Paradise Lost: Chapter Eight

Paradise Lost

Chapter Eight--How Quiet the Storm

I no longer can tell if you are a shadow
or if you always were a shadow, and our story
is fiction in a painfully deciphered book...
--Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Brazilian Poet Laureate

Hermione was missing.

Before they could fully register that fact, there was a strangeness upon the wind. The air, formerly close and hot, became unnaturally cool. A sudden breeze stirred up the moist dust of the forest floor, rustling the leaves, whistling melody and harmony twinned amongst the trunks of the trees.

There was a sudden light, so bright that none could bear to look upon it. They shielded their faces, turning away, pressing their eyes tightly shut against the living gold.

When it faded, they turned back.

There sat Hermione, sprawled in the middle of the rainforest floor. Her palms were on the ground, fingers splayed to brace her backwards. Her knees were bent; her shins bruised. Her clothing, still the outfit she’d worn into the Cabalistica stronghold, was soaked beyond recognition. Drenched in her own sweat.

And nestled on her lap was an infant child, about two months old.

Eva lunged forward with a cry. She scooped the babe up from Hermione and into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Meu filho, meu filho!" She fell to the ground, crying, oblivious to everything save for the child mewling in her arms. Zach followed her down, holding both her and the baby at the same time in his boyish arms. Juliana turned away from the sight, eyes filling with tears.

Meanwhile, Hermione was shaking off her disorientation, rubbing her eyes.

"What... how did I get out here?"

Harry, Ron, Riki, and Lena immediately surrounded her. From this closer proximity they could tell she’d just been through quite an ordeal. There were dark circles under her eyes, and combined with the yellowish cast to her skin she looked gaunt. Jaundiced, almost. The bruising they’d noticed on her shins was repeated elsewhere, on her chin, arms and calves.

"Someone look through our supplies and get me that vial of Pathfinder antidote, now," Harry barked out, perhaps sounding more like Sirius than he would have liked.

Riki dashed off. Within moments, the vial was found, and pressed between her lips. Ron and Lena helped to tilt her head back so that the potion would go to the back of her throat. Harry held her hands tight, features scrunched up into a frown. Riki returned with an unused port-a-pot just in time to catch the start of Hermione’s violent retching.

It seemed to go on forever... Ron muttered something under his breath about Hermione hurling half her body weight... then the deluge subsided into a generalized dry hacking.

"Water," Hermione managed to gasp. Again, thanks to Riki, a canteen was quickly provided. She used the contents to rinse her mouth out, paused to wait for it to magically refill, then tipped it up again. By the end of the third "bottoms up", she seemed to have regained her bearings.

"Where did you go, Hermione?" Ron asked. Slowly but firmly.

She shrugged wearily. "I... don’t know."

Ron turned to Riki. "We’ve got Veritaserum in the pack over there..."

"No," Harry said. "Don’t give her that stuff."

"Harry, we need to know what happened to her... not to mention the fact that we’re vulnerable right here! If they knew enough to take her away all morning and put her back seamlessly..."

"I don’t think we’re in any immediate danger, Ron..." Hermione’s speech was deliberate and slightly slurred.

"She’s right," Juliana said. "Whoever took her could have very well got to all of us while we slept... we were all so tired and overwhelmed that no one thought to set up a watch. Since Hermione’s back safe and sound, all’s well that ends well, right?"

"Not so fast," Ron said. "Harry wanted that Pathfinder antidote for a reason. If somehow Hermione’s ingested Pathfinder serum, we’ll have to re-administer it every hour for the next twenty-four. That is, if we don’t want her to pull another disappearing act."

"Or lead whoever took her right to us," Harry said. Still frowning, still cupping Hermione’s hands in his.

"But who fed that mierda to her?" Lena demanded. "Hermione, you didn’t eat or drink anything in that place, did you?"

"Only tequila... but several of us had it too..."

"It wasn’t poisoned, I checked..."

"Then how did they get her in and out of here? Tell me that, and I’ll stop insisting on the Veritaserum..."

"I am fine," Hermione said, putting extra effort into making her voice firm. "More than fine. Now, Eva’s got her baby back, and I say all’s well that ends well... whoa!"

For she’d tried to jump up and stand to her feet, but her treacherous knees gave way. She swayed and stumbled... then held up a hand so that Harry wouldn’t try to help her.

"If no one minds, I’m going to change clothes... I’ve had this on since yesterday evening... and at least splash some of that rancid water on my face. I’ll talk to you soon."

Hermione left them there and went into the women’s tent. A few minutes later, the flap lifted and Harry stepped inside.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, crossing her arms over her chest. She’d already put on another pair of denim shorts, but hadn’t quite the chance to slip on her sleeveless top yet. It was underneath her folded arms.

"It’s a bit late for modesty, don’t you think?"

"Better late than never."

"You gave me quite the scare a moment ago."

Nod. "I’m sure. I’ve been scaring myself for months." She shuddered. "Harry, I can’t remember where I went. Although I’m sure it couldn’t have been a very horrible place if they gave me back Evinha’s son, and... oh, my..."

For she was now in Harry’s arms again, the need to hold and be held overriding any rational thought or care or want. He was holding her so tightly that it was painful, and as she wrapped her arms around his neck...

Her shirt fell to the ground.

"In the five minutes between when we realized you were gone and your reappearance, Hermione, I..."

"But I came back, darling. I’m here."

"You can’t keep doing this to me, beautiful," he murmured. "You just can’t. It’s driving me absolutely insane."

"I know. I know."

"Three years ago... back in September... last night when we all got back to the Portkey... just now..."

"Harry, I know. I know what that’s like... remember, I’ve been at my wits’ end over you since I was eleven. It’s a unique sort of hell... never being certain."

"Yes. That’s exactly it."

"But there’s nothing in this life that is certain, Harry, at least nothing that I’m aware of. Not even death and... dismemberment." She reached for his left hand and held it in hers. "How did this happen?"

"I’m not sure. But you did it."

"I certainly did not," Hermione said. "When I fell asleep, you were still in pieces. That injury was far beyond my skill."

"Was it? Remember, you saved me from death in Tartarus," he said huskily. "What’s a severed hand, more or less?"

"I didn’t fall asleep in the middle of the healing, either, but well after it," she pointed out. "And my wrist is none the worse for the wear... it was almost as if I couldn’t absorb any of the pain for you. Perhaps whoever took me healed you."

Harry kissed her then, delving deeply, stealing her breath and her heart away.

"It isn’t like you to be so modest, love," he said. "I believe in giving credit where credit is due. And I’m damned lucky to have the witch I’ve got. You were absolutely amazing last night. I was proud."

"Who helped you come to in the lab? Diana?"

"She did, yes. I’m starting to gather that she isn’t who I thought she was. She’s somehow connected to Zach and Heath, although I get the feeling that none of them are allied at the moment."

"I don’t trust her, Harry. What was she doing walking about the Cabalistica facility?"

"Same reason why Zach is with us, and Heath was scaring you half to death earlier in the year. I think that whoever and whatever they are, they’re helping us for their own purposes. What those purposes are, what they are, or where they came from, I haven’t figured out."

"Why not interrogate Zach, then? It’s really a matter of concern. There are ways of getting the truth from him without his knowledge..."

"That would be underhanded, Hermione. Zach has more than pulled his weight over the past two months, and now he’s got an additional motive to be loyal. He’s young, but he’s sincere about little Eva. He was also at Hogwarts with Percy for two years before coming to work with me at the school." He laughed to himself. "I wonder how my students are faring. Some Headmaster I make, running off in the middle of the year without notice."

"You did what you felt you had to do, no one’s blaming you for that," Hermione said. "Jocelyn is more than capable of running things until you get back. Hopefully, that’ll be as soon as we can get back to Manaus... we’ve got Eva’s child back, and I can just as easily look into my magical loss at the MMRI. And we do need to give the Order a full report of what transpired last night..."

Harry held her face in his hands. "You know, I was hoping that you’d come back to Ayr with me. To live."

"Were you? And whatever gave you that idea?"

"I don’t know. Wanted someone to magic up my meals, iron my shirts, dust my house... warm my bed on cold nights... what do you say?"

"Well, as I don’t have a job at the moment, I suppose beggars can’t be choosy..."

"Hermione."

"Oh, but I’m afraid I’m woefully underqualified for that task," she smiled. "My father always said that a proper girl ought to have heaps of brains and a dash of domesticity to boot. Someone like my mother, who managed to balance everything. I’m afraid I’ve never been able to measure up to Dad’s ideal of womanhood, though."

"Well..." Harry cocked his head to one side, studying her face, "I’m quite used to taking care of my own shirts by now. If you’ll do the laundry and dust twice a week... and tend the garden..."

"What about the cooking? You’re much better at it than I am."

"I’ll teach you," he said with an impatient groan, pulling her to sit astraddle him on her unused cot. "I’ll show you how to make all the things I like best..."

"Oh, I think I already know what you like," she whispered, tracing his lips with her fingers, then planting a firm kiss on them. "And the second we’re back home, I plan to make sure you have plenty of it in full measure."

"It’s a deal, then."

He reached to lengthen the kiss and perhaps do more, but Hermione slid from his lap and moved to the edge of the bed.

"Hand me my brush, will you?"

Harry Accio’d it to her, then groaned, green eyes going to the tarp that formed the roof of the tent.

"What are you trying to do, kill me?"

"No, trying to quit while we’re ahead. Everyone’s just outside waiting for me to finish getting dressed... I’m sure that they’re nearly done packing up camp. We need to move out..."

"They can’t wait five minutes?"

"Five minutes? Harry, perhaps my memory is failing in my old age, but I’ve had five minute lovers in my day and you certainly weren’t among their ranks."

"You know how well I can work under pressure. I’m up to the challenge."

She laughed, wielding the brush with practiced strokes. "Certainly. But as I’ve said before, self-denial is a virtue. It’ll be all the sweeter once we’re relaxed and alone, don’t you think?"

Harry looked doubtful.

"Men," Hermione said. "Well, let me grab my shirt, and..."

She stood from the bed and walked over to where she’d dropped her top.

It was then that Harry saw the writing. Letters of living gold had been inscribed just beneath Hermione’s shoulderblades.

"Hermione! There’s something on your back..."

"Is there? I don’t feel any insect bites." She looked over her shoulder and gasped. "My goodness, I wouldn’t have suspected that. I didn’t sense it at all."

There were three lines of text, and they were inscribed in a language that Hermione quickly identified as Greek. Harry spoke only a little Greek, and read even less than that, so Hermione had to translate for him.

The message was strange but clear. It also gave a clue to where Hermione had been.

FOLLOW ME TO ATLANTIS

EIGHT TO ENTER

THE EXQUISITE CORPSE SHALL DRINK THE NEW WINE -- AND LIVE AGAIN

Translation done, they both looked at each other. Then they went out and clued the others in. Hermione even showed them her back just before the letters faded back to smooth skin.

"Nice. ‘Follow me to Atlantis.’ No map, no directions to a place that doesn’t even exist!" Ron shook his head. "You can count me out. I’m going home to my wife and kids."

"Ron, it says that eight are needed to enter," Hermione pointed out.

"Then find someone else. Take Sirius. I’ve done what I came to do. You’re safe, Eva’s got her child... I want to be home for Christmas. That’s only two and a half weeks away. I need to get back. It’s not fair to Maureen and it’s not fair to the boys!"

"Do you think we like being here?" Harry said. "We all have lives that we left behind, Ron. I don’t think it’s mere coincidence that the message specified eight when there are eight of us here now."

Riki trotted up to stand beside Ron.

"Hey, Ron? My dad told me to tell you something... and because of everything that’s happened since Lena and I found you guys, I forgot." He looked down guiltily for a moment, then glanced back up, chibi-eyed.

"Say what you have to say, Riki."

"No, when I said I forgot, I meant I completely forgot what it was. Sorry, Ron... guess you’ll have to go to Atlantis and find out what he had to say."

He grinned sheepishly. Ron was less than amused.

"Then your father can come visit me at my home, where I’ll be with my family..."

Hermione tried to appeal to Ron’s sense of adventure. "Ron, aren’t you the least bit curious about what Drakkar had to say? Aren’t you curious about what this Atlantis place is?"

Ron sighed.

"Let’s just get back to civilization, okay? I’m all for finding somewhere with running water and clean bed linen before nightfall..."

***********

Ever afterward, the weeklong journey from the north Amazon to Salvador was a blur in Hermione’s memory, filled with speedboat rides and propeller-plane takeoffs and Harry grabbing her to Apparate, almost splinching her once when he wasn’t fully certain of where they were going. He never did that again.

Hermione was indeed a bit peaked for most of that week, and more than a bit out of it. Harry didn’t let her out of his sight save for hygienic purposes, and twice mediwizards poked her with their wands and looked down her throat. The third time, Hermione called them all quacks and ordered them out with unmistakable vim.

Then Sirius arrived at the hotel in Recife they were staying at in the middle of the night... and Harry shook her awake. They were all fully dressed, so it didn’t take them long to get to the roof. There, a funny little armored helicopter landed on the roof, and they were wisked away, far above the city.

At first, Hermione was nervous. A copter that was so obviously a wizarding device might attract undue attention from both the corrupt Diego Fox administration in Salvador and the Muggle authorities in Brasilia. But she was so tired that she fell asleep anyway...

And awoke to brilliant sunlight.

"Where are we?" asked Hermione, even as the panoramic view before her dazzled her weary eyes. She’d been seeing trees for two months straight, and the sight of azure ocean lined by unspoiled beach dazzled her.

Sirius regarded her with a half-smile.

"Salvador da Bahia," he replied. "Welcome to Paradise."

***********

The Brazilian Ministry-provided limousine had zoomed through the city so swiftly that it was reminiscent of the Knight Bus back home. It passed over the cobblestone streets of Salvador's recently restored historic district, better known as Pelourinho, as smoothly as if it were skimming on ice.

There was a small herbal lojinha in the district that led the way to the wizarding world. To the European eyes in their party, the real surprise was that both wizards and Muggles browsed the aisles freely, sometimes stopping to talk with one another in a strange guttural combination of Portuguese and some other language.

It was a curious sight indeed... yet no more curious than the sight that awaited them as they walked through the back corridor, into a corridor, and then through a wall... Zach holding Eva’s free hand and Harry holding Hermione’s.

If Muggle Salvador’s oldest district was an awesome sight because it contained the largest collection of preserved Baroque architecture in the world, the wizarding side of Pelourinho was a supernova of color and sunshine, of song and dance, of life.

It was far larger than Diagon Alley, and much different than the wizarding quarter of Manaus. This was no magical establishment in the middle of the jungle. Salvador had been Latin America’s leading capital of sorcery for a half millennium, and was a small self-contained city in and of itself. A wizard or witch could live here for a lifetime and never need to go anywhere else.

As far as the eye could see, there were streets paved with smooth golden cobblestones and buildings that gleamed soft pastel in the shimmering hot afternoon light. Here the lacework balconies had been wrought in precious metals like gold, silver, and bronze... much more romantic than the prosaic black cast iron of the Muggle Old City.

There were also gardens here and there, lovely with tropical vegetation, wide benches, and cool fountains. Copper-skinned fairies sipped nectar from the flowers, and Snidgets fluttered unmolested in the trees... along with many, many creatures Hermione had only ever read about in books.

She’d only ever read about Carnaval in books as well. Yet this was exactly what seemed to be going on in wizarding Pelourinho that afternoon. The streets were crowded with magical folk from every corner of Brazil and the world. Here and there an obviously foreign beast like a centaur could be glimpsed as well. The atmosphere was exciting, the air charged with the exciting noise of competing sambas, conversations, and laughter.

Everyone seemed to be moving towards some unknown destination, either walking or Disapparating suddenly in their impatience to be first. Their excitement was infectious... Hermione couldn’t stop the gooseflesh from rising on her bare arms.

"What’s going on here?" she asked Juliana. "Some sort of celebration?"

"Likely that would be tonight, after sundown," Juliana said. "It is unusual for baianas to be on the streets at this time of afternoon. What I’m supposing is that our Council is in session... and that they are electing a new Minister."

Hermione nodded. That made sense.

"Maybe the session’s over, and everyone’s waiting to hear the results announced..."

"Juliana! Lena!"

The voice was coming from the depths of a long luxury car that had pulled up silently behind them. A young man who looked to be in his early twenties stuck his head out.

Both women smiled.

"Túlio! What in the world are you doing here?" Juliana laughed.

"As a security Auror for the Ministry," grinned the young man, who Juliana quickly introduced as Getúlio Brandão, an old schoolmate of theirs. "I’m to bring you to the Palace so that you can attend the Council press conference."

There was nothing to do but to climb in. The car was more than large enough on the inside to accommodate all of them, and included such amenities as a color television, Cooling spells, a self-replenishing mini-bar, and the latest wizarding publications from all over the world.

"Those just arrived by owl this morning," Túlio called over his shoulder. "First bit of free press we have had here in a long time. Please, help yourself to refreshment... the guaraná is especially good on a cold day like today."

They laughed, and passed around guaraná, bottled water, and some sort of wizarding cola that tasted rather as if one was downing a five-course meal. Hermione let her guaraná slip down her throat with a grateful sigh.

Outside, the crowd parted to allow the silent stretch limousine access. In only a few moments they were pulling up to the Palace... and a palace it was indeed.

"Glory," muttered Zach, helping Eva and her baby out of the car but with blue eyes transfixed on the imposing stone castle.

"You can say that again," Ron added. "This is almost as large as Hogwarts! Surely the Minister of Magic can’t require all this care..."

"Brazilian magical custom is different that your own," Juliana answered. "For four centuries, there was a consul who was the sovereign over our wizarding affairs... one who was blood-related to the Portuguese nobility and often appointed with their approval. When the Muggles moved to a more democratic way of governing themselves, so did we."

"The national school of magic, the Ilê do Afoxé, is located here," Túlio added. "As is the third largest wizarding library in the world, along with some very impressive gardens. The Council Chamber is just over there, and the Minister and his family lived here."

"Was anything destroyed during the Cabalistica occupation?" Harry asked.

"Precious little, ainda bem," Túlio said. "They only were here for two and a half years... and for most of that time they were too busy trying to establish their hold over the rest of this country and the rest of Latin America. Anyway, here are a legion of palace workers... they’ll get you freshened up and ready for the press conference in no time."

Before they could express surprise or consternation at this, an army of liveried house-elves scampered all around them, speaking in broken Portuguese. Litters were produced out of thin air... they were encouraged to scamper into them... and six (for Eva and her son) to ten (for Ron) house-elves carried them off to their chambers.

Hermione soon found herself in a bathtub, being scrubbed vigorously from crown to sole. She rather felt like Eliza Doolittle in Pygmalion, but it did feel good to be clean for a change. The massaging of her shoulders and the steaming water helped as well. By the time her house-elves lifted her out of the tub and wound towels around her, she was pink and glowing.

Once she was dry, they split functions. One gave her a pedicure, another a manicure, a third a facial. Still another dried her hair with charms, conditioned it, cut it so that it fell only a centimeter beyond her shoulders, and pulled it back from her face with a barrette.

Then they provided her with sleeveless robes of a plum color so rich and vibrant that Hermione almost cried. She hadn’t worn robes since her birthday... and hadn’t on a regular basis for almost four years.

The most surprising thing was that the robes fit perfectly.

"Bahian cloth, senhora," answered one, as she gasped at the tasteful fit and he slid matching sandals onto her feet. "One size fit all."

"It’s... it’s like tailoring," stammered Hermione. Tailored robes were expensive, but well-worth the money, as one would never outgrow them or wear them out. They were all that rich wizards (like the Malfoys) wore, but Hermione had never spent her money extensively that way. In her line of work, she didn’t deem it practical. Besides, she had to buy Muggle clothes as well for her work at St. Ormond’s, and more recently, at the CDC.

Yet nothing flattered witches as well as witch-clothing. Muggle women had forgot how to dress a long time ago, either choosing to look like mini-men or tarts. Witches’ robes played to a woman’s physical highlights and detracted from her shortcomings.

The house-elves seemed pleased that she liked the robes. The problem was that she felt rather plain in them. Before she could silently lament her lack of jewelry or makeup, there were orchids brought. One to slide into the barrette; the other for a wristlet.

And a house-elf with some sort of glittery pot came forth and stroked her eyelids and lips until they naturally glowed.

Then she was back in the litter, and whisked down the corridors so swiftly that the paintings, sculptures, plants, and furnishings were all in a blur. When she was set down, she found herself at the very top of an imposing marble staircase.

"Hermione!"

She glanced across the staircase and saw Juliana, in a pink robe. To her right stood Lena and Eva, in robes of green and blue. Eva was holding her son tightly... the baby’s olive face was the only bit of him visible in blankets of palest blue.

Eva sighed. "I like being... how do you say it?"

"Pampered," Hermione smiled back.

Down the staircase and around to another corridor, they met the guys. They were also clean, with obvious signs of recent haircuts and shaves. They were wearing imported guayaberas, khaki trousers, and Ron and Riki were holding the wide-brimmed straw hats that were traditional for baianos.

Harry was charming his glasses into sunshades again. When he looked up and saw Hermione, he smiled.

"That’s pretty."

She came to stand next to him and nuzzle his neck. "You smell heavenly. Why don’t you just make them automatically do that?" she asked, pointing at the glasses.

"I didn’t think about it. And you know about those automatic shading charms, they take a while to switch on and off."

"I know. I still don’t see why you won’t try contact lenses..."

"Because some witches find wizards in glasses irresistibly sexy." He put his glasses back on and grabbed her around the waist. "And imagine if I’d been wearing contacts last week at the Cabalistica holding center, fighting that demon."

Hermione laughed as he kissed her. "Oh, how funny! I could see that... ‘time out, Ereshkigal, I’ve got to find my contact... don’t move... it’s either stuck to my clothing or on the floor... just there..."

A series of precise clicks sounded on the marble just around the corner. Their source was a witch about five to seven years older than Hermione. Her hair was cropped short in a no-nonsense style. She wore a black business robe over a linen shirt and shirt. A man wearing business dress and Sirius, who was also dressed quite formally, accompanied her.

"Great, you’ve made it here on time. Everyone, I’d like to introduce Joseane Jobim, the newly appointed Minister of Magic for Brazil... the first witch ever in the position."

The woman smiled as they all clapped for her.

