Trouble in Paradise: Chapter Nine

Trouble In Paradise

--a *Harry Potter* fanfic by AngieJ (also known as Ebony Elizabeth)

DISCLAIMER: All of the characters, settings, and major plot lines belong to J.K. Rowling. Any original characters, settings, or plot developments are only possible because of the foundation she’s provided. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 9 – Lady Marmalade

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on; nor all your Piety nor wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all your Tears wash out a word of it."

--The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

(stanza 71, as translated from the Arabic by Edward FitzGerald)

For a moment, we all were still. I was instantly reminded of my fourth year, when the Chamber of Secrets was opened, and Voldemort’s pet basilisk was slithering about turning everyone into statues.

Sirius stood in the office doorway with an "I told you so" glance at the others. Carole was right next to him, eyes fixed on me. An expressionless Professor Lupin and an anxious Janet MacCullough flanked them.

And I... well, I was still half-bent over the exposed intercom on Lupin’s desk, ashamed at having been caught red-handed.

Through that intercom, the voices of Harry and Hermione sounded again.

"What is it?" she asked, sounding a bit weary.

"They’re back," Harry replied.

She made a small exclamation of fright, sort of a cross between a yelp and a screech.

"Oh, Harry! I’m terribly sorry. I should have never shared any of this with you... should have never asked... should have never brought you into the middle of this at all. I don’t know what came over me... please forget everything I’ve just said."

Before Harry could respond, the speaker was suddenly switched off with a loud beep, and the intercom itself lowered back into Lupin’s desk. Both Lupin and Janet had disappeared. Either Carole or Sirius had done it, then.

"What do you think you’re doing, Angelina?" snarled Sirius, face very severe, jaw muscles clenched tight and twitching underneath his five-o’-clock shadow.

I felt very, very small.

"Um... borrowing a quill?"

This seemed to make him even angrier. "Tell me. Is your constant meddling some sick form of amusement, or is your own life really that dull?"

"I am merely a victim of circumstance," I said as indignantly as someone under the gun could. "Seems to be the story of my life. I didn’t ask to be here today... but I am."

"Yes," came a voice from the hallway. "You are. But one has to wonder... why?"

It was my husband. Sure enough, Fred now stepped into the office. Fuming. This made me extremely angry. As if he had the right! He’d seen fit to dump our daughter off on an obviously unstable woman to go gallivanting off with his equally deranged kid brother! What hurt worst of all was that he knew full well what Ron was up to... and hadn’t told me, his life partner.

Well, he wouldn’t be casting me in the villain’s role. Neither would Sirius or anyone else. I was simply caught in the wrong place doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. Could have happened to anyone, right?

So I straightened up and folded my arms, meeting my husband’s exasperated stare with an obstinate one of my own.

"If you must know, Hermione was the one who asked me to tag along. I had two visitors yesterday that provided me with some information she wanted me to share here. The first was my sister, Diane Riordan, who may have recently attended a meeting of some strange group called the Cabalistica. The other was Orla Quirke. I suppose none of you want to hear what was said... after all, I’m sure you must attend Cabalistica soirees all the time, and of course Miss Quirke is a regular caller at the illustrious Black and Potter Foundation."

Both Sirius and Fred were speechless.

Carole turned to Sirius, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Now you see what I’ve been saying all along, dear. Everything that is hidden eventually comes to light. You’ve done all you could to help. But now more and more people are getting involved, and in doing so, exposing themselves to potential danger. Don’t you think that you should..."

She was interrupted by a tall, flame-haired figure entering the crowded office, eyes darting to and fro.

"All right, Angelina?" Ron said. "Lupin told us you and Hermione were here when we first arrived downstairs... where is she? For that matter, where’s Harry?"

Carole and I exchanged an anxious look.

"He’s in his classroom," Sirius said. "Lupin and Janet are there now. Shall we join them?"

"Yes, I think so. It’s time I told Hermione something."

As we all walked down the hall, Fred said to Ron, "Angelina’s had a visit from Orla. And apparently, her sister Diane’s got connections with the Cabalistica."

I whirled around. "You know what that is, Fred?"

"I do now," he said grimly, eyes still on his brother.

