggest fool in this matter? I’m sure that my intelligence is far less than it is purported to be. If I was so damned smart I would have figured this out on my own. Well, then, I shouldn’t care at all about what that liar Maureen says… and I should be happy that Harry’s finally followed the advice I’d been giving him for the better part of a decade.

"And yet… and yet… I do care. And I’m not happy about this, either. Oh, dear."

Hermione sighed, leaning against the railing. The roof garden of the Grand Ballroom was really a balcony, forming the roof of Draco and Ginny’s glass-walled greenhouse. Fine, translucent mesh curtains that could be charmed opaque offered some privacy. Hermione was glad that no one would think to look for her out here. She had come sans drink, sans plate, sans everything save herself. To keep counsel with the moon and the stars, for suddenly life seemed colorless, flat… and dull.

The door opened, then closed again with a click. She knew who it was without turning around. Indeed, she would have known if she were deaf and blind. Her heart did something strange… was it possible for it to sink and turn a great flip-flop at the same time? If not, a miracle…

"What a beautiful night for your birthday," he said, coming to stand at the railing next to her.

She didn’t say a word.

Harry turned to lean against the railing, not staring at the night anymore as she continued to do so.

"Listen, Hermione, about Diana…"

"She’s a lovely young woman, Harry. Rest assured that I am nothing but happy for you."

"Hermione…"

"You both have similar work interests and she seems to have a great personality. If that weren’t enough, she looks like a moonbeam… like some sort of veela, dipped in gold. I can see exactly what you love about her, and I think she’s perfect for you."

"Hermione, would you stop this and just listen for one minute?"

"What else is there to say? Go away, Harry. I came out here to be alone. If I had really wanted to speak with you I would have sought you out."

He let out a huge breath of exasperation. "So you don’t even want to hear me out?"

She turned away from the view to face him, a trifle violently. "I don’t see why you have to explain yourself to me. That’s not how these things work. You certainly didn’t ask my permission before you asked her to marry you." Then she turned back. "No explanation needed, it’s all obvious enough…"

"She was pregnant."

Hermione stopped.

"Or at least that’s what she thought. We began dating a year ago, right after the Muggle crisis ended… we took the kids on a school trip to Venice, and one thing led to another and…"

She held up a hand, still not bothering to look at him. "Spare me."

"Anyway, on one of our dates this past winter she told me she thought she was pregnant. We were engaged a few days later, and we set the date for December, after the baby came."

"Baby? That’s odd… if I recall correctly, you told me you didn’t have any children yet."

"That’s because one never came. It was evidently a false alarm. Nevertheless, I’d given Diana my word and I saw no reason to break it…"

"Are you in love with her?"

Silence.

"I take that as a yes. Go away, Harry, and leave me alone."

"Why are you being so bloody ridiculous?"

"Because you’re a good-for-nothing, two-faced bastard!" she said, whirling around to face him. "You had all day to tell me about her, and yet I had to find out from Maureen Ludlam of all people. You came to me at dawn, you led me on all day long, and all the time you knew that she was here waiting on you. What, was this your disgusting idea of a private joke? Or was this just payback for the way that I supposedly wronged you three years ago?"

"Oh, excellent. A change of subject," he said, obviously trying to keep his voice calm. "So tell me. Why did you leave the way you did?"

"Well, none of that matters now, does it? I would think you’d be grateful that I had the foresight to proceed as planned, since I wasn’t in the way when your true love came along…"

He grabbed her shoulders firmly and turned her to face him.

"No, Hermione, you’re wrong. Let me tell you about the woman who I’ve been in love with for half my life, who brightens my life and torments my dreams. She could have been mine long ago, had it not been for my own foolishness and preoccupation. By the time I realized that she was the one, she belonged to my brother.

"For twelve long years I had to pretend that she was nothing more than a sister to me, and I thought I’d have to endure that sort of exquisite torture for the rest of my life. Then after I waited for what seemed like forever for her to be free to love me--and Hermione, I had every reason to think that she truly did return my love--she came to me one night and I thought that it was the first hour of paradise. We made love until we were exhausted and fell asleep. I woke up late that morning and she was long gone." He reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled something out. "Leaving behind only this."

He placed it into Hermione’s hands. "My wand," she whispered.