"Now Sirius, some of these people need no introduction," She went to Juliana and hugged her. "Juli is my dear cousin. I also know Lena well from the Ile do Afoxê, when she and Juli would come for dinner, and later when her husband was so helpful to my father in his final days in office... and I remember little Eva helping her mother work at my aunt Helena’s estate.

"And with the exception of this handsome young man," she indicated Zach with a cordial smile, "I think I can identify the remainder. I have met young Riki before, years ago when his parents were here on official Order business... and of course, everyone in our world knows the great Harry Potter and his dearest friends Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger." Joseane looked back at the man standing next to her. "I’d like to introduce the five of you to my husband Renato Braga. He has long been the chief of security for the magical government here."

She clapped her hands together.

"It is indeed an honor to welcome all of you to the Palacio do Bruxos, the seat of our magical government for the past five hundred years. I hope that you will make yourselves at home here in Brazil. After the press conference, Sirius will have full use of one of our secured rooms so that you can debrief as needed... and make plans to go where and as you wish from here."

Hermione’s face didn’t show it, but a surge of happiness flooded her...

To go back home again...

Yet at the back of her mind, there was a small voice, chastising her.

What about Atlantis? What about the place where they took you? Why can’t you remember it?

Why do you feel that something’s still very wrong here?

Her face furrowed into a frown as they all walked down the corridor after Joseane, Renato, and Sirius. Harry saw this, and placed her hand in his, squeezing it firmly.

Ron noticed it too.

"What’s wrong, Hermione?"

She shook her head. "Never mind me. I’m just worrying about nothing as usual."

Yes. That was it.

Nothing.

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

The press conference didn’t take very long. When Joseane was announced as the new Minister, the streets did erupt with sparks and a loud, roaring cheer. Apparently Jorge Jobim had been well beloved by the witches and wizards of this country, and seeing his daughter at the helm made things begin to revert back to normal again.

Joseane might have been an altruistic enough witch, but she also was a politician to her fingertips. She had the party sit on the dais behind her, and introduced them all in turn after her inauguration.

When she got to Hermione, the initial reaction was mixed. There were just as many jeers as there were cheers.

Joseane held up a hand, then turned to her countrymen.

"You must understand that during the occupation of Diego Fox, misinformation and lies were the order of the day. Only recall that the same people who told you that this witch is a traitor to our world besmirched my good father’s name. So my fellow Brazilians, if Hermione Granger is a traitor, then Jorge Jobim was the thieving worm that the Fox administration made him about to be. Is that the truth, then?"

"Never!" shouted the crowd.

She turned around, took Hermione by the hand, and led her up to the dais.

"This good witch worked tirelessly to help Harry Potter defeat the Dark Lord. Then she spent another ten years of her life finding a cure for the damaged victims that the evil Voldemort left behind. Most recently she has been researching the terrible epidemic that has surfaced amongst our poor. Along with our other honored guests, while the resistance took back Bahia and sent the cowardly Fox running..." there was another great cheer, "...she helped to pull down a secret Cabalistica operation hidden in the Amazon.

"Dr. Granger has dedicated her life to stopping evil in all its guises. She has committed no crime against witchcraft and wizardry. However, I understand that she is now wanted by the Confederation’s tribunal... a Confederation that did nothing about the murder of my father and so many other innocents on our precious soil.

"Therefore, I wish to put the Confeds on notice today that Brazil will not hand her over... that I will not hand Dr. Granger over... that she has amnesty here in Salvador, in liberated Bahia, and soon in all of Brazil! Indeed, we are honored to provide a place of refuge and sanctuary for one of the foremost witches of our time!"

Joseane smiled at Hermione. Then she raised their hands high as the cameras flashed.

This time, there were no jeers.

Yet despite Renato’s best security efforts, there were two wands withdrawn towards the back of the crowd, in the tumult. In the resulting din, the incantations were not heard...

But the tussle with the security guards resulted in chaos... and screams.

"Secaro! Secaro!"

The Slicing Hex was directed at Joseane and Hermione’s heads. Sirius and Renato quickly pulled the women down, while Harry and Ron countered the curses, flying in twin red arcs towards the stage.

Just before the curses reached the dais, the one that Harry targeted turned into rice-paper confetti... and Ron’s turned into glitter.

"Glitter," said Harry. "Nice touch."

"Thanks. Not bad yourself... although next time, it’d be nice to do the confetti in yellow and green. You know, for the Brazilian national colors or something."

"Or even little flags. You know, there’s an idea. Makes everything more festive, as this is a national occasion, I’d say. Kicking out an evil overlord like Fox’s likely the best thing for them next to winning the Quidditch World Cup."

Sirius and Renato were helping the women up. Joseane gripped her husband’s arm tightly while Sirius scooped up Hermione by the waist.

Offstage, the Cabalistica infiltrators were being pulled into security cars... and being pelted with spitballs and rotten fruit and wand-conjured slime by the angry crowd. Had it not been for Renato’s staff, it was more than certain that the enraged mass would have trampled the assassins to death.

Joseane took the podium again.

"Sonorus... all right there, everyone? Nothing like an assassination attempt to liven up the afternoon, right?" Everyone laughed; Jorge Jobim had been known for his sense of humor as well. "Well, then, this is probably a good time to inform you that all of Bahia state has been sealed off by a series of powerful wards. We are still in the process of tracking down those with ill intent, but this state is now officially out of Cabalistica control. Bahia is now free.

"There are other operations that have been simultaneously triggered in other areas of the country. Now that the capital is back in Brazilian control again, we plan to have great ease in coordinating resistance operations from Amazonas to Rio Grande do Sul." There were more cheers. "While in Bahia, you are safe... however, I caution you to exercise care while traveling to other parts of the country until further notice.

"A new day has dawned, fellow Brazilians. Embrace it... and I will see you at the celebrations I know will follow tonight."

Amidst the cheers, Joseane and her guests were whisked away by security.

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

The debriefing was set to begin shortly. There were several Order members present, including the famous Trio, Sirius, and Lena (who would be appointed in her father’s place as soon as there was a need to sit at the Stone Table again). Remus and Jocelyn had also Floo’ed in over the secure Bahian network. Non-order members included Gareth Starling, Joseane Jobim, RenatoVargas, and Helena Medeiros... who Hermione embraced for long moments before letting go.

A knock sounded on the door, admitting one of the last members to the quickly assembled group. It was Draco Malfoy.

"I thought I was done here, Sirius," Draco said, brushing the soot from his robes. "I understand my duties to the Order, but I have a corporation to run."

"Apologies, Draco. We’ve got some new information in." He indicated Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Lena.

Draco nodded once. "I see." He sent a half-smile in Hermione’s direction. "Quite impressive, Granger. After that ordeal, you didn’t even suffer a hangnail?"

Hermione smiled back at what she knew was a compliment. "Stuff it, Malfoy. Appearances are deceiving... I’d take a hangnail over the loss of my magic any day."

"With that, why don’t we get started?" Sirius said. "I’m not certain how best to begin... but as much of what we know seems to focus in and center upon Hermione, it might be good for her to share what she knows. Then we’ll have others fill in as needed."

Hermione nodded. After taking a deep breath and a sip from a chalice of water provided by Renato, she began her story, starting from the strange occurrences that past August in Atlanta and leaving only the most personal details out. She told of Heath, of seeing Riki and Zach before officially meeting them, of time switching and not-Hugh and being tricked into coming to Brazil. Then she told of being a Cabalistica prisoner for a month, escaping with Eva, living as a fugitive in Rio for another month (and having to threaten Draco after his snarky comments about "strip club? Granger... you?") and then the seven long weeks of jungle trek once she was discovered by Harry and Ron.

It took her nearly an hour, as Sirius saw fit to interrupt her with questions whenever the whim struck. But soon, she was at the disappearance of two days before...

"And now I’m here. I’m grateful for that."

Sirius nodded and patted her shoulder. "Now you’re here. We’re all grateful for that, dear."

Another half hour, while Harry and Ron, Gareth and Draco added other dimensions to recent history. Harry and Ron told about the encounter with the Cabalistica in São Paulo’s airport. Gareth and Draco spoke about the strange ease they had in retaking Salvador.

"Diego and his allies fought... but they didn’t fight hard enough," Gareth said. "Strange. Very strange."

"Not so strange at all," replied Draco. "Sirius, have you considered my message from this morning?"

"What message?" Harry asked.

"Well, Potter, it seems that Diane Johnson Riordan talked to someone before you saw her die the other day. Apparently she revealed aspects the Cabalistica’s Latest Diabolical Plan to her brother-in-law."

"WHAT?" everyone said at once.

"Draco, I was saving that owl for later," Sirius said, not bothering to hide his irritation. "I’ve been deluged since I got here... why didn’t you send it by fireplace?"

"Because I was busy saving my corporation from financial ruin," Draco said dryly. "I couldn’t afford to just take two weeks off during the Christmas season without repercussions... our quarterly profits are down nine percent from this period last year..."

"You have got to be kidding me," Ron said angrily. "Malfoy, where the hell are your priorities? If the world ends, how the fuck do you plan to spend extra gold?"

"And if it doesn’t end, Weasley--and the odds are that it will not, as it never has before-- then I’ll have gold to spare. Pity that’s a concept quite alien to you. Others include thrift... hard work... sacrifice..."

"You will not start this now," roared Sirius. "Please, act like men for a change instead of bickering, sniveling cubs!" He turned to Lena and whispered something in her ear. "I’m using your father-in-law’s old office... thanks, querida."

Lena was back with the letter in no time flat. Sirius opened it and read it to himself. When he finished, he shook his head and laid it down on the table.

"This is just what I feared."

"What, old Aragog’s family is relocating to Brazil, and they want housewarming gifts?"

"Ron!" Hermione said.

"No, it’s an attack on three fronts," Harry said, surveying the letter from Fred and Angelina quickly. "Government infiltration and propaganda against Muggleborns. Germ warfare to eliminate all Muggleborn wizards and witches."

"And... worst of all... they’ve decided that using Dark Lords and Sorceresses aren’t enough," Gareth said, taking the letter from Harry. "They’ve decided to resurrect the Dark One herself."

"Was that what Sebastian Borgin conjured up at the Cabalistica facility? If so, I’m not impressed," Hermione said. "Harry took care of that creature with little difficulty..."

"She’s overstating," Harry said quickly. "You don’t actually believe she’s gone, love, do you?"

"Of course not, not if she’s immortal. But she didn’t seem like the source of all evil to me. She was too insane for that." Hermione shook her head. "She kept saying that I was her twin sister, and that once she extracted my true name she’d kill me."

You could have heard a pin drop.

"What did you just say?" Sirius asked slowly.

Hermione repeated it.

"Why didn’t you say that before, Hermione?" Harry asked.

"I thought you heard it! You were there!"

"I was knocked out while that was going on, obviously." His eyes held concern... then he looked at Sirius. "Damn. So the creature knows about Hermione already."

"Knows what about me?"

"Hermione," Sirius began, "do you remember our legend about where magic came from?"

She shrugged. "There are a lot of legends, Sirius, about that. Every culture seems to..."

"No, not ‘legends’. Our legend. Before you were initiated, it’s what you learned from the Order-lore about the origins of magic. I know you remember..."

"Oh, yes... I see. Well, we were taught that there was a time long ago when none but created immortals had supernatural abilities. Then a pair of sisters stole the knowledge from the gods, and from then on there have been witches and wizards all over the world, in every culture that exists. An interesting folk tradition, of course, but I don’t believe a word of it..."

"Then where do you think it all comes from?" asked Lena. "The magic?"

"Natural selection. Evolution. For some reason, there are people who evolved that have our abilities. That’s all. No hocus-pocus or thundergods riding in the sky."

"What about demons, Hermione? And the Old Ones?" Jocelyn was frowning.

"Simple... there are other worlds and other dimensions, aren’t there? None of the Thousand Worlds are identical... so they must all have different rules. Demons exist on Tartarus, we know that... and the Old live forever in Avalon and other places that have slowed time-event relationships." She folded her arms. "If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past twenty years, it’s that magic makes sense."

More silence.

"Right. Why is everyone acting as if someone died? Please, fill me in on what I’m missing."

"You are indeed Ereshkigal’s blood kindred, Hermione," Sirius said slowly. "And now that she knows it..."

The Trio all spoke at once.

"That’s ridiculous, Sirius!" Hermione said. "Surely you don’t believe that tale?"

"This is how you planned to tell her?" Harry snapped at Sirius.

"You knew about this, Harry, and you didn’t say anything?" Ron said.

Hermione whirled on both Harry and Ron. "Oh, for Merlin’s sake, you two, shut up so I can think!" Then she looked up at Sirius. "Please, tell me what this means."

Sirius sighed. "Of course. But it will mean that you’ll have to forgive us all again, Hermione. You see, there was some question about your being sent to Tartarus along with Harry and Ron. Nephthys and Drakkar were against it. This was one of the reasons why. They knew that the Dark One would sense the presence of her sister lingering on Earth, and she would stop at nothing to return."

"Because I’m... I’m..." Hermione’s voice squeaked a bit at the end, the composure she always prided herself on having beginning to break. "Sirius, how can that be? I’m Muggleborn!"

"Yes, you are. But all Muggleborns have magical ancestry somewhere in their lineage, no matter how far back it was... magic doesn’t just creep up from nowhere. In your case, the magic is much more recent than you may have realized. Because of your ordeal with Ereshkigal, you must have figured out by now that Helen Blavatsky Means was a witch. Your mother was born a witch as well... but your grandmother saw fit to find a way to extract her magic. I believe that this is what has been done to you, Hermione, and to Eva. According to the Abidijans, Helen traveled to a Portal Land somewhere in the Americas and petitioned the Gatekeeper there to make her child a Muggle.

"According to Fred and Angelina’s letter, this Gatekeeper, Demetrios Solon, was captured by the Cabalistica during the Muggle crisis. We had no idea until well after Hogwarts and our world’s secrecy was secured again. He evidently was tortured and forced to divulge part of this ancient Dark magic to Cabalistica operatives... but he escaped. His whereabouts are unknown." Sirius paused for effect. "I knew all about old Solon, and the Portal Land he guarded, but I’d never been there or considered what this letter says."

"Yes? What does it say?" asked Joseane.

"Evidently this Demetrios Solon is the immortal Gatekeeper of Atlantis."

"Then this means that Atlantis is a real place," Ron said.

"No shit, Sherlock," Draco muttered back.

Ron glared at Draco, but pressed on. "D’you think that this Solon bloke’s the one who took the children from the Cabalistica facility? Took Hermione away, gave her Eva’s child, and wiped her memory before sending her back? Even... healed Harry’s hand?"

"It sounds very much like the work of an Atlantean," Helena Medeiros said quietly. "I have devoted much of my research to the study of Atlantis legend. These are all things that the Atlanteans of legend could do. They were capable of magical feats that not many in this age could attempt."

"What does this have to do with me being Ereshkigal’s sister?" Hermione pressed on, frowning. "It’s been many years since I studied that legend, but if I recall correctly, Ereshkigal killed her sister, the Inanna... and after the Inanna was resurrected, the Old Ones bound Ereshkigal in Tartarus... and she’s been there ever since." She shrugged. "Or at least until this Tuesday."

"Yes, she did kill her sister," Sirius said. "However, her sister bore a child before dying, from her relationship with Enki, the king of that land. Ereshkigal was led to believe that the baby died... was even presented with the corpse of a baby girl. Meanwhile, the Old Ones were raising the child in the wilderness, and later that child married and had a child of her own.

"It’s an unique bloodline, Hermione, and a completely maternal one," Jocelyn said, unable to hide her excitement. "From the Inanna all the way to you, for nine thousand years you have a lineage of women who married, had a single female child, who herself had a single female child, and so on. It’s an unbroken line, and one that has produced some formidable witches over the years, primarily in the countries of the Middle East and the old Soviet Union. Shela of Salem... Asherah of the Hyksos... Esther of Kiev... Baba Tila of Minsk... primarily Russian Jewish witches, and yet their names..."

"I’ve read all about them," sighed Hermione heavily. "Feats of Famous Witches, Successful Sorceresses Through the Ages, and all that. Yet... it’s a bit disappointing that I’m actually descended from them. Don’t you understand? All my life I’ve been proud that I was a witch of no wizarding family and nevertheless able to contribute so much to the wizarding world. Now you’re telling me that I’m not really Muggleborn..."

"But you are," Remus said imploringly. "Your mother was not a witch at all... she lived and died not knowing what her mother truly was. Your father is a Muggle, as were most of the husbands of your maternal line, going back to the mighty Enki.

"And you are the last of that line which began ten thousand years ago with Delilah of Ur... known to Muggle history as Inanna, the Great Goddess of Mesopotamia. Known to witches and wizards as the Inanna, mother of witchcraft and wizardry."

Tears filled Hermione’s eyes.

"We kept it from you because Nephthys and Drakkar demanded that we do so, if we chose to induct you into the Order and place you under Covenant. They feared that the knowledge would be extracted from your thoughts by Voldemort or by his followers... or even by Ereshkigal herself." He turned to Harry and Ron. "That is why you two were also not told as well. We knew that telling you would be just as good as telling her. I only told Harry later, after Tartarus, after Avalon... after everything."

Hermione was now staring at Draco.

"That means you knew as well," she said quietly. "From the beginning. You were in Council when the decision was made, Draco. You knew and you never said a word to me."

"What can I say, Hermione? It was a secret I had to keep. You know the importance of that more than anyone, as you’re one of the handful of people in the world who trusts me... and whom I’d trust with my life." His eyes flew over to Harry. "I’m not the only one who knew."

But Hermione couldn’t even look at Harry. She stood up and went to the window. She’d been so happy just a short while before. Now she felt sick and fearful, a weird combination between wanting to run and wanting to throw up.

Harry made a move to go to her, but Sirius shook his head. He stood up, walked to the window, and placed his hands on her shoulders. She spoke softly to him.

"How I wish that this wasn’t true. I wish that it wasn’t me."

"So do all whom a heavy burden falls upon," said Sirius gravely. "None of us choose the times we live in, Hermione. Yet it is our duty to fulfill our destiny..."

"What about choice, Sirius? Dumbledore always advocated free will over fate. I learned my magic from him, at his school."

"As do I. And here is choice... you can choose to walk in your destiny, or not. You can choose to fulfill your purpose, or you can reject it. No man or woman, no wizard or witch is an island. We all have been affected by the things that have gone on before us. We all have been given a certain measure of everything... and some of us have more in some areas than others.

"When Albus said that it is our choices that make us, not our abilities, he did not say that we were all born with equal abilities or all had the same choices to make. When Tom Riddle was born, he was born with great innate power. He chose to use that power for evil. On the other hand, you know Harry, know that he was born just as powerful as that, and know that there are wizards who couldn’t equal that power no matter how hard they tried. Yet Harry chooses to use his power for good.

"That is the choice set before us all, Hermione. And you are not exempt. None of us are. Now, are you ready to help us plan a counterattack?"

She wiped her eyes.

"What other choice do I have?"

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

About an hour later, Hermione jumped out of the litter chair, opened the door to the room she’d be using during her stay here at the palace, and almost slammed it off its hinges. Once inside, she began to pace at a furious rate. Eyes blazing. Face heated. Wringing her hands and breathing heavily.

This was... this was like that awful time when she learned about Ron and Maureen. And Maury. And Harry. She thought she’d never recover from that. Even years later, she would never forget the intense feelings of helplessness, anger, and despair that she had to work through. Dealing with her mum’s illness and death less than six months later hadn’t helped matters, either.

Only this time, it was worse. Much, much worse.

This hadn’t been a few people lying to her. This had been all of the higher-ups in the magical world keeping the truth of who and what she really was from her. This had been her own grandmother, who’d done something awful and unnatural to her own daughter for reasons only known to herself. Hermione had loved her Grandmother Helen. Yet she had to wonder, if she hadn’t died when she did... would she have taken Hermione away to that distant Portal Land and had the Gatekeeper steal her magic as well?

Perhaps she should have. Then maybe Hermione wouldn’t have ever faced such misery.

She would have been still in Oxfordshire, quietly practicing medicine, likely with a family of her own. Happy. Untroubled by the sturm und drang of the world...

Hermione’s mind spun so fast that she felt dizzy.

No. That wasn’t reality. Hermione shook off the wild flight of fantasy and made herself face the here and now.

She wasn’t only a witch, she was apparently everything that the Prophecies said she was. Which meant, according to the Prophecies, that she would surely die. No matter what they did to try to prevent it, unseen forces with the power to turn the world upside down would prevail. The Dark One would find her, and overpower her, and...

No!

She wouldn’t let herself die. No matter how much she wanted to reach up to Heaven and rage at her grandmother in the moment, the will to live... to thrive... was much stronger.

And if she failed, there was always...

No. There wasn’t.

Without trust, there could be no love. Twice Harry had proven to her that he couldn’t be trusted. He’d walked around for years with secrets about her... terrible secrets. Who knew what else he knew about her?

After all that, he had still agreed with the outline of the plan that put her under virtual house arrest here. While everyone else had been assigned interesting tasks ranging from tracking down the elusive Demetrios Solon to finding corpses infected with the virus that was now raging amongst the Brazilian magical poor, Hermione was charged to stay put... relax... utilize the library for research on Atlantis and the mysterious disease.

And that was all.

Sirius had actually invoked his powers as Grand Wizard of the Order to confine her to Brazil, then Bahia, then Salvador, and finally the Palace. Even if she’d broken a Covenant and flaunted many other conventions, a bloodsworn member of the Order could not oppose the ancient magic of the Grand Wizardship.

She couldn’t hate Sirius. She was starting to realize that he did this not because he hated her, but because he cared for her welfare. He also didn’t know her extremely well.

Whereas Harry had no excuse...

Knocking on the door. "Hermione? Come on, open up... I want to talk to you."

Speak of the devil. She wished she had use of her magic so she could fling the door open and then slam it in his face without moving more than a finger or two. As it was, she had to cross the room like any old Muggle and open it. Only a sliver, though.

"Yes?"

"May I come in?"

"No."

"Fine, then, if you want to have this conversation in the corridor..."

She opened the door wider. When he stepped in, she made no effort to close it. So he shut it himself, and went to sit on the bed. The fact that he did this without asking irritated her. When he opened his arms as if he actually thought she was going to sit with him after all that had just transpired, she was enraged.