"Is there any chance the two are connected? Diane came to warn me. And Orla came to threaten me. Apparently someone has it in for the Weasley family in general, and Ron and Hermione in particular."

No one seemed to want to answer. I suppose they all felt as if my snooping had earned me the silent treatment.

Finally, Ron responded with a nonchalant shrug. "The Cabalistica’s had it in for both me and Hermione since the war, and of course they’d sell their souls to get their hands on Harry. As far as I’m concerned, they can join the queue."

"Ron, we can’t afford to have a careless attitude about this," Sirius said. "Perhaps you’re used to being on the receiving end of a wand, but some of those in your family are not."

Ron glanced over at me, then at Fred.

"I wouldn’t underestimate them if I were you," Ron said to Sirius, indicating Fred and I. "They’re more capable than you know. And so are the others."

The door to the circular classroom was open. Lupin and Janet were talking quietly off to one side. Harry was seated on one of the plush window seats, back leaning against the paneled window, glasses off and on his lap. Eyes closed in either thought or meditation. As for Hermione, she was pacing across the diameter of the room, studying the springy russet rug as if it were an Arithmancy algorithm.

I looked for any sign of the conversation I’d overheard. There was none... not even an indentation next to Harry on the velvet-covered window seat. When we entered, Harry snapped to attention, opening his eyes and putting his glasses back on. Hermione stopped pacing and looked questioningly at Ron.

Talk about discretion. Or perhaps the conversation of a few minutes ago in which Hermione had made her indecent proposal never happened, and I was truly going insane.

"Surprised to see me here, aren’t you?" Hermione said. Her lips were smiling. Her eyes were not.

"Very. But I shouldn’t be. You can’t help but follow me around, can you?" her husband teased, trying to break the tension in the room. "Must be my animal magnetism."

"I was worried about you, Ron. I had no idea where you and Fred had gone. Angelina was concerned too. And don’t tell me we shouldn’t have been. It’s part of our job description as wives."

He closed the distance between the two of them and pressed his mouth to her forehead without saying another word.

"Ron, where were you? This is the third night in as many weeks that you didn’t come home. Each time you return, you evade my questions and change the subject. I know we lead very busy lives, but... you’re so far away from me. Farther than you’ve ever been. And I want to know why."

Ron’s eyes immediately darted over to his best friend. "How much did Harry tell you?"

"He told me nothing. Of course I tried my very best to convince him to spill it, but..."

At the double entendre inherent in her innocent-sounding words, I choked. Within seconds, I was in the middle of a severe coughing fit. Fred left off his conversation with Sirius and Janet to pat me on the back, but it wasn’t until Hermione broke her embrace with Ron and touched my forearm lightly that the choking was quelled. She made absolutely sure I was all right before returning to her husband and best friend.

Harry and Ron were now engaged in conversation, but it wasn’t exactly a friendly chat.

Ron’s mouth was set in a firm line as he examined Harry’s face. "I thought when you didn’t come with us this time, you’d tell her the minute you saw her again. Thanks."

"Don’t thank me, Ron. I’ve had enough of this."

"Harry, try and understand why..."

"I’ve tried to understand for the past three months, and I still don’t. You’ve been promising since Christmas that you’d tell Hermione what’s going on. Now I see that you plan to keep it from her forever. If you don’t tell her and tell her now, I will."

"Tell me what?" Hermione asked, walking between the two and looking from one to the other. "Ron, you can’t hide whatever it is from me anymore. I know you’re preoccupied. I can feel your heaviness. Don’t you want to talk to me? We used to be able to talk about anything..."

"Hermione, don’t you think if I could tell you, I would? Do you think I like keeping things from you?"

"Well then, there’s only one thing to do, isn’t there?" she said, studying his face.

"All right, damn it!" he shouted. "All right, Hermione. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything."

Before he could speak further, Fred and Sirius came over, followed by Carole with a metallic disk that looked a bit like an overlarge Knut with a generous hole punched through.

She pressed it into my hand. I raised my eyebrows.

"What is this?" I asked her.

"Your security pass," Sirius explained. "We’ve just given you clearance. Come, let’s continue this below."