"I nearly went insane after you left and everyone in that room back there knows it, Diana included. I spent a full year and more doing nothing but searching for you. I couldn’t teach, I didn’t half-eat or half-sleep or do much of anything at all. All I could think about was you being all by yourself in the Muggle world without a wand, and all the legions of those in our world who hate us and could have harmed you. I didn’t turn my full attention to the Muggle crisis until Sirius sat me down, told me who your Secret-Keeper was, and that I needed to realize that you were safe and didn’t want to be found. That’s when I started doing all I could in the crisis… but privately I was at one of the lowest points of my life.

"That’s where Diana found me, Hermione. She’s little more than a girl, of course… younger than we were when you married Ron, but with a quiet strength and determination and sweetness that drew me to her. No matter how our engagement came about, I was convinced that she’d make a fine wife." He sighed. "I’ve never had a family, never had that sort of constant in my life. That’s what I thought I’d found with her."

"I’m glad that you’ve found someone special, someone who’s good for you," whispered Hermione, setting her wand down on a nearby bench. "Don’t look back to yesterday, Harry… you can’t."

"Right. Because yesterday, you weren’t here." He stared at her as if he wanted to memorize the contours of her face for all time. "Yesterday my life was ordered and predictable, and I could see the years stretching out in front of me, one much like the other. Yesterday I could see in my future a wife, children, a home… peace. And then I saw you at dawn and all my plans were shattered."

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her head and turned away… only to feel the distinct pressure of his hand on her shoulder.

"Do you realize that when I first saw you, I forgot about Diana’s very existence for hours? The witch who’s wearing my ring… the one who I am supposed to spend the rest of my life with. And if you think me the worst sort of wizard because of that simple fact, you’re probably right. In life we are unfortunate enough to have moments of sudden clarity… I’ve been having a full day of it, and let me tell you, it hasn’t been the most pleasant experience. And at the close of it, I’m still not sure of much, but there’s one certain thing."

Slowly, she turned around.

"It’s you I want always, Hermione. No matter how far away from me you run, you’ll forever be my lady love… and I will always be your knight."

And with those words, she shattered.

Hermione’s mind had a will of its own as her arms wound around his neck and she felt the full length of him flush against her body and his hands on her waist, hands on her hips, crushing her to him. And when their lips met, she felt as if she’d been electrocuted… ah, dear Merlin, could one die from a mere kiss? His lips tasted like port, a drink she’d never cared much for but one that was an utterly intoxicating sip from this particular vessel.

She felt a jolt of liquid fire shoot down her spine as he drew her lower lip between his teeth, nibbling with far gentler bites than her own nervous habit ever afforded. In response, she traced his upper lip with the tip of her tongue until he allowed her inside. There he tasted different… the port-taste was still there, but there also was Fizzing Whizzbee ice cream cake and steak and potatoes and after-dinner mints and spiced pumpkin pie and Harry and she thought she’d go utterly and completely mad from the delicious delightful taste of him.

Harry must have felt much the same, because he broke away with a breathless moan. Hermione whimpered softly at her loss, until she felt his mouth at her temple, after that teeth nipping at her ear, then down the side of her jaw to her neck. Her head fell back and all she saw was the star-studded canopy of the night sky above, suddenly cleared of clouds. Somehow, she was now against the railing of the roof garden, half sitting, half leaning. Supported only by his body and his arms.

We can’t do this with his fiancée in the other room, thought Hermione. It’s wrong… I’ve got to stop this.

What’s wrong with it? It’s just… kissing.

Kissing was a rather loosely applied term at that point, as loose as the bodice of her peacock robe was becoming as he lifted away the sapphire and began to kiss the bare curves that had supported the gem. She felt her insides begin to curl into a familiar tight knot, fingers twirling and twisting in his soft black hair.

He pulled her closer to him, saving her momentarily from her precarious perch, placing his hands where his mouth had been and returning his lips to whisper against her own.

"Stay with me, beautiful. Stay with me forever… for always…"

"But you’re… you’re getting married," Hermione said helplessly, feeling like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice. "Haven’t we been immoral enough for a lifetime? This is wrong…"

His answer was another kiss, longer and deeper. Despite the moonlight and the cool air, Hermione was flushed and warm. She felt sure that she’d ruined all of her undergarments shamefully by now, and Merlin help her, her robe was next.

"It would be more wrong if I went back to her and pretended as if nothing happened... damn, I’ve really messed up, haven’t I?"