"What do you want, Harry?"

"You flew out of there so fast that you didn’t give me the chance to explain."

"So explain."

Harry let out a deep breath. "Sirius told me about your mother and grandmother the same day we wiped your memory of Avalon. He told me a lot of things that day. I forgot. At the time all I could think about was that I’d lost you. I forgot for years... and then, when Sirius and I had that talk the last Sunday we were in Manaus..."

"He reminded you again."

Long pause. Then a nod.

"And you’ve had many opportunities to tell me since then. Yet you chose not to say a word. You chose, Harry, to keep this from me..."

"It wasn’t a choice. More of a necessity. First you were ill, then we were off to the Cabalistica facility, and then you disappeared, and..."

Hermione raised her voice, exasperated by the excuse making. "That was almost a week ago, Harry! Surely you could have..."

"Yeah, I could have, but I didn’t. Do you have a Time-Turner, Hermione, so that I can change the past and make it all different? We’ve all made bad choices. You certainly aren’t perfect, so why the hell do you expect it of me?"

"I don’t expect perfection from you! I expect reciprocity! I’ve never kept anything that mattered from you, ever. I’ve spent the past two decades of my life giving you everything..."

"Everything? Everything, Hermione? Let’s not rewrite history, please. You never gave me everything, even when I asked, and you certainly aren’t giving me everything now."

"I have! I’ve been the best friend I knew how to be... the sort of friend that I would have wanted..."

"Damn it, Hermione, that’s not everything!"

"Then what more do you want from me? What do you want?"

He stared at her, silent, angst written in his eyes. Those eyes had been her anchor for so long...

Finally, he turned away from her, shoulders lifted in a shrug of indifference.

"That’s not an answer, Harry Potter. I swear on my mother’s grave, what do you want?"

"Hermione, you’re safer here. We can’t protect you, apparently; they stole you right from under our noses." He was avoiding the question, and that was exactly what she expected. "Let us help you."

"Us?" She huffed. "Who’s this ‘us’ supposed to be?"

"Me. Ron. Sirius. Everyone who loves you." He wasn’t looking at her anymore either. He looked like he was hiding something else. Something far deeper than a secret about her heritage.

Hermione was tired of the subterfuge.

"Loves me, Harry? Do people who love me keep such vile secrets?" Somewhere she was still a solid wall, made of steel covered in a coat of pure gold. Somewhere she wasn’t crumbling to pieces.

"I only wanted to protect you..."

"Ron would have told me."

The comment fell flat, a dirk’s blade stabbing moist, trodden ground.

He turned around then, eyebrow quirked. "Oh? Just like how he told you ever so much in that marriage?"

Deep breath. "All right, that was a low blow."

"So is throwing Ron into my face."

"Take that however you want to, Harry. For it wasn’t a statement about love, really, it was one about friendship. Ron didn’t tell me about Maureen or the child for the sake of our marriage, but for the sake of our friendship, you bloody well should have told me about what my grandmother did! Harry, this is the third time you haven’t shared something important with me about my life..."

"That’s dragonshit, Hermione, and you know it! If you truly remember Avalon, then you should remember that you agreed to be memory charmed! You agreed to it!"

"Only because we were both supposed to forget! Dear Merlin, Harry, you walked around for almost a decade, remembering that every time you looked at me. I know you must have, because now that I have the memories back, I just can’t help but... how could you have kept up such a charade?"

"The same way you married Ron when you knew you weren’t in love with him!"

"But that’s just it. I didn’t know! We’d agreed to the charming, and I followed through! And then when we got back, you withdrew from me until I thought our close friendship was a thing of the past. For eight years I wondered what the hell I’d done to offend you... why you no longer seemed to consider me your best mate too. Do you have any idea how lonely that made me feel?"

Harry folded his arms. "I couldn’t be close to you, Hermione, or else we would have done the same thing to Ron that he did to you with Maureen. Remember what you asked of me four springs ago, in my classroom? That would have likely happened sooner and earlier, and how could either of us have lived with ourselves then?"

"Yes, but do you know what led up to that?" There were red spots on her cheeks and tears were fast filling her eyes. "Do you know why I was never satisfied with Ron? Because Harry, no memory charm is absolutely perfect! Not even Remus and Tatiana’s expert one. And I’m a hyperempath. Which means you could wipe my mind, but you couldn’t erase what happened to my senses.

"I didn’t remember details of what happened in Avalon. I remembered flashes of it, like a waking dream. I remembered eating with the Lady... for sometimes I’d remember tastes that I knew I’d never sampled in my life. I remembered riding that winged horse you had there... what I remembered was the fluttering of his wings, and his smell. I remembered meeting the knights and the kings and the heroes and heroines at the ritual bonfire... not their faces, but their voices correcting the versions of the legends I’d learned in my history courses.

"And you know what? I even remembered snatches of us making love... but I could never see your face. What my senses recalled was the way your hands felt against my bare skin. The heft and weight of your body. The way your mouth always tasted like summer rain. Your scent, too... and when I remembered it all in that Cabalistica jail, I kicked myself for not being able to piece it together. It was so obviously you that I felt like the world’s biggest idiot.

"Those snatches were all it took to ruin my marriage. No matter what Ron did for me, emotionally, physically, it was never enough. I tried to pretend as if nothing was wrong, but you see, Harry, I’m not half as good at pretending things as you are. Ron knew deep down I was disappointed with him and disillusioned with the marriage... and so when Maureen came skulking about, he was vulnerable. And there was nothing to be done, because as great of a person as Ron was and still is, he wasn’t you... and you, Harry, already had my heart. Even if I didn’t know it, you did.

"That, Harry, is why I am so wary of letting you make love to me again. That’s why when I think about going home and living with you, I tremble inside. You don’t know how to make a relationship last... I’ve watched you over the years with your girlfriends. If that were me, I’d just..."

"It would never be you, Hermione," Harry said flatly. "Never. Want to know the real reason why I could never just be with one woman? Because of you. I always felt like I was betraying you when..."

"And what," she replied, "did you feel when you knew Ron and I were together? Why in the world would you, a man who supposedly loved me, let me go to another man, memory charm or not?"

"Because I thought he’d make you happy! What, are you going to blame me for what he did with Maureen?"

"He would have never had the chance, Harry, if you had just been honest from the beginning!"

"Don’t you think," he said coldly, "that I’ve spent the past four years replaying that over and over again in my mind?"

Tears spilled over, and she placed her face in her palms. "And I’ve spent the past four years wishing I’d never met either of you! All you’ve done is hurt me..."

"You haven’t given me the chance to do anything else! And damn it, you’ve hurt me too!"

Hermione’s face flew back up. Her eyes were glittering.

"Yeah. Surprised? Well, think about it! First, I had to suffer through your engagement, then your marriage. Memory charm or not, Hermione, I still was mad in love with you. I went to Avalon with that millstone around my neck, and the second I was able to put it aside, you showed. Then the past four years weren’t exactly a smooth broomstick ride for me. However you feel that memory charm ‘wronged’ you, Hermione, the debt was more than repaid when you left me in bed after Malfoy and Ginny’s wedding without so much as a word and disappeared into thin air."

Long sigh. "I never meant for you to fall in love with me, Harry. Too bad it’s been such a burden for you. Love shouldn’t be an obligation, should it?"

"No."

"Harry, do you see why we wouldn’t work? We’d end up just like..."

He threw up his hands. "Don’t even say it. Not when you gave him the chance and never me."

"So is that what you want after all? A chance with me?"

Harry looked at her incredulously. "Hermione, if you don’t know what I want from you, if the past seven weeks haven’t shown you, if the past sixteen years haven’t given you a clue, then..."

"Then it’s over, Harry. It’s over before it’s even begun." Fresh tears were still emerging from her eyes, but her face was tight and drawn. "You’ll see that I was right all along... no sense in sleeping together before we’d dealt with all this."

"Yeah, whatever you say."

Hermione knew she was right... but why did she feel as if something inside of her was dying? "I hope this finally frees you to live your life. You’ll find someone who’s just right for you, and I hope we’ll always be friends..."

"I don’t want your friendship anymore, Hermione. I haven’t wanted to be only your friend for half our lives. Now that we’re done with pretending, I don’t wish to pretend that, either."

She laughed dryly, shaking her head. "We can’t just not be friends, Harry..."

His look stopped her laughter rather quickly. Apparently he was being quite serious.

"Then if that’s the way you want it..."

"That is indeed just the way I want it."

For the first time since they’d met, they were completely closed off from one another. Neither could read the other’s true thoughts. Both were as far apart as if they were strangers, wearing masks.

"Well, then. You’re the one who sought me out. Is there anything else you wanted?"

"Not at all."

By the Lady, his face was positively frozen... he’d never looked at her like that before. Hermione felt as if she’d never be warm again.

"Then I’ll have to ask you to excuse me. I’d like to get some rest." She couldn’t help the tremble in her voice. "I’m glad we’ve finally clarified things."

"Yeah, Hermione, we have. You’ve made yourself crystal fucking clear. Good night."

The door slammed behind him.

A porcelain washbasin shattered with a splash upon the jamb.

And Hermione cried until the dawn.

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

There was no way that Harry and Hermione’s "truce" could have remained unnoticed by their companions. At breakfast the next day, instead of sitting next to each other and tasting the occasional bite from each other’s plates, Hermione sat down near the head of the long table next to Joseane and Harry sat close to the other end across from Sirius.

After breakfast, Harry left with the others to search for Demetrios Solon... and Hermione was off to the library. Neither said a word to each other as they passed by.

"Something is not right between those two," whispered Eva as Zach kissed both her and the baby, Daniel, good-bye.

"No, it’s not," said Zach. "Lovers’ quarrel, I think. It’ll blow over soon."

Yet it didn’t blow over. At lunch everyone from their party save Hermione and Eva were still in the field, but at the first state dinner that evening, there were placards. Harry and Hermione were assigned seats next to one another.

Hermione took one look at the cards, then swept towards Renato Braga in her golden robes like a queen. With the understated confidence that was her defining characteristic, she began a quiet conversation and soon had him laughing... and within five minutes her placard was switched with Juliana’s by the head of security.

Harry looked daggers at her throughout the meal.

Hermione didn’t look at him at all. Her chin and nose hadn’t been stuck so high in the air in a very long time.

"What is with you two?" asked Ron grumpily of Hermione just after dessert.

"Absolutely nothing, thank the heavens," she said, pecking him on the cheek. "Ron, you worry too much. Be a love and save a dance for me later on tonight... you are going to the plaza, aren’t you?" She saw Harry in the corner of her eye and raised her voice. "I can’t abide a man with two left feet."

Yes, she was being petty. She couldn’t have cared less.

After changing out of her robes into a sleeveless top and calf-length black skirt, Hermione went down to the plaza where the first of several nights of celebrations were just beginning. There were fireworks, food, and fun. There were streamers that were charmed to snake all around the throng, the aroma of smoked meats and freshly baked breads filled the air, and the caipirinha flowed freely.

Above all, there was music... and Hermione did indeed dance, with a thousand other young senhoras and garotas. She wasn’t as good as many, but she was at least better than some. And her very English looks stood out in the crowd of black-haired Brazilians with skin tones ranging from palest olive to dark mahogany. Here her rosy complexion, toffee brown hair, and brown-gold eyes were alluring... and quite a few of the men got over the fact that she was the Hermione Granger and asked her to dance.

You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but you can teach a thirtysomething mediwitch and hyperempath new dances. Hermione learned that some of the moves she and Ron had learned a decade before were outdated... and her partners were more than willing to show her the latest.

The men also were a bit more liberal with their hands than she would have normally liked... but after a goblet or two of wine, she was flushed and chalked it all up to the dances. Of course, she wasn’t nearly drunk enough to take any of the men up on their propositions... when it came to that, it was time to change partners.

The dancing didn’t end until a ridiculously late hour... around three-thirty in the morning, when Hermione was ready for bed, the party in the plaza was still going strong.

She looked around for any sign of her friends... and ran into Ron.

"Ready for that dance?"

"Oh, Ron, I’m tired... some other time." She looked around, trying not to seem too obvious, but failing miserably.

"If you’re looking for Harry, the last I saw of him he was at one of the botequims at plaza’s edge. That was hours ago." He shrugged. "You know Harry... he draws witches like bogies draw Puffskeins. These Salvador girls get to the point."

"I’m sure," Hermione said.

Her sleep that night was fitful, and she awoke with bags beneath her eyes and a strangely hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach.

The second day and night were much the same. They sat far apart from each other at breakfast, didn’t see each other all day, sat apart at dinner, and then went their separate ways.

Yet this night, instead of ignoring Harry, Hermione was acutely aware of his presence. No, he didn’t dance, as she’d pointed out... but he did seem to be having the time of his life at the botequim Ron had mentioned the night before. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him say something to one of the garotas sitting nearest him. Unlike most of the Bahian girls, who were clearly of mixed ancestry or of African descent, this girl was extremely fair, with a milky-white complexion and long curly dark hair.

As Hermione watched, the girl threw back her head in laughter, revealing her smooth creamy throat and thrusting her well-proportioned chest out...

What a slut, Hermione thought, using it as a chance to dance even more exuberantly with her partner.

When she looked up again, both Harry and the girl were gone.

This time, it was more difficult for Hermione to sleep. And when she did, she dreamed those dreams of Avalon that left her flushed, sweaty... red-faced and quite unconvinced that she could have ever been so young and innocent... and free.

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

The search for Demetrios Solon was not going very well. Hermione could tell that at breakfast, which was a much smaller affair on the third morning. They were convinced that he was somewhere in Salvador, but their leads were turning up nothing and the trail was getting cold. No one could find evidence that he’d left Bahia, though.

"Likely he’s still scared that there are Cabalistica sympathizers afoot," Ron remarked. "We’ll smoke him out if he’s around."

Hermione tuned them all out, picking at her fruit salad with little appetite. She looked up to find Harry’s eyes upon her. The expression in them was unreadable.

Exasperated, she turned away.

Hermione’s research was going well. Many of the earliest accounts of the mystery illness had been preserved in great detail, and Hermione began taking frantic notes. She wished that all her notes hadn’t been destroyed... three times over...

She brushed the tip of her quill against her lips absently. Was that why the Cabalistica had taken her things upon her kidnapping? Ransacked Rosângela de Souza’s tin-walled home? Blown up that hotel in Manaus?

It wasn’t just her that they wanted.

They didn’t want her to find a cure for the disease.

Hermione would do just that. She had a comprehensive list of the symptoms, of the disease cycle, of the demographic profile of the typical victim.

All she needed to find out was what was doing it.

Frustrated with that, she turned to Atlantis-lore and Inanna-lore. One particularly large tome on Atlantis contained an interesting article.

Atlantis was a mythic continent of the Atlantic Ocean where, according to Plato, and advanced civilization developed some 11,600 years ago. Plato affirms that, as the result of a huge volcanic cataclysm of worldwide extent, this continent sunk away underseas, disappearing forever. Official Science - the one you learn at Muggle schools - rejects the actual existence of Atlantis, and even the most adept of wizard Gatekeepers have thus far been unable to find any traces of its reality.

The New World is perhaps the region where the probable civilizing impact of Atlantis is easiest to observe. In contrast with the establishment doctrine that claims the Americas were peopled via the Bering Strait and developed an autonomous civilization, we are convinced that civilization along with a substantial component of the population of the Amerindian nations — came to the Americas via the Pacific Ocean. This is particularly the case of the more advanced cultures such as those of the Incas of Peru and the Mayas and Aztecs of Mexico.

Amerindian contacts with the Far Orient were both regular and intensive throughout antiquity. White Civilizing Heroes such as Bochica, Quetzalcoatl and Kukulkan are indeed the Nagas or Minas, the fabled Serpent Peoples of the Eastern Indies. Our arguments are based on the solid evidence afforded by the domesticated plants and animals that exist on both sides of the Pacific Ocean, and on the cultural and linguistic parallels that make of pre-Columbian America the perfect dual of the ancient Indies, and a replica of Atlantis.

This was something new, Hermione thought. She’d always assumed that Atlantis, if it existed, would be a culture much like that of the classical Greeks. After all, it had been the Greeks who’d preserved the legend in the first place.

But hadn’t the ancient wise philosopher, Solon, learned of the existence of Atlantis from an Egyptian priest, who said that the civilization predated Egypt itself?

She supposed Nephthys would know something of it. Her mentor was born at the height of the Old Kingdom, she knew... long ago, but still, even Nephthys was as much of a babe compared to Ereshkigal as she, Hermione, was a babe compared to Nephthys.

That reminded Hermione of the other subject she wanted to look up.

She needed to learn more about this Inanna person.

Hermione had learned some things from the demon herself. Evidently, Inanna and Ereshkigal had been born twins... but had not been born to those names. Delilah and Nidaba were indeed common names that dated from New Stone Age times in the Fertile Crescent. Hermione assumed that the reason she knew that the demon’s true name was Nidaba was because the knowledge had been passed down through the generations.

And the king of that time... Enki, rather. She remembered that name, dimly, from somewhere in one of her History of Magic books.

She closed the text on Atlantis and opened another she’d pulled down from the shelf.

The witch Enheduana was the earliest known author of written literature. High Priestess to the goddess Inanna, she lived in Mesopotamia around 2300 BCE. The hymns she wrote to Inanna constitute the earliest written portrayal of an ancient goddess and also represent the first existing account of an individual’s consciousness of her inner life.

As Hermione flipped the page, she felt chilly despite the comfortable temperature of the library.

First, she read the carefully preserved accounts of the Descent of Inanna. Hermione could not read the Babylonian texts, and certainly couldn’t make heads nor tails of the Sumerian. But she could read Greek fluently, as could all mediwizards and mediwitches, and some hieroglyphs... so the Alexandrian translations of the Descent were what she used.

According to legend, the ancient Mesopotamians believed that each year Inanna descended to the underworld to resurrect her consort, Dumuzi. At each of the seven gates of the underworld she left one of her garments behind until, naked, she met her sister Ereshkigal, queen of the underworld. Ereshkigal killed Inanna and hung her on a hook until Inanna herself is resurrected and returns to life.

"Well, that’s nice," murmured Hermione, shuddering.

She opened a dusty scroll, this one from medieval times, to read another account of the legend.

Enki the Wise is the god of fresh water and wisdom. He is a great helper of humankind, and gave to us the Seven Sages, who taught us many arts and skills. To the beautiful Inanna, of whom he is most fond, he gave many gifts as well: wisdom, justice, love, the sacred women, and the fruit of the vine. Inanna is the morning star and the evening star, the rose, and Queen of the Heavens. She is the daughter of Sen, the god of the Moon.

Inanna has a sister named Ereshkigal, who lives and rules in Irkalla, the land of the dead. Though Inanna was always very wise, in her youth she knew nothing of her sister's land, and wanted to learn of it. She asked the permission of the other gods to go. After much hesitation and debate, they granted her wish.

Hermione re-rolled the scroll, shaking her head. Just like the medieval scribes, she thought, to rewrite legend. In the original stories, Enki was not a god at all, but the beloved consort of Inanna. She hadn’t received her giftings from him, they were innate! And Delilah could have never so naive to believe that there was no evil in the world... not with a sister like that Nidaba creature...

She sighed. Likely this translation was from a text from patriarchal Babylonian times, millennia after ancient Sumeria had been forgotten. Just as the first deities of Muggle religion were female, the first magicians were women as well. Easy for men to forget, wasn’t it, now that they’d had control of things for a few millennia...

Soft footsteps upon the library floor interrupted her thoughts. It was Eva, with her sleeping baby son in a sling, coming to sit with her. They were alone in the library, as it was the start of the summer holidays for the young students, so they were free to talk.

"How is that coming?" Eva asked, obviously interested.

"Fine. How has your morning been?"

"Esse daqui dá um trabalhão... this little one is a handful."

Something unutterably sweet washed over Hermione as she watched her new friend cuddle her sleeping son more closely, in the inimitable gesture of motherhood. Then she swallowed the lump in her throat and told herself to stop being silly and sentimental.

"I can imagine."

"Yes." She smiled, then sobered. "There is something I want to talk to you about, Hermione. No one wants to say it, but I think..."

"If it’s about Harry, then I don’t want to hear it," she said stubbornly.

"You are being boba, minha amiga," said Eva. "If you do not stop, you will drive that man away from you."

"Right now, I’d like nothing more."

"Oh, please be serious! We are watching the two of you be ridiculous... and you are putting us all in the middle of this."

"There is no ‘this’ to be in the middle of, Eva."

"You know very well that there is a ‘this’!" said Eva, sounding more like Hermione than Hermione herself. "There will always be ‘this’ when it comes to you two. I told the others what I will tell you now... you need to stop being so stupid. You need to stop fighting and get on with the business of making babies. That is what you want to do with him, sim, but you are too stupid to admit it. You are teimosa como uma mula... stubborn as a mule!"

Hermione’s chin went up. "You’re too young to know anything about it."

"Ah, but I am old enough to know ‘stupid’ when I see it."

"What do you know, Eva?" Hermione snapped. "You’re all of twenty years old. You never had any formal schooling beyond age eleven. And you’ve never left Brazil! What can you tell me about life?"

Eva nodded slowly.

"You are right. I never had book learning, like you. I cannot heal people like you. I never have a lot of things that you have, sim, and I admit this. But I do know about people, yes, and the way it is between a man and a woman. The way it must be."

Hermione shook her head. "You don’t know anything, Eva. I haven’t told you and Juli everything that happened between Harry and me. Not everything. If you knew, you’d see that..."

"I see that you need to make babies," said Eva again, with a giggle.

"I don’t want his babies," Hermione said with a derisive snort.

"Boba. What proper garota does not want babies?" She shook her head as if Hermione was the most ridiculous creature she’d ever laid eyes on. "You and Harry together, you would make pretty ones with him..."

"Not all women want babies, Eva. I know this might be impossible for you to understand, but in the world I come from, witches have many other options. I would make a terrible mother, he would be an even worse father..."

"I think you would be a good mãe. So wise and kind, tambem... your babies would love you. And Harry, he is a teacher," Eva pointed out. "He has talked about the young ones he teaches. Why does that make for a bad father? He would be a very good father, I am thinking..."