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

"Below" was a misleadingly simple term for the subterranean levels of the Black and Potter Foundation. The way we accessed it was through a chamber that looked a bit like an oversized Muggle elevator. I was pretty sure that it was operated via magic, though... there were no buttons or controls in sight. Neither was there any sensation of movement.

After around ten seconds, we were simply there.

The heart of the Foundation, Sirius said.

No one else acknowledged his remark. I supposed they’d all been here before. Because of the shape and narrow width of the pitch-black passage, we were forced to walk in a single file line. Harry went first, lighting his wand as the rest of us followed him. First Carole, then Hermione, then Ron, then Fred, then me. Sirius brought up the rear. Lupin had stayed above ground, saying he’d join us in a few minutes. So had Janet, muttering something about checking on Malinda.

The sight of it surprised me a great deal. It took me a few moments of walking down that narrow, damp corridor to figure out exactly what I’d been expecting, but after a while, it struck me. I’d been expecting plate-glass new surroundings, much like the MMRI and everything else in the Emerald City. After all, the Foundation was a bit younger than Draco’s massive construction projects... and chances were that he was one of Harry and Sirius’ vendors.

This place was here long before any of us were born, said Sirius, answering my thoughts. As a boy, I discovered this network of caverns, which seem to extend all over the island. Since then, it’s been determined that they are indeed man-made... and thousands of years old.

"However did your parents find this?" I asked, glancing warily at the stalactites that hung overhead like daggers. "The island, I mean."

It’s been in the Black family as far back as anyone can remember, he replied with a shrug. My grandparents lived in the manor house before they died, and my parents would pack my brother and me off to visit during the summers.

I never knew Sirius had a brother.

Maximus died the year before I went to Hogwarts, he said. It’s all right... time and James did much to heal that wound. But then James was killed, too.

"That must have been hard," I said, thinking of Katie.

Fred’s head whipped around. "Angel, who are you talking to?"

"Sirius... can’t you hear? He’s been talking the whole time."

When he shook his head and looked at me as if I were a nut, I turned around and met Sirius’ grin.

Don’t talk anymore. Or else your husband will really regret convincing us to give your clearance. He already thinks you’re coming unhinged.

If Sirius was truly that strong of a telepath, he could not only plant thoughts, but might be able to hear those I directed at him. How much of that conversation over the intercom did you hear, Sirius?

Apparently, this worked, because I heard his reply almost immediately. All that you did and more. You’re not insane. It did happen. And I’ll thank you not to mention it to anyone... not even Fred.

I sighed aloud. That goes without saying. Whatever is going on, it’s none of my business. I do think that Harry made the right decision... and I’m very disappointed in Hermione. I held her in high esteem before this. I’m not sure I’ll ever look at her the same way again.

Harry made the only choice he could have, Sirius insisted. And Hermione still deserves her pedestal. She’s quite a woman, all things considered.

Yes, I know, but that doesn’t excuse her moment of weakness. Imagine if we all did that, if I’d seduced George or Lee when Fred and I were having trouble. What she did was wrong.

The wrong was done long before now, Angelina. What, you think that even the best couples don’t have their problems? The pedestal everyone thinks Ron and Hermione live on isn’t as strong as it appears. Whether or not they make it through this will depend entirely upon their ability to be honest with one another at long last.

Sirius, I’m so confused about all this that I think my head will burst in short order. Does everyone have something to hide?

Of course. Aren’t you hiding something important from your own husband now?

My eyes widened with shock. I don’t know it for sure yet. And I’m not sure how I feel about it, either. This is really bad timing, if you know what I mean.

I’m no expert in those matters, Angelina. But what I do know is this... Carole is right. This situation is getting more and more serious, and more dangerous. Which goes to show how one small lie can lead to another, until one is caught up in a web of their own making and left to strangle...

"We’re here," Sirius said aloud all of a sudden. "Harry, you don’t mean to tell me you’ve forgotten it? You never have before."

Harry turned around, wand lifted high.

"Damn," he said. "I don’t know where my mind is today."

"That’s all right, Harry," Carole said. "We almost never come this way, so it’s understandable."

I was a little confused. The corridor seemed to go on endlessly in either direction. Sirius had stopped next to a stalagmite that didn’t look noticeably different than the others in the vicinity.