She looked up at him indulgently. His glasses were askew and slightly steamed up, so she removed them and tucked them carefully into the top of her boot.

"Ah. Happens to the best of us."

"What if she really had been pregnant? What then?"

"But she wasn’t, was she?" she replied, surprising herself with the confidence in her voice.

"No, but… truthfully, I do care about her. She is a wonderful woman and has been a great friend. I can’t hurt her…" He drew back a bit. "Would be a lot easier if I’d just been able to feel for her what I feel for you."

"Life isn’t always easy," Hermione remarked idly, hand stroking the side of his face. He’d finally shaved, but the texture of his cheek and chin was still a tiny bit abrasive and she loved it. "Shame that men always want what they can’t have."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "What, does this mean I can’t have you?"

"Not me and her at the same time. According to your best friend’s wife, I’m one of the most selfish witches who ever drew breath… do you really think I plan on sharing you?"

"Won’t have to," he growled, pushing her against the railing again, voice breaking as he slid Ginny’s emerald pins from her hair. "And Merlin only knows how tired I am of waiting in the queue for you…"

The pins clattered to the floor of the roof balcony, and soon Hermione found herself wondering where this would all end. Five minutes after his last comment she vaguely realized through the mush her brain had become that she was becoming extremely disheveled… and somehow she had to stop this no matter how much she didn’t want to, because although he was keeping his kisses and caresses deliberately tender, there was certainly no sign of stoppage from his end.

Oh, this is bad, Hermione. Really bad for you.

You know, so are chocolate éclairs. But let me tell you something. Both sure in the hell taste good.

No, dear, I’m talking about your integrity. What you are doing right now is no better than what your ex-husband did to you. Worse, it makes you seem like a hypocrite of the worst sort…

Damn it, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve felt like this? Hello, can’t hear you… no response? Didn’t think so, and you know why? Because I’ve never in my life felt like this before!

Sigh. Yes, you have. If you dust out the corners of your memory, you’ll find that you have. Much as you don’t want to acknowledge it, something obviously did happen between the two of you in Avalon. And only remember what came of it…

How can I remember? It was so many years ago, and thanks to a certain memory charm, I don’t remember anything clearly about it all! How do I know it ever really happened or what it was like? I don’t even remember ever visiting Avalon… all I have is right here, right now…

And whose fault is that, Hermione? Did you memory-charm yourself? Don’t be a fool! This wizard is full of empty promises and broken dreams. He can’t offer the sort of love you’re searching for, not really. Love for mankind in the abstract, certainly. Love for his friends? Sure, he’d lay down his life for any number of people. But love for a woman? Don’t think so. Do you really want to do this when you know what the outcome will be?

Why can’t you just go away and leave me alone?

I thought we’d gone over this. Because I am you. Tell him he has to break his engagement before you can be alone together again.

Well, he says he’s going to do it…

Right now all he’s thinking about doing is you, dear. You know exactly what he’s feeling like right now. You’ve got to be the voice of reason here. Now, push him away…

Hermione did so, breaking their kisses and caresses and ending up a good four feet away from the railing. Feeling utterly dizzy and lightheaded… she wasn’t going to faint, was she? When she got her bearings and her wits about her she found it impossible to speak.

"What is it?" Harry asked, voice still rough around the edges.

Tell him, Hermione, and tell him now.

She finally gave up her brave attempt to stand up straight and sat down on the bench where her wand was resting. "This is all wrong, Harry. You have to go back to her… it’s just not fair, and you know it isn’t."

He sat down on the bench too, facing the opposite direction, leaving a few feet of much-needed distance between them.

"You’re right, it isn’t fair. I’ll go and tell her now…"

But now it was Hermione’s turn to lean in for another long kiss. Even though she fancied she could hear her conscience groan, she felt herself being lifted from the bench and settled upon his lap. She clutched at the collar of his shirt, finding that her fingers had a life of their own as they tugged at the buttons there. One of his hands seemed to sear through the fabric at her hip, and the other lifted the hem of her robes, slipped a hand into her boot-top to retrieve his glasses, then caressed the soft skin that his fingertips found there, slowly sliding upwards…

You have absolutely no willpower, I’m embarrassed.

I do have willpower. Remember, I had enough willpower to ignore my feelings and leave three years ago. And I’ll leave again if necessary.

Ah, good point. You are leaving. Have you even told him about Brazil?

Instantly, Hermione broke their kiss and opened her eyes fully.