"You are deliberately missing the point, Eva. Whether or not Harry becomes a father or a Graphorn herder has nothing to do with me any longer. We are not going to be together. Ever again."

Eva’s small frame shook with silent laughter.

"What’s so funny?" Hermione demanded.

"You are. You have everything and you cannot see it."

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. "Don’t presume to know what I’ve been through. You can’t!"

"You are right. I do not know what it is like to be Hermione Granger. I will never know. You have lost much. Your mother, your friends, your love... yourself, I am thinking. You went to that bad Tartar place to save us all... and you made it back. You went to another place with Harry as well... no, you did not tell me that, but I hear you say it in your sleep at the laboratorio. Your eyes are sad some of the time...

"No, I do not know what it is like to be Hermione Granger.

"But I do know what it is like to be Eva de Souza. I know what many things feel like that you do not. I know what it is to be hungry and thirsty with no food or water. I know what it is to be sick with no medicine. I know what it is like to want the book learning and the magic learning and to not even ask... for minha mãe was poor, and she needed me to earn a wage, sim?

"I know what it is like to be Eva... and that means not being a girl for long. Marcelo first took me when I was only fourteen years, minha amiga. You speak to me of love and choosing... I ask you if I could choose him freely as I chose Zach. He was my companion and Juli’s brother too... but I was not ready to be a woman at fourteen. Não.

"There were others, yes. Senhor Carvalho wanted me. That is the reason why I was sent away, not because of ‘Celo. Senhora Helena arranged that when I told minha mãe my fears. It was a wizarding family. She thought I would be safer. But the senhor took me too, and then sold me to the Cabalistica."

Hermione closed her eyes. "I’m sorry..."

"No. Don’t say sorry. It is not your fault. It is my life. And it has been a good life. I have life better than my mother. My father beat her, see, and that is how we got to Rio and Rocinha... why I am carioca and not nordestina. Minha mãe did not get schooling at all... none at all... and you see how she died. And my grandmother. They took her from the Amazon before she was a woman. She was loved by one of the white missionaries in Santarém, she said... he left her with only minha mãe to remember him.

"My grandmother had a hard life. She did better for my mother. My mother did better for me... and me, my son will have everything, Zachary or não.

"Yes, Hermione, I am not you. I know this. I am only Evinha, the poor little girl from Rocinha with baby and nothing else. And since I am Eva, I know that it is not easy between a man and a woman. I have seen that all my life. It is also not easy between a man and a man sometimes, if they love in that way... just as it is very hard between Juli and her Magdalena.

"It is not easy. It will never be easy. But is it worth it? Sim, that always."

Hermione sighed. "I still say you don’t get it at all."

Eva twinkled at her.

"And when you make those pretty babies with your Harry, garota, I will not say that I told you so. I promise."

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

After yet another unsuccessful morning and early afternoon out in the field, the wizards, Lena, and Juliana returned to the palace to escape the unrelenting rays of the sun.

"Merciless," muttered Ron, wiping the sweat from his extremely freckled forehead and underneath his eyes. "I can’t believe the summers here."

"Summer?" laughed Juliana. "Meu amigo, this is still spring!"

"Summer does not begin until the twenty-first of December," Lena told him solemnly, obviously sorry for the discomfort of their English friends. "That’s four days from now."

"Do you mean it gets hotter than this?" Ron asked incredulously.

Juliana and Lena laughed. So did Riki.

"You have not seen anything yet!" said Lena. "Just wait until Carnaval comes..."

Ron shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. I’m hoping to return home soon."

He stepped into one of the house-elf litters, and asked to be transported to the kitchens. There he found a pitcher full of a cool citrus drink and some glasses. Plenished for the afternoon, he almost asked the house-elves to head to his room...

And then he remembered Harry, who had fled upon reaching the palace stairs.

So he ordered the house-elves to find Harry.

They found him in the foyer just outside his suite of rooms, pacing. The large windows showcased the tropical sunlight, yet inside the walls and floors were cool underfoot. Harry, however, looked anything but. He looked so tense that his skin was barely enough to contain him.

Ron slid out of the litter with the drinks and dismissed the contingent of house-elves.

"Lemonade?" he asked.

Harry turned around, arms folded. Surveying the glasses.

"No, thanks. I had water just a short while ago."

"Thought you still might be thirsty." Ron shrugged, easily levitated the tray, and poured a glass for himself without using his hands. "I’ll drink alone, then."

Harry let out a deep breath, something indecipherable on his face. Then he turned back to face the window.

"You know, Harry, I don’t know why you thought it was going to be easy."

"I never thought that. Nothing worthwhile is ever easy."

"Sometimes you have to ask yourself if what’s lost is truly worth the find."

"And then there are some things that are priceless," Harry said, almost muttering now. "A man would give up all he has to..." Then he trailed off. "I wager we’re not referring to the same thing, are we?"

"Well, I would hope so. Some crusty old Gatekeeper-type’s not my idea of priceless," Ron chuckled.

Harry’s laugh was dry and bitter. "She’s absolutely impossible, Ron."

"Yeah, she is that. But you knew that all along. She’s also stubborn, headstrong, bossy, and thinks she knows more than anyone else breathing. She always was and I see no signs of her mellowing in her old age. More than likely that this isn’t just a phase for her." Ron shrugged. "We all have our faults."

"I’d love her for them if they weren’t driving me insane."

"You still do love her," said Ron. "But you have to ask yourself if you really want that from her. Grass being greener and all that, mate."

"I can’t see how you can stand here and talk to me about her."

"There is a such thing as getting over someone, Harry. Really, there is. I haven’t been in love with Hermione since long before the divorce... and maybe I never truly was. I know that in spite of all the pretty girls here, I’ve not been tempted to stray."

"The mind is willing but the flesh is weak."

The corner of Ron’s mouth twitched with cynical delight. If Harry could still joke around, he would be all right.

"I’m saying that Maureen and I was always a different sort of marriage than Hermione and I. Just like our friendship, the friendship that we’ve always had, is different. The sort of friendship I have with you and Hermione, it’s... different than any other friends I’ve ever had in my life."

"Or was," said Harry sadly. "I’m afraid that we’ll never get over the past. That things will never be the same again."

"Eh, who wants them to be the same? It’s the difference between innocence and experience if you ask me, mate... ignorance may be bliss, but it still means you’re ignorant. Naive. Wet behind the ears. Green. Everything happens for a reason, I’m thinking. Even if we can’t figure out why all the time. Know what I mean?"

Harry turned around then. "You do realize that it’s dead easy for you to be gracious, as you have the wife and the kids? What I wouldn’t give to have..."

"You could have had, Harry. There are plenty of witches who all you had to do was raise a finger and beckon. Understandable, though. After her, everything and everyone else seemed sort of flat and dull to you, doesn’t it?"

"How would you know?"

Ron laughed. "Because I feel the same way about my wife, you prat! Yeah, yeah... I know. It was horrible, what the gypsy and I did... but from the first time I was with her, I understood exactly what was wrong with my marriage. What would never be right."

"I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell Hermione. Or me, for that matter..."

"Because I’m quite often the stupid arse that you two call me. And because I was afraid of losing you both completely. Sure, I’d have Mo, but what kind of man would I be without the two of you?"

Harry considered this, then nodded slowly.

"Why are you being so nice about this? It can’t be pleasant for you to see the two of us together."

To that, Ron shrugged. "Don’t get me wrong. Ten or fifteen years ago, I would have killed you where you stood..."

"Or at least, made a go at it," Harry smirked.

"But this is not ten or fifteen years ago. I’m not seventeen or twenty-two anymore, a boy or a youth. I’m a man now, and... you know, I guess it’s because I’m happy, Harry. Despite the bad press and the loss of our careers, I’m happier than I ever dreamed possible. Maureen wasn’t just some random fling... not like the girls I had before we married... I was determined to keep my vows to Hermione. When Maureen Ludlam walked into my life, she turned it upside down. We kept our hands off each other for years. She even ran away from what we both saw coming... and I tried harder with Hermione... but what is meant to be, will be.

"She’s my match, Harry. When everyone found out about us, I was relieved in a way. No more hiding or skulking about. No more being ashamed. I love Hermione, but I’m in love with Maureen and always will be. She’s given me two beautiful and healthy sons, and after the New Year I’ll have another.

"I’m a lot worse off financially than I was four years ago. But because of my family, I’m not poor at all. I’m richer than a Gringotts head goblin. Having Maureen and the boys has changed me utterly. For the first time in my life, I’m not just living for myself. Fatherhood straightens your priorities. And it makes you less selfish, too... you start thinking beyond just your lifetime and you stare into the future... into forever. I know I’ll never be the sort of man my Dad is... I’m not so good as that... but I do hope someday that I can be half the father he was.

"I want all that for you, Harry. Do you know, I’ve known for you twenty-one years, and in all that time, I can’t remember once where I’ve seen you completely happy? Even at the best of times, there’s always a bit of you that you hold back. As if you’re waiting for the AK blast to come... but if I could ask one thing of you, for you, it would be that you let go and live life."

Harry folded his arms again. Looking down at the floor. Exhaling in a way that sounded very much like a sigh.

"There was a time, Ron, when I did do that. Only you weren’t there to see it. I didn’t just taste life, I devoured it. And that’s when I ended up betraying you, and walking around with the guilt of it for twelve years."

Ron walked towards Harry. He clapped his hand on his shoulder.

"Do you really think it’s necessary to go house-elf on yourself for the rest of your life, then? No, I think not. Debt repaid... although if you ask me, there never was any. We weren’t married then, we were all young, and God knows I strayed more than a few times back in those days. If I were you, I would have..."

"But you’re not me. You’re not me now. You don’t understand what it’s like between us."

"I can imagine," Ron said, drawing his hand back. "She’s not an easy witch to love. But you knew that. You have to ask yourself, mate, is she worth it?"

Harry looked at Ron incredulously.

"Of course she’s worth it. That was never the question."

"Then what was?"

"If I’m worthy of her. My track record with women isn’t very..."

Ron laughed indulgently. "And what of mine, and Seamus’ and Dean’s... and most of my brothers’? Let’s not forget George’s men... I could go on and on, you know, with the mistakes all of us have made while we occupied the time until she came. We’ve all done things we regret, Harry."

"It’s different for me. I’m different."

"In a lot of ways, yeah, Harry. You are. Not in this category, though. You’re still a man. And she... I’ve seen you with her these past few weeks. Yeah, it was dead difficult at first for me to see you with her, and to see how different she is with you than she was with me. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it hurt. But, you know what... I don’t think you need to worry. Not when it comes to Hermione."

"Thanks."

"Any time, mate."

Ron walked out of the room, tray with the drinks floating behind him.

"Oh, and Ron?"

He turned around. "Yeah, what’s that?"

"If you ever dance with her again like that, just know that I’ll be forced to rip your head off." Harry wasn’t smiling, but his green eyes were twinkling. "Slowly."

"I’ll try to remember, Harry," he smirked. "See you at dinner."

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

That night, the celebration in the plaza reached fever pitch. The small group heard it long before they finished dinner, and Riki chattered on excitedly with Lena about a kite he wanted to try out.

"You need to go to bed early, hijo," Lena insisted. "You have been staying up far too late."

"But Magda..."

"Do you want your mother and father to hear of everything?"

He hung his head. "No."

"You can stay up late when we go to Itacaré tomorrow," she said. "You’ve been doing great work this past week with us. We all could use some time on the playa, no te parece?"

"I think that is a splendid idea," Zach said. "Of course Eva and Daniel ought to come along as well. And you, Hermione."

"What’s in this Itacaré place?" asked Hermione, who was trying her best to ignore Harry, who just then was talking quietly in the corner with Ron and Sirius.

"Demetrios Solon, we think," Lena replied. "Juli got the lead on her search today. We have an address and everything. Quite impressive... I was proud."

At Magdalena’s use of her old nickname, Juliana blushed.

"Why do we all have to go?" asked Hermione. "I thought I was under house arrest."

Juliana explained. "Itacaré is small enough to see to your safety. Salvador is a large city and the capital... not so safe. Besides, you’ve been restricted to the Palacio all week... we thought you and Eva and the baby could use some fresh air and a walk on the praia."

"How magnanimous of you," said Hermione shortly. "Did you clear it with them?" Her head jerked in the direction of the three conversing men.

"Actually, it was Harry who suggested it first," said Zach, studying Hermione’s face for a reaction. "After Juli and Magdalena told him what the place was like, he thought it would be a great opportunity for you ladies and the baby to have a chance to relax. I suppose he’s talking Sirius into it."

"I see," said Hermione, no visible reaction on her face at all. "And is this for the entire day?"

"It’s a three-to-four hour drive for the Muggles, but only ninety minutes by Ministry car. We can’t all Apparate, since Juli and Lena are the only ones who know where it is, and it’s just not a place where a lot of wizards converge, if you know what I mean. So Renato will drive us there in the morning and return for us the next day."

"Why are we staying there overnight?" Hermione asked.

"It was Juliana and Lena who suggested it," said Ron, leaving Sirius and Harry to join in this new conversation. "Renato has to supervise security for another state dinner here, so we’ve all got rooms at some eco-friendly resort. Muggle, though... it doesn’t have a significant wizarding settlement, which is why we think it’s a very plausible location for Solon to be hiding."

Hermione openly glared at the back of Harry’s head. "What about my research? Surely that’s important."

"Come on, Hermione," Ron implored. "For once in your life, take a day off! Take your notes and a few books with you, if you like. The change of scenery might do you some good. Who knows when we’ll get a chance like this again?"

If Hermione had refused--and she very nearly did--her life might have turned out very differently indeed. She had every intention of saying no and staying behind while the others had their beach fun. She would stay in the library and brood. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done much the same thing before, over and over again.

She didn’t.

Instead, she merely nodded.

"Why not?"

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

Tucked somewhere in Bahia between the grand old city of Salvador and the cacao-producing town Ilheus, nestled between the Atlantic Ocean and Rio de Contas, there is a tiny village that not even many Brazilians know much about. It is an unique place in that country, marked by dazzling sunsets, quiet and lonely beaches with pristine white sand and a rainforested backdrop, the stillness broken only occasionally by the movement of small fishercraft and young, sun-browned local boys practicing the tradition of the capoeira in the windswept valleys amongst the dunes.

The village is not much like the rest of Bahia, or for that matter, anywhere else in Brazil. It has such particular people and customs that the visitor can be forgiven for thinking that he is in another period or another country. There the Mata Atlantica, that part of the Amazon rainforest mostly destroyed during the colonial era, has been reasonably preserved. So strangely enough, there are cool nights here at sea level even during the summer.

Ten years before the earth road leading from Salvador to Itacaré was transformed into a park road. There was some fear that the secret paradise would be disturbed... but edicts from the Brazilian government and the United Nations ensured that the last preserved remnant of the Atlantic coast that the explorers first laid eyes upon would be preserved for generations to come.

On the day that they arrived, 18 December, that newly paved road happened to be jam-packed. So they simply floated above the melée, planning to arrive ahead of the pack.

They arrived in the sleepy little village of Itacaré to find it a teeming mass of humanity. As far as the eye could see, there were swarms of people.

They soon learned the reason for the crowds. It happened that the whole of the village and beaches were preparing for a fantastic live Christmas concert to honor some of the towering greats of Brazilian popular music, now mostly in their seventies and eighties. Newer artists Daniela Mercury and Bebel Gilberto and others were expected, along with the honorees and special guests.

"So much for a quiet retreat," Ron said, after questioning a local. "Five reais says that Solon took off the second he heard the first car horn."

The journey to the little house only took a few minutes. Renato drove them there. Of course, no one was home at all... the place looked locked and deserted.

"Shame," said Renato. "Well, if you would like to go back to the Salvador, you are more than welcome... we can try again tomorrow."

"But we’ve already got the hotel rooms," Ron pointed out. "Why don’t we at least stay the night?"

"Because I’ve got research to do, Ron," Hermione said. "We can always cancel the rooms, as we’re here well before our check-in time, and re-book for tomorrow night."

"Do you really think this crowd will disperse by then?" Ron asked. "I say we stay... we’ve been working our arses off, we’ve already got a place to stay here, and it’s not as if we have a lead regarding Solon’s whereabouts. Might as well wait for him to come back."

Eva was surprised. "Do you mean... we can go to the concert? While we are doing all this? I thought that was not allowed at a time like this?"

"What’s that, love?" asked Ron. "What’s not allowed?"

"Having fun."

Harry and Ron laughed, and even ticked-off Hermione had to crack a smile.

"Oh, we had the little fun we could as kids during the war. Yeah, it was war... but we were still kids. You have to decompress sometime." Harry turned to Renato. "You can go on and tell Joseane thanks. I’ve got a Black and Potter Visa, and we can buy tickets."

"If they are not sold out," said Juliana after Renato said his good-byes and took leave of them, "I doubt that we can get tickets for a MPB concert, though. Especially a televised one."

"Then we’ll conjure them out of thin air if we have to," Harry joked.

"That’s morally reprehensible," Hermione snapped. "If we can’t get them legitimately, then..."

Harry ignored her. "Ron and I will worry about the tickets. Zach, you and Eva can go to the hotel to check in, while the rest of you ladies..."

Juliana was giggling. "We’ll keep ourselves occupied, you can be sure of that."

"Just no beach until we get there," Ron said. "You have to wait!"

"Aw, Ron, you are not fair!"

Once the men left, Juliana turned to Lena.

"Do you remember the shop we frequented when we came here to Itacaré as girls?"

Lena’s mouth dropped open. "I do remember it! Dios, I’ve been half the world over and I still haven’t found the like of Anneliese Figueroa’s designs!"

"Anneliese Figueroa?" asked Hermione curiously as they walked. "I’ve never heard of her."

"Not many outside Brazil have. She is an eccentric," explained Juliana. "She could have been hired by Gladrags in Paris or Malkin’s in Milan long ago... but she prefers to stay here in old Itacaré by the sea, weaving her own cloth, making her dresses for those in the know."

"She’s a witch, then?" asked Hermione, surprised.

"Yes, she is. But a witch that sells to Muggles," Lena said. "It’s a Muggle shop that she runs, and you have never seen the like of her dresses. Muggle women here have made her rich... they say her clothing fits as if it is custom-made."

"This I’ve got to see," Hermione replied.

And she did indeed see it. Anneliese was a small woman of mixed German and Portuguese descent who fluttered about her shop like a hummingbird. The garments on display reflected the taste of highborn Brazilian women... sensual but not trashy, designed for both comfort and feminine appeal.

Juliana and Lena immediately indicated what they wanted. Anneliese produced a dress all of fabulous blue shades from periwinkle to royal midnight for Lena to try... and for fair Juliana, there was a lovely two-piece frock that was the same shade as the juicy inside of a peach.

Hermione was at a loss. She watched the other two women fly into dressing rooms... and continued looking.

"Is there anything I can help you with, dear?"

"Oh... I’m not certain." She frowned, biting her lip, then remembering herself and stopping the bad habit. "I do love everything here..."

"But you’re not sure what would be best for you?" Anneliese looked her up and down. "What color are you thinking of?"

"Oh, I don’t know... perhaps a pale pastel, like pink," Hermione said with a shrug. "And not as casual as the dresses you gave those other two. I’d like something with class."

The dress was produced, a princessy confection designed for the relentlessly hot climate. Hermione looked at the filmy mass Anneliese put into her arms and was doubtful, but the older women half-shoved her into a dressing room.

Hermione tried on the dress.

It had to be the most lovely garment she’d ever put on. And that was saying something. Not even her wedding robes had fit and flattered like this! The dress, barely tinted pink, fit her like a dream, making her look like one of the Greek deities that her mum had so loved...

"It’s called the Aphrodite," said Anneliese, as Hermione walked... no, floated... out of the dressing room. "Very popular, and I make no two that are alike."

"It’s lovely," Hermione said. "I love Grecian-styled clothing, and it’s hard to get where I’m from. But it’s a bit too much for tonight... too formal. I’d want something I can move a bit in. I plan to dance!"

Anneliese cocked her head from one side to the other.

"I have just the thing," she said. "Wait one minute..."

When she produced the next dress, Hermione’s eyes widened.

"Wow, that’s tiny and red," she said, blushing just a bit.

Anneliese laughed. "This one I call the Roxane. Every girl ought to be a scarlet woman one night of her life. Go on, dear... try it on and see if you like it."

Hermione went nearly as red as the dress when she first glanced into the dressing room mirror. This was emphatically not the sort of thing she would have ever chosen for herself. Ever.

This wasn’t to say that the dress was trashy. Far from it... Anneliese Figueroa didn’t know how to sew rubbish. Rather, the lines of the dress fit, and flowed , and conformed to every curve and every tuck of her figure. The front was semi-modest, but the garment left her back nearly bare. The skirt was slightly flared, and as she turned around, it swirled with her... revealing a good third of her lower thigh.

I can’t wear a bra with this, was Hermione’s first thought. And I can’t even charm myself for support. Out of the question.

Her second was I’d have to get knickers to match... otherwise, one good breeze and it’s Christmas a week early.

Her third was I can’t believe I’m actually considering buying this thing!

Anneliese knocked.

"Everything all right, dear?"

"Did you find something you liked?" called Juliana. "Lena and I are all done."

Hermione came out of the dressing room.

Juliana and Lena both gasped, while Anneliese smiled.

"Can I have one of those?" Lena asked.

"I dare you to wear it," Juliana laughed. "I know you, Hermione... you’ll be tugging that skirt down and hiding your front all night!"

Anneliese was still smiling. "I think it’s lovely. And what, my dear, do you say?"

Hermione exhaled, then met her smile.

"Do you happen to have shoes to go along with this?"

Anneliese nodded.

"Then I’ll take it."

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

There.

With a pair of strappy red sandals with low heels and a bright red flower for her hair, the Hermione in the Muggle looking glass was ready for dinner.

Well, not quite ready. A second after she’d dressed, Juliana burst into her room, brandishing a bottle of bright scarlet polish.

"I’m going to give you a pedicure," she said, in a tone that brooked no refusal. "I just finished Eva and Lena..."

Hermione looked down. "My feet are just fine."

"They look frightful, ‘Mione… I won’t let you wear sandals like that!"

So Hermione relented and allowed Juliana to pumice, soak, clip, file, and lacquer. When she reached for her hands to do the same, however, Hermione produced her own bottle of clear nail enamel from the overnight bag.