He then extracted a ring from his pocket much like the one Carole had given to me, only Sirius’ was metallic black. Holding it about two feet above the stalagmite, he said his name.

"Black, Sirius Ian. Director."

He dropped the security disk onto the stalagmite... upon impact, metal clanged against stone... there was a noise that sounded something like a hum and something like a buzz... and the entire conic column glowed with diamond fire. It flashed into his eyes, and then grew dark again.

"You’re next, Angel, and you’ve got to say your full name, or... or it’s bad," Fred said. "Really bad. As in you-turn-into-a-pillar-of-salt bad. Last name first, and you’re a visitor."

"Oh, all right." I raised the disk high, glancing at the stalagmite warily. "Weasley, Angelina Ifeyani. Visitor."

I mimicked Sirius’ motion, and this time, the stalagmite flashed lavender incandescence. It flashed into my eyes, and I was blinded and dazed for a moment. But only for a moment. I regained my sight and equilibrium in no time flat.

Fred’s disk was fiery orange swirled with sunshine yellow. "Weasley, Frederick Denis. Armament Specialist."

The minute he stepped back, I socked him in the arm and whispered, "Fred, what the hell? What is George, the mess hall cook?"

"Actually, he is the mess hall cook... just kidding. He does weaponry for them as well... always has."

Ron’s was blood-red. "Weasley, Ronald Arthur. Consultant, Surveillance."

Hermione’s was sparkling blue. "Granger-Weasley, Hermione Anne. Consultant, Research."

Carole’s was rainbow stripe... although I was curious, I didn’t ask. "Stanford, Carole Mitchell. Chief of Staff."

Harry’s was last, and his security card was a green disk, translucent as the walls of the Emerald City. "Potter, Harry James. Associate Director."

The minute Harry’s disk touched the top of the stalagmite, a rumbling vibrated our feet. A rectangular section of rock suddenly slid downward, and we were walking into the business section of the Foundation.

The walls were warm manila and lighted with torches with white flames. The floors were of a strange golden metal that appeared to ripple with every step, although it felt quite firm underfoot. The steps of those of us who were wearing hard soles and heels echoed up and down the hallway.

From around the corner, a young witch in dark robes and a lab coat appeared. She was tall and thin, and appeared to be of Meditteranean descent, perhaps Greek.

"Good afternoon, everyone." Her accent was American, but I couldn’t pinpoint what state or region she was from.

Sirius nodded. "Hello, Stacy. Any messages?"

"About a dozen for you and Harry, and a in-tray full for Carole. Conference Room A has been prepared for your use."

"Thank you, Stacy," Sirius said. To Ron and Hermione, he said, "Wait in the conference room while we see if any of those messages are urgent. We’ll catch up."

Stacy smiled at all of us, giving me a second glance, and then disappeared as quickly as she had come. Harry, Sirius, and Carole followed her, speaking in low tones to each other. Ron turned and brushed past me, followed by Hermione, then Fred. I brought up the rear.

Inside the conference room was a long table, which instantly brought the Great Hall at Hogwarts to mind, with high-backed leather chairs lined up along each side. Ron took a seat at the head of the table, with Hermione on his left and Fred on his right. I pulled out the chair next to my husband and lowered myself onto it.

The room was so silent I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. I looked over at Hermione, whose earlier composure was beginning to dissolve. She now looked guiltier than a house-elf who'd just dodged extra work. I was wondering if Ron noticed the look when I saw he was wearing a guilty mask of his own. So was Fred.

"Where were you, Fred?" I asked quietly, never having been able to stand silence for long stretches. Suddenly, all eyes were on me. My husband's eyes, looking guilty as sin, raised slowly and met mine. His face was an open book to me as always. I knew he was feeling horrible, but I was going to let him feel bad for a while because he deserved it.

"I can't tell you that, Angel," he said, his voice very small. His arms were crossed upon his chest defensively and his use of my nickname made me even angrier.

"All right, let’s try this again. Where were you? And this time, I want an answer."

"I did answer you. Not my fault that it’s not what you want to hear, is it?"

I must have been glowering pretty badly at that moment because suddenly the defeat in his eyes disappeared and in its place was fire. He slapped his palm on the table and stood up quickly. I was out of my chair a second later.