"Harry, I think you ought to go back to Diana." She moved to sit back down on the bench, startled by how chilly it was in comparison to his warmth. "Don’t change the plans you’ve been making for nearly a year because of a single day. Remember, I certainly didn’t change my plans to go away because of you." No matter how heartwrenching it was to leave that morning, she thought but did not say.

"Do you really think it’s that simple?"

"Yes, but it seems that you’d rather make it harder than it has to be. I had no intentions of coming back to the wizarding world when Dean and Seamus’ dads ran into me… I’m home on sabbatical, but I’m off to South America soon. You have your life you’re building here and on Ayr, and I’ve got mine too."

"Yeah, so I hear. Older bloke by the name of Jack… I saw him when I was searching, but of course due to Fidelius I couldn’t find you."

Hermione couldn’t bear to look at him. "Harry, I am not in love with Jack. Jack was a colleague and a friend and someone who I am not even really seeing anymore." She sighed. "I don’t think I ought to be involved with anyone right now. I’ve got a lot of things I need to deal with, and I can’t deal with them properly if my head isn’t clear. On the other hand, you have Diana…"

"It’s not Diana that I want," he said. "I thought we’d established this."

"Yes, and had Seamus and Dean’s fathers not seen me yesterday, you would still want her. Don’t do that to the poor girl, Harry. She deserves someone like you. I don’t."

"Hermione…"

"Harry, think about what you really want. You want marriage and babies and a settled life. I see all that as a trap. I don’t want to marry ever again, I can’t have children anymore and don’t think I’d ever want any, and my research interests are taking me around the globe. We’ve grown to want different things, and that’s quite all right. We’ll always have our friendship, and we’ll always care about one another..."

"’Grown to want different things?’" repeated Harry incredulously. "Hermione, I don’t think you know what the hell you want. You say you don’t want to marry again, but I see the way you look whenever one of the other witches is showing off her ring to the others. You say you dislike children and would make a poor mother and yet you’re a child magnet. Whenever I see you with them I remember the girl you once were. You claim that you want to globetrot, and yet you’re in your element when you’re here in your place amongst us…"

"Nice try, but you can’t convince me of that," she replied. "I can just see us together, Harry, and you know what? In the beginning, it’d be exciting… first flush of passion and all that. But after a while, we would grow apart just like Ron and I did. I’d feel like I was trapped in the cage I’d just escaped, I know I would. You’d grow to resent me and I’d end up hating you and I’ll be damned if I ever go through that again!" She buried her face in her hands.

"Don’t you believe in soulmates?"

"I used to," she murmured, wiping her eyes. "I was young and foolish. But I see now that I can’t let us repeat the same mistakes over and over again."

She stood up.

"I’m leaving, Harry. You won’t have to worry about Fidelius, because obviously it wasn’t enough. Please don’t bother searching for me this time because if and when you find me I will leave you again. You don’t need someone like me… not after what you’ve endured your whole life long. You need Diana."

"Hermione, wait…"

She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek one last time. "Good luck, my dear friend. I wish you all the happiness in the world."

He covered her hand with his. "You are my happiness, Hermione. Why can’t you understand that? Please don’t leave me."

"I have to," she said sadly. "Before things get messed up again. Good-bye, Harry."

With that, she walked back into the ballroom. And she knew that he wouldn’t make a spectacle by attempting to stop her from going, knew that it wasn’t his way or her way. They’d always automatically done things for the greater good, personal wishes notwithstanding. Long ago such had been expected of them, and in the flower of their youth they had indeed lived up to the expectations of the world.

Now they were no longer quite as young, and certainly not quite as innocent and naïve about the way things had to be. And though their world was not in the habit of readily forgiving the shortcomings of their heroes and heroines, perhaps somewhere someone human can understand that perfection expected day in and day out from the first breath the chosen take at birth until they close their eyes in that last great sleep always takes its toll on those who live their lives in the spotlight.

There were not many mighty who walked amongst the men and women of that wizarding world, and those who were unfortunate enough to be designated as such died a tiny bit each day, chiseled by the impossible expectations that were heaped upon their shoulders by those who they were meant to save.

Yet one thing survived that September night, the only thing that can save heroes from being crushed under the weight of the world on their shoulders, indeed, the only thing that can save anyone at all…

Love, unconditional and pure.

Love, ageless and evergreen.

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