"I’d rather have the clear polish on my fingernails, thanks," Hermione said, thinking irrationally of Clara.

Then Lena came in with a diamond-shaped bottle of some sweet-smelling stuff, and Eva trotted in with baby Daniel to watch.

"We look positively decadent," said Hermione once they were done. "My friends in England would die of shock if they saw me like this! Not to mention my father."

"Every girl ought to look decadent once in her life, Hermione," chided Lena gently. "This is my last night to have fun before my duties as priestess call me away for a while. I plan to enjoy it to the fullest!"

Hermione looked at Eva. "You’re not going to be lonely, are you?" After dinner, Eva would not be attending the concert. She would be retreating back to their hotel, the Itacaré Eco Resort, with the baby.

Eva laughed.

"There is color television here! And air conditioning. And Harry says I can order whatever I want from room service." She sighed her content. "This must be heaven on earth!"

The women all shared a friendly giggle, and then went downstairs to the hotel restaurant to eat.

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

Harry’s bad evening began at dinnertime. The afternoon, after purchasing the tickets and securing the hotel rooms, was spent napping in his unshared room. So he was adequately refreshed for the evening, but hadn’t prepared at all for everything that was to come.

He did find the sleeping arrangements a bit difficult to fix at first. The original plan was to stay two per room, same-sex, but there were problems with that. Zach wanted to be with Eva and Daniel. Lena was uncomfortable sharing with Juliana. And now that he and Hermione weren’t going anywhere near each other...

They’d booked four rooms originally, but Harry, not thinking at the time they met Zach and Eva at check-in, went and paid for five. This meant there was one more room than needed.

"Juliana can share with Hermione," Ron said with a shrug. "Or I don’t mind sharing with her. And Lena and Riki can share."

"Then that means both you and I have got single rooms."

"Why not? Doesn’t bother me. Or better yet, Riki can share with me and Lena can have a rest."

So that was the arrangement. They had to book the rooms for a week, as the Eco Resort didn’t honor overnight-only accommodation. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford it... the Black and Potter Visa went directly into the Gringotts exchange, and if the Muggle hotel staff had known the credit limit, they would have goggled. It was likely Harry could have bought a medium-sized airplane with it and still had enough for drinks afterwards.

What the Muggles didn’t know never hurt them, though.

Dinner was in the hotel restaurant, Mãe Josepha. It served not only Bahian specialties, but international food from the world over. There was outdoor seating available, within sight of the beach, but they chose to sit indoors where it was far cooler.

"Where are the girls?" asked Ron, looking at a menu. "Glad to see this is printed in English for a change."

"Upstairs in the hotel still," Riki offered. "Why does it always take them so long to get dressed, Ron?"

"Because they’ve got more to put on than we have, I suppose. They’re also a lot prettier than we are, and so it takes them more effort to get that way."

Riki shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"Yeah. My thoughts exactly," said Ron, unable to hide a smile.

Then there was laughter, and the tinkling of feminine voices, and then they were all together again, flouncing into the four vacant seats across the table.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Juliana said.

"We’re used to it," said Zach, smiling at Eva.

Hermione sat across from Ron with a grin. "Seems that they only left four menus."

"You can borrow mine," he said, lowering his menu as his mouth gaped open. "Where on earth did you get that dress? You look..."

"You’re welcome," said Hermione with a grin, taking up the menu. "Let’s see, what’s good to eat here? Any suggestions?"

"As if anyone else has ever been here before. Get a waiter."

Hermione did so, charming him with a smile and feigned helplessness. The waiter peacocked a bit, taking great pride in describing the house wine cellar in tremendous detail. She learned that the Bahian specialties available included vatapá (shrimp, fish oil, coconut milk, bread and rice), sarapatel (liver, hearts, tomatoes, peppers, onion and gravy), and caruru (shrimp, okra, onions and peppers).

She ordered the vatapá, and after taking the others’ orders, the poor waiter walked off with his chest noticeably stuck out.

All things considered, the meal was extremely funny or extremely uncomfortable depending upon who you were. This was because Harry and Hermione adamantly refused to engage in conversation with one another, or to participate while the other was. Because Hermione was more of a talker than Harry was, this meant that she dominated the conversation while Harry nonchalantly breezed through the courses. Instead of brooding as usual, he seemed completely unconcerned with her or anything she did.

"Who do you think will break first?" Juliana whispered in Portuguese to Eva.

"I think it will be a tie," Eva said.

"My money’s on him, as he’s a man," muttered Lena, catching wind of the conversation. "She’s playing with fire. I think she had better watch herself..."

Hermione was too busy laughing at something that Zach had just said, but Ron caught on. "What was that, girls?"

Eva twinkled at him. "Nothing. We were just..."

"Saying how handsome Harry looked tonight," Juliana said. "Wouldn’t you agree, Hermione?" she said, nudging her friend.

The smile died from Hermione’s face. She sent a pointedly mean look in Juliana’s direction, turned back to Zach, and continued the conversation.

"Ouch," Ron muttered. "That wasn’t very nice."

Harry tossed his napkin onto his empty plate. "I’m done here. I think I’ll see you at the concert..."

It wasn’t to be, however. Eva, who was sitting across from him, made a too-clumsy-to-be-real movement as she tried to screw the top back on her baby’s bottle... and the formula splashed forward on Harry’s shirt.

Eva looked horrified, while Juliana and Lena could barely contain their laughter.

"Oh, sorry, Harry!"

Harry glared at her, knowing what she was about. For the only one who hadn’t cleared their plate yet was chatterbox Hermione, who was also glaring at Eva while starting to eat at a pace that would give anyone indigestion.

"Nice try," said Harry, returning his cerulean blue guayabera to its dry-cleaned state with a single subtle flick of his wand, then opening the buttons of it to the waist so his skin could breathe. "Have a good night, Eva. See the rest of you at the concert."

Eva whispered to Juliana, "Perhaps we were wrong. He didn’t look at her, not even once."

Juliana pecked her friend on the cheek.

"No, querida. That only means we are right!"

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

The concert was held on the largest beach of Itacaré, Tiririca, where a modern bandshell had been constructed the year before. The trail there was a wide park one, heavily forested. The contrasting scents of fresh greenery and flora and the sea were enchanting, as was the evening sun.

There were not many seats. The tickets they’d purchased were in the standing room only section, just beyond the cleared flat space on the sand nearest the forest. The area was ringed with botequims where concertgoers could get something to drink and nibble on. They also sold towels, small cheap blankets, hats and sunscreen.

Ron purchased a wide-brimmed straw hat for himself, and sunscreen, while Harry purchased a pitcher of caipirinha.

"There are only six glasses here," said Riki, knowing the answer he was going to get before he even asked.

Lena handed Drakkar’s son a can of chilled Fanta. "Lo siento, Riki... but the cachaça is not for children."

"Then I will just go splash around, with the other kids," the little boy said with a shrug, pointing at the surf visible in the distance.

"Can you swim?" asked Hermione.

"Yeah, of course! I’ll see you later... and I know where the hotel is, so..."

The rest of Riki’s statement was lost as he dashed away.

Juliana took a sip from her glass and sighed. "I haven’t had good caipirinha in months. Try it... you’ll love it!"

"I’ve had it before," Harry said. "It’s not my favorite drink by any means, but it gets you there fast. It really does."

"It’s the cachaça which does it," Juliana said, with great content. "Best rum in the world."

"Phenomenally strong rum, at least," Ron said with a nod. "Careful, ‘Mione."

Hermione was sipping gingerly. "Not bad."

"Just don’t drink it any faster," Ron advised. "You know how you are."

"Are you saying that I can’t handle my liquor, Ronald Weasley?"

"Anyone who can’t handle one margarita or one shot of tequila ought not to be drinking cachaça at all," said Harry in a casual tone, as if to a passer-by.

"Anyone who can quaff tequila and rum as if it is water ought not to give others advice regarding moderation," Hermione shot back just as casually.

Ron had shed his casual shirt, and was trying to reach his back to apply sunscreen.

"There’s hardly any sun left," said Zach, one of the few blonds who didn’t have to worry that much about exposure. "It’ll all be gone within the hour."

"Yeah, but I’m tired of the freckles, and I’ve had burns at sunset before... Juliana, get my back, will you..."

"That’s fine, Ron, I’ll do it," Hermione said, removing the bottle from Ron’s hand and squeezing some of the lotion into her palm. Before he could protest, Hermione was smoothing it over his back. "There, that’s better, isn’t it?"

"Quite," Ron said, ignoring Harry’s eyes but feeling them bore into the back of his skull nonetheless. "Seems like they’re about to begin. Shall we get closer to the stage, then?"

Hermione shook her head. "I’d like to finish up this glass. You go on without me."

Juliana and Lena started over the sand, followed by Zach.

"You coming, Harry?"

"I want another drink," he said coldly. "I’ll catch up later."

With a shrug and a glance back at Hermione, Ron trotted along after the others, white shirt still draped over the table next to the mostly-empty pitcher of caipirinha.

Live as if you’ll die tomorrow

Dream as if you’ll live forever

Dance like no one’s watching...

Talk about tension. Just then, the air between Harry and Hermione was so thick that it could have been sliced up and made into tea sandwiches.

As the concert began, both did their very best to ignore the other. Hermione nursed her glass of caipirinha at a snail’s pace, ignoring the burning sensation that it produced at the heart of her... and the fact that the liquor was fast going to her head.

Meanwhile, Harry, who had finished off two and a half glasses of the same stuff, had gone to the bar and returned with a glass of favorite straight Scotch without another word. He seemed uninterested in the stuff, however, letting it rest on the table.

They stood there, at the same round table, facing away from each other as they watched the concert. Side by side. Not touching... no, never that... but breathing the same sea-salted air.

A tall, wide man with a broad face came up to them. His accent branded him as American, perhaps from New England.

"Excuse me, I don’t know if you’re with..."

"Not at all," Hermione said, smiling pleasantly and turning her back more on Harry. "How are you this evening?"

The man smiled. "You’re British."

"I am. What brings you to Brazil?"

"Business. And you?"

Hermione’s smile was quite dazzling. "The same."

They chattered on pleasantly for a few moments. Then the man, whose name was Robert, offered to buy her a drink. She thanked him and said she’d love to take him up on his offer. Before she could, however, Harry cut in.

"She doesn’t drink," he said flatly.

Robert looked at Harry, who had made no sign of noticing them up until then. As for Hermione, she was too furious to speak.

"She doesn’t?"

"No, and she shouldn’t." Harry lowered his voice conspiratorially. "She’s got a bit of a drinking problem."

"I see," said Robert.

Hermione’s eyes were flying sparks. "The only one with the problem is..."

"I take it the two of you know each other?" asked Robert.

"We do indeed. He’s my brother. My little brother," Hermione said. "Note the accent. And a damned annoying one he is."

"Yes, I’ve got siblings myself." Robert laughed. "Really, young man, I mean your sister no harm. I just want to buy her a drink."

"Thanks for that, love," Hermione said, showing Harry her back again as she turned towards Robert. "I’ll have the sex on the beach. It looks really very good..."

But just then, Robert’s hand shot up to his temples, and he cried out in agonizing pain.

"Damn it, I’ve got another one of my migraines... let me get you that drink, but... aaah!"

Hermione didn’t even have time to touch the man before he muttered his apologies and fled.

She whirled around to find Harry’s eyes on her. A look of supreme satisfaction was on his face.

Before she could tell him off, a very pretty girl sidled up to them. Hermione wondered if there was something in the air or the water. The chit was at least ten years younger than Hermione, reddish blonde, with smoke-grey eyes and a chest that was half-hanging out of the low-cut front of her leopard print dress.

"Care to dance?" she asked in an accented voice. "That is, if your sister doesn’t mind." Obviously, she’d assessed the situation before approaching. She surveyed Hermione with one haughty sweep of her eyelashes.

"Of course she doesn’t..." Harry began.

"Of course I do," Hermione said suddenly. "Haven’t you ever heard of the other love that dares not speak its name?"

The girl’s mouth dropped open.

"Pay no attention to my sister," said Harry, glaring at Hermione, "she’s cracked in the head."

"Oh, brother dearest, how can you say such cruel things about me? You might be embarrassed about what lies between us, but I can assure you that I’m not ashamed."

She grabbed Harry’s head then, and kissed him so soundly that she nearly suffocated him. When she finally let him go, his glasses were askew and slightly steamed up.

Satisfied, Hermione turned back to the woman and winked.

The vixen stormed away, obviously offended.

It was now Hermione’s turn to look extremely pleased with herself. She met Harry’s outraged eyes with a gleam of triumph in her eyes.

"You ought to thank me," she sniffed. "A tart like that was liable to give you some sort of nasty rash just from looking at her."

"At least my taste doesn’t run to smarmy old Muggle farts from America, of all places!"

"At least that smarmy old Muggle fart from America offered to buy me a drink! I don’t see you offering me anything other than a hard time..."

A blink later, a cocktail landed with a click in front on her.

"There’s your sex on the beach, Hermione," Harry said sharply. "And you had better stop playing games with me."

"Really? I had better?" Hermione replied, cool as the ocean breeze. "Perhaps that’s it, Harry. I’ve never played games with you, not really. For if I had, you’d know it... and you wouldn’t want them to stop, either."

With a poker face, she took the orange slice from the edge of her glass and inserted into her mouth. Eyes upon him, but saying absolutely nothing with them.

It might have been the hardest thing she’d ever done. For her insides instantly turned to flame.

As for Harry, the blood was roaring in his ears. In twenty-one years of knowing her, he’d never been more angry with Hermione than he was at that moment. Who would have thought that she could be so silly, so petty and vengeful, such a damned tease and so... well, just like other women.

His ears weren’t the only place the blood was roaring.

"Be careful, Hermione," he warned her again.

She removed the orange slice from her mouth. "Thanks for the heads up, dear, but it’s totally unnecessary. I wasn’t sorted into Gryffindor for nothing. Besides, unlike most of the other witches we know, you don’t intimidate me. I could never be afraid of you."

Picking up the glass, she lifted the straw to her lips... and sipped as she continued to stare at him from brown eyes dilated due to the potent alcohol she was unused to and the falling dusk.

Harry wanted nothing more in that moment to turn away from her, to walk off and ignore her, to give her the cold shoulder that her childishness deserved. But he couldn’t move at all. He was riveted to the space. If he moved at all, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. By no means did he want her to know how she affected him.

Hermione sensed all this with the heightened perception of the hyperempath, and her very insides turned into pure molten gold and then steam. She felt as if her knees would soon give way and she would sink into the soft sand.

She would not tremble, though. Even if the very devil seemed to have got inside of her, making her do womanish things she normally scoffed at and think of even worse things that she wouldn’t have dreamed, she would stand her ground.

He wouldn’t see her sweat even if it killed her.

Once the drink was half gone, she pulled the straw from her lips.

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. "Not my idea of sex on the beach."

"Have you ever had it before?" Harry said before he thought. It really wasn’t his fault, though... the blood flow that was supposed to be swirling around in his brain was missing in action, having traveled due south.

"Which? The drink, or..."

"Take your pick."

"Wouldn’t you like to know," she said, licking her lips lazily to get the last of the orange and cranberry taste.

"Oh, I already know. It was a purely rhetorical question." Harry lowered his voice deliberately. "After all, I was there."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Sure of ourselves, aren’t we? How do you know that was the only time?"

Where there had been three feet between their faces mere moments before, there was now less than thirteen inches. Yet and still, they did not touch.

"Because I know."

"Well, then," she said, grasping at straws, "it stands to reason there was no repeat performance. Beach sex is overrated."

"Is it really, Hermione? I had no idea we were on shagging... I was still on cocktails."

Cluck of the tongue. "Slow as always."

"Slow when it counts, at least... and from all accounts, slow when it matters."

Mock sigh. "They always do exaggerate when it comes to you, Harry. Part of being a legend, I suppose."

"Perhaps so. But it’s unlike you, Hermione, to not want to investigate... to see if there’s a grain of truth in all those rumors you’ve heard whispered on the wind."

The concert’s melodies droned on all around them. You can’t just sit still listening to Brazilian pop music. That’s not what it’s designed for. You are supposed to dance. As the newer, younger artists one by one covered their favorite MPB classics, the area that had been swept clean of sand drifts began to fill. Even those who clung to the botequims started swaying and snapping their fingers.

All except for Harry and Hermione, that is. They were conspicuous in their stillness. As the world spun and whirled in gaiety all around then, their private drama was swiftly and surely mastering all their thoughts as it unfolded much as a budding flower opens her petals in June.

Ron, glancing from his vantage point with Juliana, Lena, and Zach, wasn’t quite sure what was going on between Harry and Hermione. From what he could tell, they looked as if they were arguing. With a heavy sigh, he decided to meander back over to see if they were about to kill each other.

What else were friends for?

Just as he reached them, "Quem te viu, quem te vê" was announced and the opening bars of the music sounded over the speakers.

Hermione, glancing up and seeing Ron approach, grinned and sprang from the table.

"Oh, Ron, it’s our song! Want to dance? Oh, you have to!"

Ron, alarmed, remembering the sunscreen incident from earlier and Harry’s threat from the day before, yet wishing to be the peacemaker, sent Harry a quick "don’t kill me, I had nothing to do with this" glance.

"I’m a bit tired, ‘Mione... don’t you think that..."

"Nonsense," Hermione declared. "Ron, if you don’t dance with me, I’ll never speak to you again."

"I don’t want to... interrupt anything," Ron said, not daring to glance in Harry’s direction.

"Don’t be silly. Harry doesn’t mind.... do you, Harry?" She waited all of one second for a reply before speaking again. "Oh, come on, Ron! It’s nearly half over!"

And so Ron and Hermione danced again. Again, they danced so well that soon the people nearest to them stopped in their tracks to observe and cheer them on. Again, there were whistles and catcalls and loud oaths and suggestions for Ron from the men.

They talked to each other as they danced. To a casual observer, it might have seem like lovers whispering in each other’s ears and laughing at the knowledge of what would happen immediately following...

In reality, Ron was using the dance as an opportunity to tell Hermione off.

"You’re being a real bitch, do you know that?"

"How dare you call me names?" Hermione said, furious but not breaking her smile for the benefit of the observers.

"I’ve known you long enough to call you as I see you," Ron said, dipping her. "And you really are being a bitch tonight. You had better be glad that it’s Harry you’re stringing along like this... any other bloke would have dusted off his hands by now and left you flat on your stubborn arse."

"And you won’t even see my side of things, will you? Isn’t that just like a man?"

"That’s just it. I am a man. And so is he. And you ought to be woman enough not to do this to him. It’s mean, Hermione."

"What about what he did to me?" Hermione snapped, still grinning through her teeth. "I can’t trust him any more... goodness knows I’ve had enough of untrustworthy wizards to last me a lifetime..."

"And you’re blaming him for something he did to protect you. Not like me, who hid the truth from you to cover my own arse... he hid it because he cares. You certainly don’t tell him absolutely everything, and you didn’t tell me everything when we were married. So what’s good for the golden goose isn’t good for the gander, eh?"

Hermione didn’t reply.

"If you’d stop being so selfish, you’d see that you’ve got a man who desperately loves you and needs you. He worships the ground you walk on, and all you do is step on him time and time again. Any witch worth her salt would do anything for a man like that. I suggest you get your act together before Harry wakes up from whatever spell you have him under and realizes that there are other women around who will treat him far better than you have."

Now Hermione was indignant, her dancing becoming violent and carnal. Reflecting anger, frustration, and pent-up sexual tension.

But Ron didn’t care. For once in their lives, he was the voice of reason.

"Harry’s not going to wait for you forever, Hermione. Nor should he. Consider carefully what you’re doing... because in the end, the only one to blame for your actions is you."

"Advice from Master Morality himself," snarled Hermione.

"Experience is a hard tutor," Ron quipped back. "But in the end, it’s the best one."

"Why don’t I just have nothing to do with either of you? That’s also good advice."

Ron shrugged. "What’s done can’t be undone. Maturity is learning to make the most out of what you can’t change. Your mistakes, your past and all that. Stop punishing Harry, Hermione. He doesn’t need it, especially not from you."

"And I don’t appreciate this lecture," Hermione replied. "Especially not from you. I know exactly what I’m doing."

"So you’ll go and make it up with him?" asked Ron, dipping her one last time as the song ended.

He pulled her up to his face as the last beats of the song died down.

Hermione grinned slightly, but her eyes were guarded.

"You’re so wise.... you figure it out."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Women. You lot can be frustratingly infuriating at times, you know that?"

"We’re still the better half of the human race," Hermione sniffed.

"Then heaven help us all."

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

As the song died down, a few distant storm clouds dappled the moonlight, forming mysterious shadows. Heedless of the inevitable oncoming storm, the fabulous beach party went on. The speakers blared, the spotlights for the cameras stayed trained on the stage, and the cachaça flowed freely.

Harry, who wasn’t privy to the conversation between Ron and Hermione, was rather ready to strangle them both. As the song ended, they stood face to face, then hugged each other and exchanged quick kisses that were nothing but chaste. Harry knew this as well as anyone, knew that there was no spark between them to be rekindled...

Even so, the glass that he was holding broke in his hand.

After that performance, of course they’d come back over to where he was standing. During the entire song, he’d been flanked by two local girls who’d come to flirt the second Hermione was away from him. He’d uttered noncommittal answers in broken Portuguese to both as he watched the dance, eliciting giggles and touches from both until the glass broke. Both the girls seemed flustered, snatching up napkins from nearby tables. One beauty set to cleaning up the glass while the other dabbed at the gash upon Harry’s hand.

Ron was frowning. "What’s happened?"

"He’s cut his hand," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Here, Harry, let me just…"

He tried to snatch it away, but the Brazilian girl was holding it fast. Hermione sent a look to both of the girls that plainly said "get lost, you don’t want to tangle with me" and took Harry’s hand in hers.

"Don’t touch me," he said, snatching it away.

She grabbed it back. "Shh... don’t be silly..."

"He say he not want you to touch him," said one of the girls in broken English. They were both still hovering nearby.

Hermione promptly turned around and said something to both the girls in Portuguese that made them both storm away angrily.

"You’ve been hanging around Juliana far too long," said Ron. "Not the best influence."

"They got the hint."

"Yeah, let’s hope they don’t get their big brother Felipe too. I wanted to enjoy tonight..."