"Why can't you just tell me?" I persisted angrily.

"Because I don't want you getting involved!"

"Oh, spare me the ‘protect the women and children’ nonsense, Fred. You forget that I was taking care of myself and making my own decisions before I ever thought about marrying you."

He slapped his forehead in mock surprise. "Really? And all this time I’d been thinking you were an incompetent idiot. Thanks for enlightening me, dear."

It was rare that Fred and I argued these days. Whenever we did have a row, our arguments fell into one of two categories. When they were playful, they usually ended up with one of us disrobing the other. When they were spiteful, both of us said horrible things we'd regret for days while cooling off.

This was definitely an A-class type B argument.

"How can you joke at a time like this? I’m tired of this, Fred. It’s gotten where I can’t tell who’s lying and who’s telling the truth. I want to know what's going on. Have I ever settled for anything less?"

"That's the problem! I know what you’re like! You’re always poking your nose into other people’s business! If you get involved, things will get even more screwed up because you don’t know how to leave well enough alone!"

Fred's eyes went wide with mine as he realized what he'd just said. I backed away, wishing he'd slapped me instead of speaking those last few words. "Angel, I..."

"Don't use pet names with her," Hermione said sharply, reminding me that there were two other people in the room. "You yell at her, and then you say she has no right to know what's going on with the man she married!" At this, she popped out of her chair, rounding on Ron. "Speaking of which, didn’t you say you had something to tell me upstairs?"

Ron shook his head and stood as well. Their chairs, sensing they were no longer needed, disappeared into thin air. "Hermione, I've had a rough couple of..."

"Years? How well I know it. What about me, then? What am I supposed to do while you’re out searching for the meaning of life? You keep disappearing..."

"Didn’t know you’d noticed. It’s been years since you’ve cared much about what I do in my spare time. Why the sudden difference?"

She moved to sit back down heavily in the chair that wasn't there and ended up on the floor, one foot tucked under her and an O of surprise on her lips. Before she hit, however, Ron's arm had darted out and placed itself beneath her in an attempt to catch her. He found himself on his knees beside her.

"That’s not true," Hermione said. "Ron, I just want to know the truth. You owe that much to me."

Ron turned his head slowly to look up at Fred, who had gone slightly pale. Fred gave a slight nod and Ron dropped his eyes to the floor. Those blue eyes followed a crack in the tiles all the way to Hermione's face.

"Ask me anything, my Hermione... anything. I'll answer all of your questions." Ron shifted to sit cross-legged in front of her.

Hermione's eyes seemed to search her husband's face for any sign of insincerity. I winced. How hypocritical it was for her to demand the truth when she had just made a pass at their best friend.

"The seven million Galleons," she croaked finally. "Missing from our joint Gringotts account. Do you know anything about that?"

I frowned again. Of all the things she could ask about, the very first thing out of her mouth was money. Sooner or later, she'd become a Maureen Ludlam, more interested in Sickles and Knuts than family and love.

Ron looked pensive at this, a rat... no, a weasel... trapped into a corner. His eyes never left Hermione's, though. If he were to lie now, he would have to do a bloody good job of it to get Hermione to buy it. He’d been cornered into telling the absolute truth.

"The Ludlam Agency," he answered. Fred's eyebrows drew together at this and I knew he knew nothing more about it than I did. "Orla..." Ron paused to clear his throat. "As you know, Orla Quirke was not only a good friend of Mo’s, she also was her accountant and personal assistant. She kept the books for the agency.

"Last spring, Mo and Orla fell out. It was pretty bad... Orla ended up leaving the agency over it, and she and Mo haven’t been the same since. When Mo hired someone else in her position, and the new man went over the books, he discovered that Orla had diverted ten million Galleons of funds from over fifty Ludlam Agency clients’ accounts... they’d disappeared without a trace.

"Mo panicked. She filed charges with the Ministry, but they were dismissed for lack of evidence. The theft was squeaky clean. Nevertheless, Mo had a problem—the money was still missing, and her clients still needed to be paid. She came to me... and we immediately acted.