"Ron?" Hermione said, not unkindly, as she held Harry’s cut hand in both of hers.

"Mmph?"

"Do me a favor and go back to the concert. Okay?"

Ron shrugged. "Right, see you two in a bit."

Hermione was still studying the cut. It was a bit deeper than she liked, and she had no antibiotic handy. Nevertheless, considering that his other hand had been completely removed only the week before, this was child’s play.

"Harry, once I stitch this up, I’ve got something to ask you."

"Whatever it is, my answer is no."

"You can’t answer until you know the question. My question could have been any number of things, including ‘Are you really a man, or have you been hiding something important from us all these years?’"

"My answer’s no to that as well. If I were any kind of man, I would have..."

Hermione, intuitively knowing how best to heal the cut, raised his hand to her lips and kissed it for several moments. Deeply disinfecting and healing it until the skin was smooth and unbroken, by the time she was done there was only a damp spot and a gloss print in the shape of her lips left to mark the injury.

And all the while, she never took her eyes from him.

Meanwhile, onstage, there was a great stir. The crowd went absolutely insane as Chico Buarque and Maria Bethania, both estimable music icons in their seventies, were asked to reprise their nearly fifty year old classic along with the young group who’d just covered it. The cheers echoed out towards the accelerating surf.

"There," Hermione said, reaching for a napkin to wipe all traces of her lips away. "That’s better, isn’t it?"

Green eyes gleamed dangerously in the muted moonlight. "What are you here for? Come to finish the job?"

"No. I’m here to ask a question of you. Just as I said."

"Yeah?"

Deep breath. "Will you dance with me?"

"I don’t dance, you know that."

"I’ll teach you."

"Teach me to make a fool of myself, you mean?"

"How’s that possible?" Hermione said, placing both her hands in his. "The great Harry Potter and all that."

"The great Harry Potter doesn’t dance."

"The great Harry Potter doesn’t care what others think, either." She twinkled up at him. "And since when did we start referring to you in third person?"

"Since one beautiful yet frustrating witch was deluded into thinking I was Twinkletoes." Harry shook his head. "I can’t do it, Hermione. And I’m not going to."

"What if..." Her eyes darted to and fro. "What if we stand off centre, somewhere that no one can see?"

"Like where?"

"Behind the stage!" She was laughing at her ingenuity. "Somewhere between the back of the stage and the surf... and you can Apparate us there, past security!"

Harry looked doubtful.

"It’s perfect! That way, we won’t get the full blast of the speakers, and there’ll be no one there to see... no one but me..."

It was indeed a plan. Harry Apparated them both to just beyond the designated spot, and held on to Hermione perhaps a moment longer than necessary. She pulled away, still smiling, tugging his hands so that they were no more than fifteen feet away from the sea.

"I don’t think we’ll be needing these," Hermione said, kicking her shoes into the sand and bending down in her lovely dress to tug at his loafers. Harry looked down at her... and realized that he could see perhaps more than she might have intended.

"There," Hermione said with a smile, standing back up. "We’re ready."

He pulled her close so that she could feel the reaction to her he’d sought to contain all night long.

"Yes. I’d say we are."

Hermione’s darkened eyes reflected the many stars overhead. "Listen to the music, it’s perfect! Now, this is what you do. Put your left arm around my waist like this... and then hold my right hand out... yes, just like that... and then you move your feet like this... no, not quite like that..."

It took quite a few times, and more than a few stumbles upon Hermione’s prettily pedicured toes. But soon he at least wasn’t stepping on her feet any longer, and seemed to get the most basic of all the steps.

"Very good! See?"

"I still feel stupid, Hermione."

"That’s because you’re so stiff!" she laughed. "Let’s see, what did that instructor at Cape Verde say to get us to loosen up? Oh yes! She said to imagine that you’ve got a stick of chalk stuck between your arse cheeks, and you’ve got to write on a blackboard with it..."

"What?"

"Oh, never mind, Harry. Just move... like this, you know..." She placed her hands on either side of his hips and tried to pull them into a rhythm that mirrored hers.

Whereas dancing with Ron had been fun and exhilarating, Hermione found little to laugh about now. The newer version had a brisker, electronic studio feel… the old had a slow and insistent beat like that found in most classic sambas. So where she’d intended to teach Harry a version of the samba, she had to stop herself several times when she realized that she was moving into one of the more risqué dances.

By the time the song finished, Hermione was no longer very giggly or lighthearted.

Rather, she felt faint.

"Perhaps we ought to go back to the botequim, Harry," she murmured when the song ended, panting heavily against his chest from the humidity, the cachaça she’d downed earlier mixing with the vodka, and her exertions. She wanted to move away from him, but knew without something else to lean against she’d faint.

"Why? Fun’s just getting started."

"I’m not making for a very good teacher. I’m far too hot."

"I know. That’s exactly how I like you."

She looked up and him, and started to say something. Then she decided against it and leaned her head against her chest. For the acts were changing again, and Djavan had just been announced. The cheers were so loud that Hermione had trouble making out what he was saying.

"Who’s this?" Harry asked.

"Djavan. A balladeer... oh, Eva loves his music. She’ll be sorry she missed him."

"Well, I’m sure she can hear this at the hotel. It’s not very far away, is it?"

"No, it isn’t..." Hermione tried to listen to what the famous singer was saying into the mic, but the sound was muffled by the surf and the waves. "Oh, Harry, I think he’s taking requests. Isn’t that the most..."

She was cut off by an emphatic shout in unison from the concertgoers.

"Meu Bem-Querer!"

"What’s that?" asked Harry, close to Hermione’s ear. "Some sort of battle cry?"

"No, silly," Hermione said, as whatever Djavan said in reply made the crowd laugh and the band struck up the first few bars. "It’s a ballad."

"What does the title mean?"

"My Beloved," she replied. "It’s a very popular love song here."

He laughed. "I think I want to know the words to this song. Care to translate?"

"I don’t see what it would hurt, Harry," Hermione said, trying to conceal a small yawn. She didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the humidity or him, but she felt almost ready to fall asleep right there in his arms.

At least, that’s what she thought.

So Djavan and the crowd sang the words together. Sometimes, the legendary artist would drop out altogether and just let the crowd sing, as this song was pretty well known.

As they sang in Portuguese, Hermione translated to English for Harry. Because of the din and the tide, she had to speak low into his ear as he inclined his head... but he didn’t seem to mind.

My beloved

Is secret, is sacred

is sacramented

in my heart…

My beloved

Is something slightly sinful

caressed

by emotion…

My beloved…

My lovely…

I’m suffering so much, love!

But what does suffering mean

to I who am

sworn to die

of love?

Although Harry wasn’t much for intricate Latin dances with fancy footwork, when the music slowed he was more than passable. Indeed, he knew how to make a woman forget everything else when she swayed with him.

That was what Hermione thought about... or rather, marveled over as her heartbeat accelerated, hands clutching at his neck and at his shoulderblades as his palms slid down her bare back. There, they cradled her fabric-covered hips in his hands and pressed her closer than close to him.

"I think... that I missed part of the words the first time around," Harry said. "They seem to be going through the song again... do you mind?"

"Not at all," Hermione said breathlessly.

Djavan and the audience went through the song five times, with variations. Yet Hermione could only bear to translate for Harry twice. Yes, there was that damned word morrer again, "to die"… but this time, it was there with a difference. For she would indeed die right there in his arms if she didn’t stop this… break away now… for slowly she felt her freedom slipping away from her.

She was becoming no longer her own but something and someone else entirely… someone she’d never been before… her truest self.

If anyone had been observing them, they’d likely conclude they were going to end up making love right there on the sand. They were moving like lovers reunited, overjoyed by one another. His hands slid over her body, caressing, softly touching her in places he’d memorized long ago... fingertips holding the memory of all her spots.

Hermione responded with soft enthusiasm, winding her arms around his neck, pulling him close, breathing shallow and hitching. Then her hands trailed around to his shoulders. Since his shirt was completely unbuttoned, it was a simple matter to push the dark blue fabric down to rest halfway toward his elbows.

Her fingers trailed and traced along the planes of his shoulders and chest, finding the lines and ridges, taking the rumbles deep in his throat as an invitation to linger.

Leaving one hand on her backside, Harry reached the other up to push one side of her hair behind her ears. The better to trace the delicate line that began just under her ear, along her jawbone and to her chin. In eloquent response, Hermione’s fingertips went up to trace his lips, then she leaned forward to brush them gently with hers.

It was as if they could no longer hear the crowd, nor indeed the music. The world itself in that moment only held two people... and everything else melted away in the face of that truth.

All the petty arguments of the past few weeks... all the childish games... meant nothing. Nothing at all. He meant everything. She meant everything.

And together, they were everything.

Can the temporal ever obliterate what is eternal? What is immortal?

The things that are seen pass away, but what is unseen remains forever.

Harry and Hermione were so enchanted, so caught up in each other that they didn’t hear the distant peals of thunder upon their pounding eardrums, or feel the first drops of rain against thirsty, sweaty skin. But as the song ended, the raindrops were coming regularly... and Hermione sprang away from Harry quickly, much as a frightened doe dashes away when she recognizes the hunter’s trap.

"The rain..." she murmured. "The storm..."

"I don’t mind getting wet, do you?"

"Nn... no. I mean, yes. I mean, my dress! I’ll ruin it!" She leaned up quickly, and pecked the corner of his mouth. "We’ll talk in the morning... have a good night!"

Without giving him a chance to discuss further, Hermione snatched up her sandals and dashed off, up the beach towards the hotel.

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

By the time Hermione made it back to the Eco Resort, the light rain had turned into a downpour. It had taken her a good half hour up the beach and around the rainforest-surrounded yet crowded park trails, but soaked to the bone or not, she made it back in one piece.

She wasn’t certain if Ron, Juliana, Lena, and Zach had returned. Perhaps they’d gone into the village with a lot of the other concertgoers for a pub crawl until the rain subsided. After all, it was only a bit after eleven o’clock, very early in the Latin evening.

The corridor was illuminated only by low-wattage lights. After all, this was an ecologically friendly hotel, designed to not drain the environment so much. Yet the gathering thunder set the cool floor beneath Hermione’s feet to humming... and the first few flashes of lightning gave all an otherworldly, temporary glow.

As she passed Eva’s room, Hermione heard the television going... and training her hyperempathic sense of hearing to focus, she also detected the labored breathing of sleep. Hermione was glad her friend was resting. She would soon be in dreamland herself.

And thanks to Harry, how pleasant indeed her sleep would be.

Smiling to herself, Hermione fumbled and dropped the key she’d picked up from the concierge. After swearing a mild oath and picking it up, she stuck it in the lock to her door… damn, these foreign hotel keys were always so difficult to manage...

Then her wrist was removed from the doorknob... and pinned to the door.

Soon followed by the rest of her.

The shoes she’d been carrying fell to the floor.

Of course, it was Harry, somewhat drier than she was, as he must have Apparated in. Yet still pretty thoroughly soaked nonetheless. His glasses were gone, and the second he touched her Hermione was caught up in his wild and dangerous mood, sensing the blood pulsing in his ears, in his throat, deep in his chest and down to the soles of his feet. He was still fully aroused, and somewhere far removed from her present self Hermione wryly wondered if he was always in that dreadful condition these days...

Your fault, he thought back at her, kissing at her lips, her neck, hands running over her rain-soaked dress. In the pit of her stomach there was a taut feeling, as if a million tiny threads were being stretched to their limit... and if any one of them broke, she would die. Her breasts ached to their very... and her legs felt like... and as if she wasn’t already drenched enough, the place between them began to just...

His hand slid beneath her hair to hold her head still for yet another kiss. He brushed her lips... once, twice... her breathing hitched, and...

Then his mouth claimed hers, searing hers, branding her forever as his. And that kiss contained the universe. Fire and water. Sunshine and rain. Springtime and autumn. War and peace. Death and life. Birth and resurrection...

Hermione’s mind screamed at her to stop him, stop him before it was too late. They hadn’t talked enough, resolved enough, reasoned together enough... it was too soon, too soon!

My mouth, my body, my pride, my honor, my God! He’s kissed me time and time again, but not like this. Never like this.

Then Harry straightened up, pulling her away from the door so that she clung to him. And as he kissed her this time, his arms tightened around her, lifting her so that her bare toes barely grazed the floor.

She knew what would happen next. He would turn the key in the knob for her, and they would be inside, and soon he would be in her bed, and then...

And then he removed his mouth from hers, setting her back upon her feet.

"Just wanted to make sure you got in safely. Good night, Hermione. Sleep well."

With that, he turned around, walked down the hall, inserted his own key into his bedroom lock... and shut his door behind him.

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

Harry had never had a more compelling reason not to sleep with Hermione than on that night.

He had to repeat this fact to himself over and over, as he stripped off his clothing, palmed a bar of soap, and stepped into an ice-cold shower. The water felt like icy daggers against his skin, and were almost painful against his poor groin. Good. He welcomed the ache... better that than other methods to get rid of the nuisance. Dragon’s blood, he felt as if he was seventeen all over again.

Yet although his body might be reacting boyishly, his mind would not.

He was not going to let Hermione do this to him again.

This was the twenty-first century. Women wanted to be liberated and all that, but they all wanted to be swept off their feet like Cinderella. They teased, they flirted, but they never made the first real move. So when things fell apart, the bloke would be to blame... for chasing her, for pursuing her, for doing to her something she wanted done in the first place.

It had been like that in Avalon. He’d initiated their first time together... although she became an avid participant, it was always his idea.

It had definitely been like that at the Terrace. He’d made love to her, not the other way around.

It had been like that on her last birthday, when she’d slipped out to the balcony. He’d followed her out there.

And even the argument of the past week... the first time she’d ever talked about why she sought to perpetually punish him for crimes unknown... only happened because he went to her. In retrospect, he should have let her sulk.

There was no way, then, that he would go to her room tonight. So that she could slip out of his arms early in the morning, while he was still sleeping contentedly? So she could claim the next day that the alcohol and the atmosphere had impaired her good sense?

So that they could repeat the past all over again?

He couldn’t do it. He refused to do it again.

This time, she would have to come to him.

Earlier she’d said that when she started to play games with him, he would definitely know it.

What she didn’t know yet, but would soon figure out, was that the game had already begun.

Tag, Hermione.

You’re it.

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

Between the cool sheets of her hotel room bed, Hermione tossed and turned as the thunder vibrated throughout the hotel and lightning crashed against the sky. The torrential rain that poured just beyond her window and the skylight above was a mere drizzle compared to the storm that she was trying to quiet within herself.

He was in her blood, she knew. There was something between them that could no longer be denied; indeed, it was long overdue. The prologue had been written in Avalon years before... and now, it was time for their story to begin.

She could still feel him all over her... his hands burning through blouse and skirt... his lips brushing hers... his arms, pressing her closer and closer still as they danced, as if he could just absorb everything that she was deep within him and never let her go for all the world.

And that final kiss in the hallway... even an obscenely long soak in the bathtub, scrubbing until she glowed pink all over had done nothing to obliterate the memory of it.

Sleeping without him was a near impossibility—how did she ever think she would go about it?

Well.

There was only one thing to do about that.

Join him.

Hermione Granger, you are not going to trot off to that man’s bed as if you’re some common strumpet. Have some dignity about yourself, girl!

Where’s the dignity in yet another sleepless night? Hard to look dignified with bags beneath your eyes. If you go to him, perhaps you’ll get some sleep.

I refuse to go to him! He’s obviously waiting for that to happen, and I am not going to give him the satisfaction. All men are totally selfish... even the word "men" begins with "me"...

Fine, then. He’s selfish. Why don’t you tell him that in person, so you can get some sleep? I’m exhausted, and Ron was right, cachaça doesn’t suit you at all. I’m not sure what you were trying to prove, but you’re going to pay for it in the morning.

But I...

What’s your objection to going tonight? What is it?

It’s simple, isn’t it? I don’t want to...

Careful, dear. When you begin to lie to yourself, that’s bad.

Well, then. Well.

And nothing more could be said after that.

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

Harry’s door was unlocked. Hermione was perhaps less surprised at this than she ought to have been. She stepped inside his room quickly, closing the door behind her.

His bed was illuminated by the wall of windows opposite and the skylight above, through which palm and gingko provided the perfect green-grey backdrop. When her eyes flickered over to the bed, her breath was taken clean away.

Watching him sleep never failed to make her heart melt into a little puddle. She loved the way his ridiculously soft black hair fell onto the pillows, how his face always looked so uncannily naked and vulnerable without his glasses, the way the sheet slid down to his waist to reveal strong arms and a well-toned torso.

She hated to disturb his rest...

"I’m not asleep," Harry said, hearing her thoughts and sitting up with a yawn. He stretched, then threw back the covers so that she could join him. "Couldn’t."

Hermione crossed the room gingerly and sat down on the edge of the bed, not daring to look at him. Wishing she’d been woman enough to drag him into her room an hour before... this way, the momentum that began at the concert could have carried them. Now her opportunity seemed to be gone... and she wasn’t quite sure...

Then came his hand, reaching up, lifting a curl of toffee brown hair from her shoulder, twirling it around his finger. She placed her hand over his.

He drew her down upon the bed to face him. Lacing her fingers through his, then bringing her hands close to his face so that he could brush his lips to their backs. There was silence, save for their accelerated breathing and the relentless beating of the rain and their pounding hearts.

"Couldn’t sleep either?"

Slowly, she shook her head.

"Next question. Are you tired?"

She shook her head again.

"Then what are you doing here in my bed, Hermione?"

Because I want you to shag me until I have neither the energy nor the inclination to move ever again, Harry.

Hermione didn’t say that, though. No. She had far too much pride.

Instead, she just lied through her teeth.

"I had another bad dream," she fibbed. "About Ereshkigal, and what happened at the Cabalistica lab. Silly of me, isn’t it, to be so frightened of a little rain and shadow? And I think..." here she trailed off cautiously, "I think I’ve got so used to sleeping in your arms that I don’t know how to do without you any more."

That, at least, was the truth.

He stroked her temple lazily, almost casually. Yet something behind his eyes revealed to her what he was really thinking, really feeling. It brought to Hermione’s mind all the many near-misses of the past seven weeks, nights of "almost but not quite" and "not yet" and other excuses that seemed to dissolve in her mind like snow in April.

How utterly silly she had been.

Under his eyes, she shifted impatiently. Something akin to a whimper escaped her lips.

"Is that all?"

"No, it’s not..."

"Then what is it?"

With her heart in her mouth, Hermione took a deep breath and said it.

"I want you tonight, Harry. More than anything else in the world, I want you. Pact be damned, I don’t think I can wait another night for you." She lowered her eyes, and with gentle fingers he raised her chin so that she was looking directly at him again. "Please."

He smiled. "So I win?"

"Depends on how good you are. My memory could just be playing tricks on me."

Suddenly, Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Hermione gasped with surprise as he pulled her flush against him so that there was no space between them. And apparently no cloth, either, other than the ice-blue silk of her dressing robe. From the scent of him, and from the soapy tang of the skin that was now tickling her lips and tongue, since leaving her he’d showered and dried off. And that was all.

In that moment, he became her world. As their mouths met, fusing, tongues dancing, lips and teeth serving as point and counterpoint, something at the very core of her quaked.

Yet this total invasion of her senses wasn’t enough anymore. It wasn’t nearly enough.

He drew back, and they both released their breaths in a shared pant.

"I want you too, Hermione," he grated out, stroking her back down to her hips through the robe. "You can’t know how much. I think I’ll die if I have to wait another second... but are you sure?"

Harry’s hands and words made Hermione feel as if she was made of crystal... and that at any moment, he was going to make her shatter.

"Yes, I’m very sure," she breathed. "And Harry? You don’t have to ever ask again for something that’s always been yours... from now on, just take it."

The melody of the rain outside added to the atmosphere. She felt as if she was lying beneath one of the tropical waterfalls they’d trekked through in the rainforest. A brown-haired, brown-eyed dryad, offering her body as a living sacrifice to a green-eyed forest king.

His hands reached for the sash of her robe, shaking a little... but no more unsteady as her entire body was at the moment. Hermione was positively quivering.

"Hermione..." She’d never heard his voice so deep before. Or so urgent. "I just... I mean, I can’t... I know you can remember now... how I was with you before... in Avalon... at the Terrace... butGodknowsIcantbegentlewithyouthistime," the last bit came out in a heated rush of breath against the skin of her neck. "Don’t expect it of me. Not just yet, anyway."

He shuddered as if he was attempting to contain something that would not be contained, and her own shivers were his answer. From Ipanema Beach to here in Itacaré, she knew that she’d been priming him for this, knew she didn’t want him gentle and tender, not just yet. Time enough for that later.

This first time she wanted him to claim her as his, without preamble, without explanation, without apology or regret.

Hermione nodded once. That was all she had time to do. An instant later, she was lying down face up in the center of his bed, pinioned between his thighs, and their eyes were locked together as he untied her robe quickly and let each side fall with a whisper to the sheet beneath.

Looking down at her, he made a sound, either a curse or a prayer or perhaps a bit of both. She reached up, placing her hands over his shoulders as he settled most of his weight on his elbows. One knee spread her legs wide, as if in offering...

Then with a single swift motion, he sheathed himself to the hilt within her. Her mouth opened wide and a small gasp escaped, answered by his own helpless groan as he pulled her up to him as if he wanted to absorb her.

Neither of them wanted or needed any further foreplay... two long months of self-imposed torture and twelve long years of heartache had been more than enough.

"Only this first time, Hermione... just this time," he rasped, tasting the salt and scent of her hairline. Another whimper fell from her lips, and she clutched his shoulders hard. "So beautiful... got to have you this way first... need to possess you... infect you... claim you."

Harry pulled back a little, only to delve deeply into her again. Then he pressed her down so that she reveled in the very weight and feel of him for a moment, just before he began to move in earnest.

Hermione struggled a bit against him now, her own arousal not being quite enough at that point to mute the invading, battering presence that seemed to knock at the door of her very soul. She’d pushed him over the edge these past few weeks with her antics, with her teasing and denial, and now she was paying the piper. Not that she minded such payment... but this... this total assault...