"The first thing I did was to contact Sirius and Harry. They put Lupin on it... you know that Lupin still does some investigative work for Sirius and Harry, so I hired him... and he continued trying to connect the missing money with Orla. Then I went to Gringotts and co-signed a short-term loan for her. The clients got their gold, and I was able to buy her some time.

"Six months later, the loan was due. Mo panicked. Lupin still hadn’t found anything on Orla. Gringotts was beginning to ask too many questions, and the Ministry decided to audit. So we..." He swallowed. "I took the seven million out of our account..."

"You said the amount stolen was ten million, Ron," Hermione interjected.

"Oh... yeah, I did, didn’t I? And it was. I got the seven million from our account, and I... then I... you’re going to think this is ridiculous..."

"Just say it," she prompted.

"I borrowed the rest from Malfoy."

She scoffed. "Really, do you expect me to believe that? Draco is a lot of things, but generous is not one of them. He’s avaricious to the extreme... I’ve never known him to do anything where he didn’t stand to profit. And besides, he hates you and the feeling is mutual."

"Believe it or not, it’s true. Matter of fact, that’s why things have been tense between us all winter. I’m in his debt, and he wants to make sure I don’t forget it. Which is why... which is why I thought that perhaps this winter you and... you and Malfoy had..."

"Honestly, Ron, things have gone wrong for us before, but they’re not that horrid," Hermione responded smilelessly. "It isn’t likely that I’d break our marriage vows like that. Draco and I are friends, that’s all." She sighed. "I’m hurt that you would believe otherwise. He wouldn’t do that to Ginny at this point, and I’d never do that to you."

I almost choked again. But I caught myself.

Hermione continued to study her husband’s face.

"Is that all, Ron? Why didn’t you tell me any of this before now?"

"You're absolutely right, Hermione… it made no sense to keep it from you. I… it was my stupid pride, all right? Not to mention ridiculous. The Red Weasel asking the Bouncing Ferret for help? You’ve been working so hard lately. I didn’t want to burden you with anything else. I don’t want you to think I was deliberately undermining you."

"I would never think that," she whispered, shaking her head.

"You believe me then?" Ron's eyes remained locked with his wife's and he had a sort of desperate pleading look on his face. Believe me, please, he was begging without words. If she thought he was lying, she gave no indication.

"Yes, Ron, for some reason I do. I always suspected Mo had something to do with the money, but I didn’t know how she was involved. I still don’t understand why you weren’t up front about it."

Ron stood up from the floor, and began to pace alongside the table.

"Because I... I know she isn’t your cup of tea, Hermione. Don’t look so surprised... I know you don’t like her much at all. You only put up with Mo for my sake, and I love you for it. But I didn’t think your tolerance would extend that far."

She sighed. "Ron, she’s your friend. She was in trouble. Why on earth would you think that I’d say no? Do you think I’ve grown that heartless?"

He didn’t reply. Instead, he changed the subject. "Is there anything else you want to know?"

"The baby… the baby in the Prophet."

I felt Fred's eyes on me, but didn't give him the satisfaction of a shared glance.

"Well, this much I do know. Orla Quirke and I are not the parents of that child. That woman is a liar. As I’ve been saying, she and Mo were close once and that Quirke woman stabbed her in the back. She's not to be trusted under any circumstances." Ron's throat elicited a sort of choked sob. He seemed desperate.

"The child looked just like you, Ron," Hermione murmured. "Hair… eyes… freckles…"

"The child had red hair, blue eyes and brown freckles, Hermione. There are seven people in my family alone who look like that. Please, Hermione… you're so intelligent, you’ve got to believe… you've got to think rationally on this."

"I’m trying to remain as rational as the circumstances allow. However, I have a paternity test... an authentic document that’s been checked...."

"Hermione, think about it. How many times since the war has some brainless witch claimed that Harry had fathered her child, and produced the same sort of bogus documentation? You don’t even know who sent you that package, do you?" She paused, then shook her head. "That’s my point. We have quite a few enemies. They would love to see us at odds and the Covenant broken, Hermione. Do you want them to be as strong as they were during the wars? Do you want the sacrifices we made during the Week to be in vain? Do you want anyone to have to walk through Tartarus again?" By this time his voice was raised.