When he felt it, she knew it. She knew he was tasting her vulnerability on the tip of his tongue, knew that to him it was the ultimate aphrodisiac that a woman who was so self-confident and self-reliant could surrender so sweetly in his arms. And indeed, he wasn’t really hurting her... his presence was so overwhelming that she was only afraid of losing all control.

At the same time, she felt his triumph and total arousal... felt her own presence invading his bloodstream, filling his heart and his mind...

"Harry..." she finally managed to gulp, tears streaming down her face, heart so full that she was certain it would burst open in short order.

Quickly, his lips pressed against her cheekbones. The better to taste each teardrop.

"Say it again," he demanded, continuing his ungentle motions as his lips mouthed those words next to the smooth skin of her cheekbone, then against her own again.

She did. Over and over again she said his name, until it became a hymn in her soul, utterly sacred to her. Her entire body convulsed, legs wrapped anaconda-tight about him in a futile attempt to contain the sensations that jolted her like the lightning that flashed outside. Her lips came up to meet his forehead, tongue tracing the scar of old, then covering it with little bites.

Her hips rose in time with his motions, eagerly answering his clarion call with a siren response. And indeed there was no beginning and no end to that response... nothing as simple as a mere climax. It was almost as if he had set her upon a lofty peak and had temporarily abandoned her there... there was no such thing as floating back down to Earth. Not yet.

In her heart, she knew that his body was not only reminding her of whose she was, but also whose she had always really been. It was also asking her a question, repeating it over and over with each stroke, demanding her answer.

When it came, it came as a scream.

"Yes!" she cried. "Oh, dear Merlin... Harry, yes!"

Something broke within both of them then, something akin to the thunderclaps outside, something that had never been present during their previous stolen, sweet moments of loving... something desperate, something feral and savage. Animal, even.

She arched up to meet him as their frenzied, brutal lovemaking reached its zenith, and finally, finally he was climbing the peak he’d set her upon earlier to rescue her. He sped up the pace then, and she thought she’d go utterly mad from the impact.

His teeth were on her neck, tracing and tasting the skin there. Her small fingernails dug sharply into his shoulders, his back, and his backside. They savaged each other in desperate, violent need, nipping and clawing, trying to pull the other inside of themselves in their all-consuming need to be one.

And when he reached her, their strangled cries mingled and pounded against their senses as surely as the rain pounded against the windowpanes just above and beyond. Her name or something akin to it escaped Harry’s lips in a roar. As for Hermione, she spun into blissful unconsciousness... the mark of the sated hyperempath.

She came to, and all she saw were his eyes. Then he kissed her, making her heart melt afresh.

"No, no..." she murmured weakly, weeping without any shame at all, tightening her legs about him again. "Don’t... leave me... please don’t leave..."

"Never, love," he rasped heavily, tasting the salt of her hairline, rolling over onto his back and taking her with him so that her sobs were cradled against his chest. "Never, never."

And those simple, few words, shared between two lovers, said all that needed to be said at a time like this.

I’m sorry. And oh, how I love you.

You’re forgiven... and in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I love you too.

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

The first fingers of dawn had barely touched the sky when Harry first opened his eyes the next morning. The downpour of the storm had relented sometime during the night, and only the dripping of the leaves onto the skylight above remained.

Somewhere in the rainforest beyond, a single bird sang.

He blinked a couple of times, then realized that he was not alone. Tucked into the curve of his arm, curled into him was his Hermione, sleeping so heavily that it made him smile. He couldn’t be certain if it had been the alcohol or him, but it was amusing to see his morning lark still meandering in the deepest reaches of her dreams.

Once hadn’t been enough. After that cataclysmic first time, they’d relaxed a bit, each murmuring sweet little incoherencies against the other’s hair and skin and lips, until they were on the brink of sleep... almost, but not quite.

Their second joining was less hurried than the first. Reminiscent of their night together three and a half years before... sans expensive champagne, of course.

After that, they’d slept lightly... for perhaps an hour or two. But sometime during the middle of the night, she’d reached for him again... or perhaps he’d reached for her... or more likely, they’d reached for each other in silent agreement and mutual need.

In the darkness, they had come together swiftly once more, getting to the point, with her in control this time. Then they slumbered for good, for the night.

And in the morning, she was still here.

The certainty of her presence struck him so hard that his eyes began to sting.

Hermione was here. Last night she’d come to him of her own volition. This time he hadn’t coaxed her into it. This time she wasn’t engaged or married, and neither was he...

Suddenly, a wild thought struck him.

Why not ask her to marry him?

What? Why, so she can laugh in your face? Harry, you must be mad. It’s far too soon. Things are going well... don’t mess up now like you always do.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Hermione stirred softly. Harry pressed his lips to her neck as she yawned, and shifted, and stretched into him.

"Mmm," she mumbled, smiling just before she opened her eyes.

"‘Mmm’. That’s a most eloquent way of putting it."

"Good morning, handsome," she whispered, turning over so she could kiss him, morning breath and all. Then she yawned and stretched again. "Oh, there’s a dreadful stitch in my side... and my head’s so foggy... I don’t know what’s wrong with me."

"You’ve likely got a hangover."

"No, I don’t," she protested. "Other than that, I feel just fine. You?"

"Fair bit of a headache, but that’s to be expected." He kissed her again, then settled her more comfortably into his arms. "We didn’t get much sleep last night, did we?"

"We can sleep when we’re dead," Hermione said huskily, hip brushing against his as she stretched up to cup his temples in her hands. "Anything else aching? Other than your head, I mean?"

"As a matter of fact, Dr. Granger, there is something you can help me with once you’ve finished seeing to my headache..."

Hermione swung her other leg over his. "Is there? And just what might that be, Mr. Potter?" Her hands smoothed over his cheeks. "You must be certain to share all your symptoms with your doctor, if you want the most effective cure."

Kingsley Amis famously wrote in his book, On Drink: There's no better cure for a hangover than making love to your partner the following morning. Indeed, studies have shown that lovemaking releases the feel-good chemicals endorphins, into the bloodstream. These also carry a natural analgesic.

During lovemaking, blood drains away from the brain, reducing the intensity any headache. Metabolic rate also increases, meaning the liver has to work faster to rid the body of all hangover symptoms. Sex also encourages the participants to breathe more deeply, a process which helps to oxygenate the blood and aid the recovery process.

Therefore, it was a while before they spoke intelligently again. For after Hermione "cured" Harry’s hangover, they showered together, Harry finally making good on certain promises he’d made to himself nearly two months before. He shampooed her hair up into a cone-shaped beehive, told her she looked like Marge Simpson, and got a handful of bath suds in his mouth for his trouble.

Once they were fully rinsed, they sat in a single chair, wrapped up in damp towels, contemplating the day ahead.

"What time is Renato coming back?" asked Hermione.

"Sometime after breakfast. Around noon."

She rested her head against his chest. "We still need to talk. About everything, you know."

"I know." He stroked her cheek. "We will."

They sat like that for a while, until their skin was nearly dry.

"What time is it?" Hermione finally murmured, half-drowsy again.

"Almost but not quite eight o’ clock."

"That early? Breakfast isn’t for another two and a half hours!"

He dropped a kiss on the top of her wet hair. "We could always go for a walk, you know. See what, if anything, in the village is open this time of morning."

"We could, yes." Hermione considered it. "Sounds like a plan, actually. Otherwise, I’ll doze off again."

So she slipped back to her room to get her change of clothes. Then, dressed again, they slipped out of the quiet hotel, trying to contain their laughter like two silly kids.

"Don’t you feel like we slipped out of Gryffindor Tower just then?" Hermione laughed, as they left the resort grounds for the park trail leading to the beach.

"Yeah, only we don’t have my Invisibility Cloak or Ron with us," Harry said, laughing too.

"Oh, I think Ron would kill us if we woke him up this early," she said. "He’s less of a morning person than you are... and besides, I don’t want him particularly right now. I only want you."

His reply was not in words, but in his eyes. She laced his fingers through his, and they walked.

The shore path to Itacaré village was actually the longest route by a good hour. Neither Harry nor Hermione minded. They meandered down the shore, waving at the workers who were cleaning up the rain-soaked remains of the night before, leaving behind twin sets of footprints that were soon washed over by the incoming tide.

Every so often, those footprints would be irregular... for every so often, Harry would stop, and turn, and lift her off her feet for a kiss.

They reached the village around nine-thirty, and found, of all things, a Starbucks Café. As an American franchise, of course they were open. Yankee businesses didn’t believe in keeping decent hours or giving their employees holidays... if there was money to be made, their doors would be open.

"There has got be a Starbucks in the Gobi Desert, Harry," said a much-amused Hermione, bringing over her espresso, his frappuchino, and a sweet roll on a tray.

He took the tray from her hands, set it on the table, and pulled her down onto his lap. "And in the Congo as well, I’d wager... we know there’s some in the Amazon. We saw them in Manaus and Santarém. Evil Americans."

"Yes, in Oxford Starbucks bled all the local teahouses dry... we’ve got about seven of them in the city centre now. Like a lot of bloody leeches, they are."

"Yeah, but leeches that make great chocolate. You’ve got to give them that..."

She watched him sip his frappuchino thoughtfully. Without waiting for her to ask, he held it to her lips.

"Nice and sweet," was her assessment. "Too much milk and cream, though... and this early a lot of anything that rich would give me a stomachache."

"Let me have some of yours, then." After taking a sip of the double espresso, he frowned. "Now, that’s what I’d call undiluted petrol. I never understood how you could drink the stuff."

"Caffeine addiction," Hermione admitted. "When you’re a workaholic as I am, strong coffee really is petrol... it gets you going."

He touched her lips with his fingers. "Yes, we really do have to talk, Hermione. Not only about us, but about the way we live."

"I’ll have to start all over when we get back home anyway. I’m not certain if I’ll be going back to the clinic, or my hospitals, or the MMRI, or..."

Harry shushed her with his lips.

"Just don’t worry about it right now, okay? No matter what, you’ll always be taken care of."

She popped a bite of the pastry into his mouth. "I don’t need to be taken care of, thanks. I’ve always taken care of myself."

"And a fine job you’ve done of it," he said sincerely, returning the favor. "But the idea isn’t necessarily that you need to be taken care of. We all know you can do that in a pinch. What might be interesting to contemplate, then, is whether you’d ever want to be taken care of. If not forever, then just for a time."

She stared at him for a moment, not believing her ears. "I’d get bored. However would I amuse myself?"

His eyes darkened. "I can think of several ways."

"Oh, you! Silly... none of those ways would be possible if you’re working and I’ve got eight to ten long hours every day to fill up."

"You’d find something, I’m sure. You could read and garden all day if you wanted. Or better yet, write a medical textbook or something." He grinned, then mumbled fast, "Of course, the most productive use of that time would be to learn to cook..."

"What’s that about my cooking, Harry Potter?"

"Nothing, nothing!"

"As a matter of fact, I can make all sorts of dishes..."

"Hermione, you make exactly seven things, none of which besides toast I am particularly fond of. And of those, six of them are instant or ready-made or quick-magic recipes." Harry shook his head. "I’ll teach you to cook. Someone should have done long ago..."

"I never had the time or the inclination," Hermione grinned. "But if I’m properly motivated, I’m certain that I’ll cotton on sooner or later."

"Oh, I’ll motivate you, all right. You can be sure of that." He grinned. "But until you get the hang of things, for the sake of our digestive tracts I’ll do the cooking... you’ll just stick to the washing up." Then his grin turned positively wicked. "Aren’t you a lucky witch? Not many women can say that they’ve got a boyfriend who’s great in the kitchen and in bed..."

The door of the café swung open. Before Hermione could glance to see who it was, Harry had captured her mouth in a possessive, all-consuming kiss.

"Harry, what?"

"‘You have ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse,’" he replied in a husky tone, but loud enough for the patron to hear, just before kissing her again. "You have ravished my heart with one look of your eyes..."

Hermione broke the kiss and turned towards the door to see the girl who’d asked Harry to dance the night before, mouth gaped open in fury. Behind her, holding her hand, was the American Muggle who’d offered to buy Hermione a drink.

"Let’s go, Margarethe," Robert told the woman, glaring at Harry and Hermione. "I think if we eat here I’ll be sick."

And as Robert and Margarethe walked out of Starbucks in a huff, the last sound they heard was the silvery sound of the couple’s laughter.

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

"Hi, Zach!" Riki said, running ahead of Ron to greet the young man as he backed out of Eva’s suite carefully, baby in arms. "How did you sleep?"

"Well, thanks for asking. And you? What time did you get in?"

"I can’t remember. I think I fell asleep on the sand... then Ron was shaking me so we could come back. Then Ron told me to sleep in his room, and left with Juliana and Magda... then it was morning."

The young boy yawned and rubbed his eyes. When he saw Eva, he smiled.

"Hey, Evinha! Can I hold the baby?"

Eva nodded at Zach. "Of course you can."

"Hello, little baby... you know, I always wanted a baby brother, but Mum and Dad said that I’d have to be content with them. Did you ever want a brother or sister, Eva?"

"Sim," Eva replied. "But I feel as if I have a sister in Juli."

"What about you, Ron, Zach?"

"I’ve got brothers to spare, and a sister tossed in for good measure," groaned Ron. "Not to mention their spouses and children and all that... I used to wish I was an only child."

"I’ve only got one brother," Zach said. "And as I’m not speaking to him at the moment, I don’t have an opinion one way or the other."

Ron, having knocked on Harry’s door, was now knocking at Hermione’s. Next door, the door to Juliana’s room swung open... and out stepped Magdalena, clad in a robe that she was holding together. The sash was conspicuously missing.

"Dios!" she exclaimed, squinting at the bright hallway light. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven," Zach said, covering his smile with a hand. "Good morning to you both. Did you sleep well?"

Juliana, also in a robe, came to stand behind Lena. She curved her hands over the shorter woman’s shoulders.

"We are sorry, but we will not be having breakfast with you today," Juliana said. "We will see you when it is time to check out."

And with that, Juliana closed the door in their faces.

Zach chortled. "My God, I wonder what was in that caipirinha?"

"Do not be stupid," Eva said, jumping into her boyfriend’s arms so that he could swing her around. "It was just a perfect night in a perfect place. Made for lovers..."

"Ew," said Riki with a frown as they kissed. "That’s gross."

Ron was frowning too. "Listen, I’m worried about Harry and Hermione. It isn’t like Harry not to answer my knock, and Hermione is always up at some ungodly hour unless she’s sick."

"Perhaps they are not here," Eva suggested between kisses. "Zach told me he saw Harry standing alone with two girls... he could be with one of them."

"Or both," said Zach, still laughing, trying to catch his breath and kiss Eva at the same time.

"Nah, ‘both’ is not Harry’s style. It would be either or... he just isn’t into that sort of excess." Ron’s frown deepened. "Actually, I saw those two girls. Hermione got rid of them, and was trying to heal his hand... then told me to go away."

"They ignored each other at dinner," Eva said thoughtfully.

"Oh, but babe, you should have seen them at the concert," Zach told her. "They were ready to claw each other’s eyes out. Are you sure they’re not together, Ron?"

"If they are, they’re not in their rooms," he said. "Come on, let’s go down to breakfast... if they don’t show, then we’ll drum up a search party."

As it happened, no search party was needed. When they reached the restaurant, Harry and Hermione were sitting at the same table they’d all occupied the night before, in their same seats.

Harry was surveying the menu.

Hermione was reading the paper.

They both looked up from what they were doing when the others

"Hello," they chorused.

Ron looked from one to the other, then folded his arms.

"Oh, no. That’s it. We’re not going anywhere until tomorrow. Once Juliana and Magdalena decide to emerge from their love nest, and Renato gets here, we will go question Solon ourselves..."

"Since when do you make the decisions?" Harry said, raising an eyebrow. "Sirius put me in charge of the search, let’s not forget..."

"That was before last night," Ron said, trying his best not to laugh. "Harry, where are your glasses?"

Harry’s hand went up to the side of his face. Then he reddened.

"Right. I was wondering how on earth you were reading that menu without them. And speaking of reading, Hermione, in the more than twenty years that I’ve known you, I have never seen you read a broadsheet upside down."

Hermione went pink, but met Ron’s eyes defiantly. "I’m always up for new challenges, of course..."

Everyone laughed.

"Of course. Nice try. Get upstairs, both of you. If we run into Solon, we’ll let you know. If not, see you tomorrow morning. Unless, of course," here the corner of his lip twitched, "you’d rather not."

They didn’t have to be told twice.

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

Later, much later that afternoon, Harry was sitting up in bed, the covers at his waist. Hermione’s head was rested upon his lap, using his thighs as a pillow, the rest of her curved around his legs and feet. His own fingers twined through and stroked her hair as she dozed lightly.

When Ron had ordered them back upstairs, they didn’t fall immediately into one another’s arms again.

Instead, they just curled in up that chair near the balcony window and talked.

First, they’d talked about the past. This didn’t take nearly as long as it would have for just about any other couple. Rather, it was more a study in filling the gaps and cracks that had formed in their friendship and relationship since Avalon... and explaining things misunderstood.

"I did try to confess about that memory charm," he’d told her. "Remember the afternoon before Fred and Angelina’s wedding, in the hall?"

Hermione thought a moment, then nodded vaguely. "I’m not certain..."

"Remember, you tried to get me to come out of the closet."

She tossed her head back then, laughing, remembering. "Oh, my goodness! So I did!" Then she nudged him. "You’re such a bloody git, Harry. Actions speak louder than words... you should have just grabbed me and kissed me."

"Like this, you mean?" he asked, demonstrating.

"Yeah," she whispered back once the demo was done. "Exactly like that."

Then they talked about her marriage.

"Were you ever happy with him, Hermione?"

"I was, yes," she admitted. "The first few years were good... and I’m sorry for what I said the other day in Salvador, Harry. You really thought I would be happier with him than with you, didn’t you?"

"Yes and no," he admitted. "Of course I felt guilty for shagging you behind Ron’s back... and then Sirius telling me the world was going to end if I was with you didn’t help, either. Tartarus was fresh in my mind then... and so was the war. He knew exactly which buttons to push."

Hermione shook her head. "Well, now that the world’s falling apart anyway, what the hell, I say..."

"Got to grab your happiness while you can," Harry agreed. "There’s little enough of that in this world, right?"

"Right," sighed Hermione. "Oh, Harry. We’ve wasted so much time. Just imagine if we’d been together straight out of Avalon..."

"Ron wouldn’t have been with Mo then. He would not have been half as understanding... as it was, he barely spoke to me for a year after he learned what happened between us, and that was eight years after the fact. He’s mellowed out over the years."

"Well, so what? He would have felt hurt and betrayed, but he would have got over it..."

"He might not have, Hermione. And at the time, I wasn’t ready to be with you. If I was, I would have been." He sighed deeply. "Twelve years. Seems more like a lifetime ago... we were both little more than children then."

"Nearly that," she said, smoothing the hair away from his forehead and temples. "But to me it seems as if it was only yesterday... do you ever wish to go back? I know you can’t, but if you could?"

"Only if I could go with you."

She smiled. "I’d like nothing better."

They then talked about the present. About Diana and Jack... Hermione shed some bitter tears over the good doctor who’d been both boyfriend and mentor during her Atlanta days. About her birthday, and the aftermath. About her capture and ordeal in the Cabalistica facility, and his search. About her loss of magic, and what they could do to find out what happened to her. About the very real dangers they still faced, and the risks they were taking.

Then they talked about the future.

"So it’s settled, then... you will come to live with me?"

"Are you kidding? If you hadn’t asked, I was moving in anyway." Hermione frowned. "Is that woman’s stuff all over the place? Or is it still the bach pad I remember?"

"Diana took most of her things with her when she left me. And as your father’s staying there, I’m sure it’s reverted to a male domain..."

"Oh, Dad. That’s right, I forgot." She grinned. "There’s another one who’s not going to be very happy about this."

"So you admit it at last! Your father really does hate me."

"I have no idea why. What did you do to him?"

"Nothing but fall for his little girl, I swear. But I wasn’t the only one... why do I always feel as if he wants to tear me limb from limb?"

"Something you’ll have to ask him when we see him next."

"Great," said Harry. "Anyway, once he goes back to Oxford, you can fix the place up any way you like. As long as there are no pink bows, floral bedsheets, or yellow fuzzy pillows involved. Or if you’d rather, we can find a place somewhere else and I can commute back and forth..."

"You have got to be kidding. Ayr is one of the loveliest spots in all of Scotland. Why on earth would I want to live anywhere else but there?" She settled in closer. "Besides, I have an ulterior motive. I’ve got plenty of naughty fantasies that have a certain woodcutter’s cottage as the setting..."

"Wicked," Harry chided her.

"Which is just how you like me."

"That’s just how I love you, beautiful," he corrected. "We’re far beyond ‘like’ here."

Hermione sighed with content. "Oh, it’ll be perfect. Just the two of us... in our little love-nest... finally together..." she yawned, "with no more worries or woes."

Above her head, Harry’s brow furrowed.

"Do you want it to be only the two of us always, Hermione?"

"Why?" She giggled. "Neither of us are into the whole menage-du-trois thing... what, are you saying you wouldn’t be satisfied with only me?"

"No, what I am saying is that we’ve not used our heads over the past twenty-four hours. For a woman who swears often that she’d make a terrible mother, you aren’t doing much to prevent yourself from becoming one."

"What about you?" asked Hermione lazily. "It’s a shared responsibility, you know."

"Ah, the doctor rears her pretty head again... I feel like I’m back in Snape’s Personal Health Management mini-course. Well, if you must know, it was sheer lack of forethought. I was quite prepared, but my preparation is all in Salvador, while we’re here," he replied with some amusement. "But I don’t mind the consequences as much as you do."

"You don’t?" Hermione said with a laugh.

"No, I don’t. In fact, I don’t mind children at all. I happen to enjoy them immensely... especially if I can help them have a better childhood than I did."

"Well, Harry... you know how I feel about it."

He nodded. "Yes, I do. And you know that I respect that." At least, for the time being.

"This isn’t the right time of the month for me to worry anyway. Next week is when we’ve got to be careful," Hermione said, matter-of-factly.

"Then, my love, if you don’t wish to worry, we both need to take the appropriate measures."

"What would that be? Decide not to have sex again until after the New Year?"

In reply to that, he’d shifted her around so that she was straddling his lap, facing him.

"You must be mad," he groaned.

And then for the better part of a blissful hour, Harry proceeded to show Hermione just how mad she really was.

Once mutually convinced of her insanity, they’d curled up together in the big bed after another quick shower (they’d been on the trail long enough to overappreciate clean running water), and talked of the upcoming Christmas holiday, and how strange it was to be spending it in the tropics.

"It doesn’t seem like Christmas here, does it? Even with the decorations in the village?"

"No, it’s far too hot for Christmas," she replied. "It’s more like the Fourth of July..."

Harry shook his head. "You’ve been in America too long. What sort of British girl gets excited about a Yankee holiday? Especially that one?"

"Well, it’s spectacular, Harry. Next year we’ll have to go to Atlanta so you can see. The American Muggles really are very patriotic. We haven’t had anything like it in Britain since the Jubilee celebrations ten years ago... although the Americans seem to be more enthusiastic about our royal family than most of us are!"

"Well, having a king instead of a president is what makes us British and not American," Harry pointed out. "And right now, I miss it there."

"Oh, I do as well. What I wouldn’t give to be eating Molly Weasley’s Christmas pudding in six days’ time."

"And the lights.... you haven’t been to Ayr at Christmastime, have you?"

Hermione considered this. "Come to think of it, I’m not certain I ever did. Between the Weasleys and my parents, there was never enough time. And besides," she poked him in the ribs, "you never stayed put during the holidays. You always came down for the festivities."

"So I did. Well, next year, you’ll see how we celebrate in Scotland. You know the forest at the north end of the island, just beyond the cottage? Well, imagine a billion fairy lights..."

"Oh, how lovely! How many spells does that take?"

"It’s not our spells at all. The fir and spruce trees just know. And we always have snow... we don’t believe in green Christmases up there. And the nights are long, but the Northern Lights are clearly visible... and when it’s fair enough, you can see all these stars..." Harry trailed off, avoiding her eyes. "I know, I must sound ridiculous. A grown wizard, totally enraptured by a bit of glitter and a few snowflakes..."

She shook her head. "It sounds enchanting, Harry. I can’t wait to spend Christmas there with you... we’ll have our own tree. And it must have a train around it. I always insisted on a train, but Ron couldn’t imagine why..."

"If you want a train, you’ll have a train. And we’ll stay up all night... and roast chestnuts... and pull Christmas crackers..."

"And it’ll just be the two of us. We can have dinner with the Weasleys, but not Christmas Eve. I love them, but sometimes it’s all so overwhelming... the crush of people and the children with their toys and the small talk..."

"You know, I agree with you. We’ll keep the twenty-fourth for ourselves, then. Christmas Day can be spent with the Weasleys, and of course Boxing Day will be for visiting friends. We’ll start our own holiday tradition..."

"And we’ll party on New Year’s Eve, of course..."

"Well, since they’d be mostly in the south, we can just spend the week in Greater London if you want."

"Where, Harry? On the mercy of our friends?"

"That’s what hotels and inns are for."

"But not every year. Some years we’ll want to go on holiday elsewhere, of course... and some years we’ll want to just stay at home and curl up next to our fire. We’ll just send everyone their presents well in advance."

"And a lot of presents there are to send. Which reminds me... I haven’t done a bit of shopping. I’m not sure if it’s possible, but I’d like to send the kids back home presents."

"Of course you do," laughed Hermione. "Good old Uncle Harry."

"Stop it. You had Malfoy forward them all presents while you were gone. Good old Aunt Hermione, yourself. They’re a fun lot, aren’t they?"

"They are," she said, leaning up to kiss him. "And it’s fun to have a man who doesn’t mind doing his own Christmas shopping..."

"Well, I must confess that I hope you’ll take over. It’s not something I particularly enjoy, but..."

"But you want to make sure that every child you know has a good Christmas always," said Hermione softly. "Harry, I love you so much."

He smiled at her, a bit uncertainly. And in that moment, Hermione was reminded that behind the confident man who was with her now there was still a neglected, love-starved boy who had ten years of missed Christmases to make up for.

She slid down to cradle her own head in his lap, one hand tucked between her ear and his sheet-covered thigh.

"From now on, Harry, whatever you want for Christmas, I promise that I’ll do my very best to make sure you have it. Starting with this one."

And with those words, Hermione drifted off to sleep.

Harry wasn’t tired, though. He sat there for hours, watching her sleep. And thinking.

He had a great deal to think about.

He was still thinking when a soft knock sounded on the door. Glancing down to make sure Hermione was decent, he unlocked it from where he reclined.

It was Ron.

"Got an update about Solon," he said quietly, poking his head in, then quickly back out again. "Hope I’m not interrupting anything..."

"Not at all," Harry whispered. "Just one second..."

Shifting carefully so that Hermione’s head went from lap to pillow without being jarred, Harry slid out of bed, reached for boxers, his glasses, and a robe, then went to the door.

"We can talk on the balcony," Harry said. There’s plenty enough room there."

Ron followed Harry into the room, and avoiding even the slightest glance at the bed, walked out of the sliding door to the balcony. It was early evening now, and the temperature had only cooled slightly. But it was a welcome change from the near-glacial air conditioning, and the air was perfumed with the scent of tropical flowers from the gardens below.

Both men sat down at the small mosaic table before they began talking.

"Did you speak to Solon?"

"No, we didn’t. He’s still in Salvador. But his wife and housekeeper were back home today... and they contacted him to set up an appointment. We’ll be meeting him at his home for a late breakfast, eleven o’ clock tomorrow morning."

"That’s great."

"It is. While the rest of you lot lazed about this afternoon, I went back to have a cafezinho with the lady. She shared quite a bit with me... nothing earth-shattering or that would compromise her husband’s position. But she said that if anyone would know how to get Hermione and Eva’s magic back, it would be the Atlanteans."

Harry frowned. "I still can’t believe it’s a real place. How could it have been hidden all these years?"

"I don’t know. But if it’s a lost paradise we’ve got to find in order to get Hermione’s magic back, then we’ll just have to go. No question."

"Ron, what about your family?" Harry asked quietly. "It’s Christmas."

"Well..." here Ron trailed off, uncomfortably. "I’m not sure what to do. On the one hand, Mrs. Solon seemed to imply that if the Atlanteans wanted eight, and there were eight around when they took Hermione, and I was one of the eight... then I’d have to be along or they wouldn’t let us in, Solon or not."

"That hardly seems fair."

"Well, she said that the eight of us aren’t just going to Atlantis for Hermione and Eva. Evidently there’s something for all of us there." He shrugged. "But I have to be home for Christmas, Harry."

"Perhaps there’s a way that you can do both. You can go from Salvador and come back. If Malfoy’s doing it, then of course you can."

"It’s a security risk. The Cabalistica also knows that I’m actively aiding both Hermione and the resistance. Besides, there’s no link between Ayr and here... the link is in Malfoy and my sister’s bedroom." Here Ron’s long, freckled nose wrinkled with distaste.

"I’m sure Malfoy will oblige, Ron. We’re not boys any longer, as you had to remind me... the man’s got a wife and a child of his own. He’ll understand."

"Yeah, but will Sirius? He’s got a wife and a child as well, and ten Galleons says he’s not going back to them until after the New Year."

Harry let out a deep breath. "Family means something different to a Weasley than it does to Sirius Black. Don’t get me wrong, Sirius is the closest thing I’ve got to a parent, but to him collective duty far outweighs individual sacrifice... ever since just before my parents died, it’s been an obsession with him. Carole Black knows the sort of man she married... and this won’t be Max’s first Christmas without his Dad.

"But your sons... Ron, you’ve got to go. You’ve got to be there for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, if nothing else." He grinned. "Besides, after being here for two long months, I know you miss your wife."

Ron caught Harry’s drift. "I do. Although right now she likely looks as if she’s swallowed a couple of Quaffles. She gets huge whenever she’s expecting..."

"And you still love every bit of her, don’t you?"

"Yeah, of course I do. She’s even more beautiful pregnant, I think... but I think this time will be the last."

Harry shook his head indulgently and laughed. "Liar. If you’re trying to follow in your dad’s footsteps, you’re not even halfway there!"

"Shut up, Harry. Well, what about you and Hermione? What have you decided?"

Harry’s smile faded and his eyes grew distant. "After we finish up in Atlantis and head back home, she’s coming to Ayr with me."

"And?"

"And we’ll take it from there."

"Seems like you’d be a bit happier about it, mate."

"Like I said, it’s a ‘wait and see’ sort of thing."

"Which is bad because...?"

Harry tore his eyes from the swaying leaves and stared at Ron. "Because I want what you have, Ron."

"Ah." Ron looked grim. "Well, as she’s so famous for saying, ‘Men always want what they can’t have.’ I’m afraid that our divorce has soured her on the institution of marriage for good. Or even the idea of permanence in relationships."

"That’s what I’m afraid of as well."

"Well, you must understand you’re likely never going to make a traditional wife out of Hermione, anyway. Flying toads, I tried... but the girl’s too set in her ways. She’s not much like my mum or my wife. She’s not going to bake cookies, and you’re not going to keep her barefoot and pregnant."

"Ron, that’s not what I want at all."

"Then what exactly do you want from her, Harry?"

That question again. Hermione had asked it of him nearly a week before, and now Ron was doing the same.

Fortunately, just then, the sliding doors opened. Hermione, wrapped in her robe, stepped out with a glass in each hand.

"It’s hot out here, isn’t it? Thought you two might like some ice water."

She set the glasses down on the table. Ron, with a nod of gratitude, picked his up and set about the work of draining it. Harry opened his arms so Hermione could sit with him again.

"What did you find out about Solon, Ron?"

Ron repeated everything that he’d told Harry. Hermione frowned.

"I don’t know why I don’t feel the most comfortable about this Atlantis business. Sounds too much like a snake oil sale for some reason."

"Perhaps so, but if it’s the only chance we’ve got to restore your magical ability..."

"Ron, it can’t be that easy. Oh, I wish I had access to the MMRI. There’s something that I’m missing... about both my magical loss and the disease that’s afflicting so many." She turned to Harry for a moment, then back to Ron. "I’ve thought of something else. I think the cases I’ve run into have been Cabalistica test cases. I also think that some of those who were imprisoned with me were tested as well... I’m starting to believe that the Cabalistica is trying to develop a vaccine, and that we were the casualties of that. Our magic, I mean."

"So they want to inoculate all their members first, then kill the rest of us?" asked Ron. "Nice."

"You heard what Fred wrote to Draco. That is one part of their plan. And you know what? Even if the disease isn’t always a killer, if it ensures complete magical loss without the nasty mental side effects of Sponging, then they’ve already won. You’ve seen me... struggle because I can’t use magic. Imagine what these past two months would have been like had none of us been able to use a wand."

Both men were silent.

"Exactly. It goes against every instinct you’ve got. These past three months have been difficult for me, but if I hadn’t had both my Muggle childhood and a recent stint in the Muggle world to fall back on, I would have gone insane. We use magic from the time we awake until we fall asleep at night... it’s very much a part of us, as much as our limbs are." Hermione sighed. "Now I understand what my Sponge patients felt like."

"Hermione, we will get your magic back," Ron said fervently. "No matter what we’ve got to do. I’m here with you until the end."

He said this so sincerely that Hermione’s eyes filled with tears.

"What about your family? Ron, I no longer come first... you’ve done what you came for. I’m safe and sound. You’ve got a wife and children to think of..."

"Do you want me to be here or not, Hermione? Say, if there wasn’t that dinner invitation for eight at Chez Atlantis... would you still want me here?"

Blue eyes locked with brown. No words passed between them, but twenty years and more of memories scrolled through their minds. And not all horrible ones, either.

Slowly, Hermione nodded.

"Always, Ron," she whispered, tears spilling over. "Always."

"Then here I stay," Ron said.

His eyes were moist too.

And the Trio sat there, in silence and in tears, until dusk began to fall.

***********

When night fell, Ron left, saying he wanted a bite to eat and some beach time.

"I’ll see you two tomorrow morning. Don’t stay up too late," he said smilelessly, watching them both turn one interesting shade of red after another. "We’ve got a lot of ground to cover in the morning."

"And why would we do that?" Hermione said, recovering first. "Stay up late, that is?"

"Of course we wouldn’t do that. We’re going to sleep early. We both need our beauty rest," Harry joked. "Although I daresay I need it far more than this one does... if she gets any more beautiful, then I’m going to have to take a cue from our Arabic friends and insist she wear a veil."

"And I bet you’d like a harem too, wouldn’t you?" Hermione said with mock severity. "Pig."

"Of course he would," Ron said, nudging Harry over Hermione’s head. "I’d like one myself. What wizard in his right mind wouldn’t?"

Harry laughed, but Hermione was not pleased.

"Men."

After saying good-night to Ron, Harry and Hermione stretched out on the bed and ordered room service. Then they took their dinner on the terrace, feeding each other from a single plate, drinking champagne from the same crystal glass. The stars overheard were like a thousand tiny candles... and there was still the heady trifold mix of the jungle, the gardens, and the sea.

"This is nothing like the stuff we had at Draco and Ginny’s wedding," Hermione remarked.

"No, but then, I doubt few others in any world have a cellar like Malfoy’s. That’s why Ginny always gives away so many bottles at Christmas and birthdays... she says he’s got too much of the stuff, and he hardly ever drinks it."

"Draco’s not about using what he’s got," Hermione pointed out. "He’s just about having it."

There were fresh fruits with cream, along with cheese and crackers for dessert. They talked and they ate, and when their mouths weren’t occupied with food or words, they exchanged kisses of every variety.

Then Harry suggested that they have a look at what was on television, as they hadn’t yet had the chance to engage in one of Brazil’s favorite pastimes. Hermione curled up with him for a minute to translate until he dozed off. Then, growing bored with the telly as she usually did, she extracted a small cachet from her bag and slipped into the bathroom.

She’d found the stuff at a Muggle shop in the village the day before, right after she’d purchased the dress. It had come in handy during the bath she’d had just before coming to Harry... nothing else could have relaxed her more. The tub was smaller than the one she’d had in Atlanta, around the same size as the one in her bathroom at Oxford, but nevertheless it would do.

Hermione ran warm water, threw the salts in... and soon the tub was filled with vanilla-scented suds. Once her hair was pinned up, she’d grabbed a face cloth for her eyes, slipped off her robe, and sank down into the bubbles.

**********

When Harry awoke a few minutes later, he was disoriented. For a weird moment, he wondered if the past twenty-four hours had all been a strange dream.

After blinking a few times and wiping his glasses, he relaxed. The telltale signs of girlish things were literally all over the room.

Harry wondered why women always did that. Whether neat and precise or messy slobs, they never restricted their things to one place or one corner, but placed various things all over a room. They’d put their brush on a dresser... their purse on the table... their makeup case and pillbox on the nightstand. Perhaps it was a territorial thing, marking her domain.

Then he heard splashing, and humming.

Of course, he was going to investigate. If she hadn’t wanted him to, she would have locked the bathroom door, right?

The sight that greeted his eyes was absolutely tantalizing. She couldn’t have enacted one of his pet fantasies better if she’d interviewed him and taken copious notes.

"And here I thought I’d already had dessert," he whistled.

Hermione removed the face cloth from her eyes. "Harry!"

She sank down so that only her head was visible above the bubbles. He laughed, walked into the bathroom, leaned forward... and swirled the water around. She screamed, brandished the wet washcloth as a whip, and smacked him soundly in the head with it.

"Ow!"

"Good for you," she said. "Harry, you scared me half to death! I could have drowned."

"You scare too easily. And I wouldn’t have let you drown," Harry replied, taking off his glasses to wipe the water from his eyes. "Let me wash your back."

Hermione sent a petulant look his way.

"What’s wrong with that?"

"This tub isn’t big enough for two."

"We don’t need much room, do we?"

"Harry," she frowned, "my bath time is... well, special. It’s the only method of relaxation I’ve ever tried that actually works."

"I see. So I take it you don’t really care to share your bath with me, then."

"Don’t take it personally. I don’t care to share my bath with anyone. Same as I don’t use the loo with anyone around."

Harry grimaced. "Okay, point taken."

"Just... go back into the room, all right? I’ll be done with this in a little while, and I’ll make it up to you. You’ll see."

And she looked at him so wickedly that he nearly complied immediately.

But he tried another course of action first.

"Right, that sounds good. Tell you what. I don’t have to share the tub with you at all, but why don’t I give you a back massage before I leave?"

Hermione looked skeptical. "Only a massage, Harry?"

"Only a massage, Hermione. Same as you’ve given me many times before any of this happened. Same as I’d give to any friend."

She studied his face a moment, then conceded. "All right."

Triumphant, he came to the side of the tub, placed his hands on her shoulders, and began to knead. It only took a few seconds before Hermione relaxed into his touch.

After a while, Hermione handed his the washcloth. "You know, I think I do want you to soap my back..."

And after another shorter while, she said: "Might be snug, but see if you can fit in here..."

Then after yet more time had passed, and the water was lukewarm, and the suds had mostly gone flat, she murmured to him, "How large did you say the bathtub was at home?"

"I didn’t. But it’s about this size, more or less."

"I see. Well, Harry, I’ve only got two things to say to you. The first is that if you ever give anyone else a massage like that, I’m going to have to hurt you. Badly."

He laughed in her ear. "All right. What’s the second thing?"

"We’ve got to have a bigger tub installed. As a matter of priority. Because we have to try this at home."

Once they were dried, and back in the room, Harry asked her if she’d ever tried yoga as stress relief.

"You’re always so tense, love, even when there’s nothing to be stressed about. I’m just wondering if you’d tried anything other than your sacred bath ritual to alleviate it."

"Well, Draco’s studied Eastern magic and homeopathic remedies, and he got Ginny into it as well, but I’m too damned impatient. I never stuck with it. He couldn’t get me into it, not really, and although I joined a class in Atlanta it wasn’t a priority." She looked at him skeptically. "Don’t tell me that you’ve done yoga. That really doesn’t seem like you at all."

"Not at all. It’d be impossible for me to clear my mind of everything at once, anyway. Unless I’m..." his fingers traced her arm, "well, let’s just say that I’ve tried something closely related to yoga that works."

"What’s that?"

He told her.

She blushed.

"Oh, dear. Why did I know you were going to say that?"

"You mean to tell me that you’ve never..."

"Well, I’ve read all about it, of course."

"But you’ve never actually..."

No, she hadn’t actually! Hermione had been married, and as doctor and mediwitch she knew a lot of things, but her actual experience in bed wasn’t all that vast. She’d been far too busy for many carefree romps as a fiancee and a wife... and Jack’s demands hadn’t been all that frequent, considering his age.

Even a few post-marital flings hadn’t been enough to convince her that she wasn’t an absolute dud in bed. As confident as she was about everything else, at thirty-two she wasn’t all that sure of herself when it came to... well, this sort of thing. Between the sheets she was usually restrained and dutiful, but also not extremely adventurous.

Once again, Harry was proving to be the exception to the rule.

A bit embarrassed and very flustered, she shook her head, still blushing.

"Ah. Well, you’re in for a treat, then. Reading about it is one thing. Actually doing it is infinitely better." He kissed her. "You’ll love this. Guaranteed."

And he discarded their towels, and turned off the lights so that the only illumination came from the bright moon, and pulled her to sit with him upon the rug, on the floor.

For tantra, first you must sit in my lap, face to face...

And all through the night, Hermione learned that the Kama Sutra wasn’t merely a historical account, but an instruction manual.

Later, much later, Hermione drowsily curled up next to Harry and asked for a bedtime story.

"A story?"

"Yes, a story. I’m used to reading myself to sleep... and I can’t possibly read after that, now can I?" A smile played about her lips as she pressed them into his chest. "All thanks to you, of course."

So he began to tell their story, the story that Sirius had diabolically told on that night that all their lives had changed so drastically forever.

But now, there was more to tell.

"And when the princess learned of her grave betrayal at the hands of the knight and the prince, it broke her heart. She forsook both crown and throne, becoming a lady-in-waiting..."

"Lady-in-waiting. I’ve always wondered about that term. What on earth was she waiting for?"

"Listen to the story, and you’ll find out."

So he told the story of the forlorn former princess, who journeyed to a distant land to mend her broken heart. There she lived and made new friends and found new love. Meanwhile, the knight searched far and wide for her, until all the nobles of the court marveled at his devotion. He avoided the prince, but in time, there was a new princess... and his old friend admitted him to the royal court again, although there now existed a cool formality between them.

The former princess, now a lady-in-waiting, grew dreadfully homesick. She returned from the distant land, and trysted with the knight once more before running away again. But in time she was captured by a fearful dragon, and the prince and the knight rescued her, slaying the dragon and...

"No, no. Neither the prince nor the knight slew the dragon this time," yawned Hermione. "The princess... lady-in-waiting, rather... escaped from the dragon’s lair herself. If you’re going to tell the tale, darling, you have to tell it right."

"And I ask you, fair lady," he said, kissing her softly, "who’s telling this story, you or me?"

"No wonder scholars can’t sort truth from fiction when they peruse the old legends," she remarked drowsily. "Go on, Sir Harry.... I won’t interrupt again."

He did continue, telling of the reunion of the knight, the prince, and the lady, of the new lands they traversed, the new people they met, and the wondrous feats that were accomplished.

And then he told of the night when the lady-in-waiting came to the knight... and loved him at last.

"So as the moon rose, the knight asked the lady-in-waiting, so unearthly fair as she rested in his arms at long last, ‘wilt thou be my wife?’ And the lady said in reply…"

But Hermione said nothing. Exhaustion mingled with content had its way with her at long last. She was fast asleep.

Harry’s arms tightened around her as he closed his eyes. The long hours of thinking earlier came back to him. He hadn’t been able to come to a decision then. He wasn’t sure if his timing was off. Neither was he much for gambling. He had been trained in wizardry as a Gryffindor, so he wasn’t averse to risk... as long as the cost was counted.

He no longer trusted his judgment when it came to her.

He didn’t like being uncertain, either.

At least, he hadn’t been certain until he’d finished the tale. Now not only was he certain indeed, he knew. He finally knew how the story must end. Even if it meant tossing the dice, he knew how to had to answer Hermione’s question, and Ron’s question.

What more could you possibly want from me?

What exactly do you want from her, Harry?

Oh, yeah. Harry knew what he wanted this Christmas, and from Hermione forever.

Absolutely everything.

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