At the word ‘Tartarus’, Hermione flinched and blanched a little. I stored that name in my mental bank... it might prove important later on.

He paused for a moment, but she said nothing.

"Is there anything else that you need to know?" he repeated.

Each looked into the other’s eyes intently. Agate and sapphire locked, clashing in a battle of wills. Ron seemed ready to end the conversation. Hermione seemed to be turning things over in her mind, trying to reach out and read her husband in some imperceptible way.

"Wait a minute," she said, eyes narrowing. "There’s something you still haven’t told me. I can feel it..."

All at once, Ron tore his eyes away from her and put his hands over his ears, shaking his head violently.

"NO!" he shouted. "Stop doing that! Don't get inside my head!" He clutched at his hair as though the Cruciatus Curse was being performed on him.

I gasped and took a step forward, but Hermione held up her hand and I stopped in my tracks.

"I… I can't stand it… when you're… you're in my mind… when you feel everything I feel... I feel so vulnerable… so invaded… and I don’t want to hurt you either…" Ron seemed closer to a mental breakdown than Hermione had been the night before.

She sighed. "I can’t help it. You know that. Even when I’m shielding, I know what’s there. It’s almost as if I want to sleep and rest, but it’s always day and I can’t shut my eyes. No matter how much we might need the respite, Ron, I can’t help but feel you."

"Damn that Neftis witch," he murmured. "And damn Neville for reviving her. I wish she’d never found you at Hogwarts... never unlocked that part of you."

"That part of me helped us win the war. You and Harry might have died in Tartarus if I hadn’t known to..."

"Oh, sod the damned war! When will we ever have peace, Hermione?" he asked suddenly. "When will we ever get a chance to enjoy what we gave up so much for?"

"Ron, we do have peace now! That’s why..."

He cut her off. "No, we don’t. Especially not you. You don’t just want the world to be like it was before Voldemort, Hermione... you want it to be a place that it’s never been. A place where no one has any pain or suffering. But what you don’t seem to realize is that without those things, no one would know what happiness was."

I thought of something my mother told me at war’s end. If I hadn’t seen ugliness, I would have never understood beauty. The evils of the Society I grew up in made me appreciate the good in your father all the more.

Hermione, of course, had a different take on things. "That’s your opinion, and you know I disagree with it. What does it matter?"

"It matters, Hermione, and you know it. You want me to be something that I’m not. At least something that I’m not anymore."

"You’re wrong, you know. I love you, and I’ve never wanted you to be anything but Ron," she whispered. "But you’ve never believed that, not really. Thank Merlin for the Covenant."

At the word ‘Covenant’, he straightened up and looked over his shoulder. As he glanced at the door, his face went blank.

"Speaking of the Covenant... he's coming for you now," he said flatly. In the next moment, the door to the conference room swung upon to reveal Harry and, behind him, Sirius and Lupin.

Harry looked hesitantly between all four of us. Sirius brushed past him, into the room, and the chairs appeared again. Sirius and Lupin silently took chairs. Ron and Hermione chose seats on opposite sides of the table. Harry slid into the only remaining chair next to Hermione. Again, I was overwhelmed with the feeling there was an odd pink erumpent in the center of the room. Just about everyone knew about it... no one wanted to speak of it.

"So, how ‘bout those Cannons?" Fred asked to break the tension. Everyone laughed nervously.

"I’ve got a better idea," I said. "How about I speak of Diane and Orla’s visits? After all, that is why we’re here."

As quickly as possible, I shared the conversations I’d had with my sister and Mo’s former employee. Lupin took notes. Sirius’ chin rested in one hand as he listened.

When I was done, Sirius turned to Harry.

"Orla’s working for them. The question is whether or not she was hired or if she’s under Imperius."

"Could be both," Harry replied. "One thing is certain. She isn’t working alone. The afternoon we were conferring about the Project proved that. She wasn’t there... how could she have got to the drinks?"

"That is what doesn’t make sense," Lupin said. "Her actions are that of a brainless pest, with no pattern of consistency. Yet she’s causing more and more damage..."

"You know I don’t buy the idea that I was poisoned," Hermione said. "There was no trace of anything unusual other than the Polyjuice in my bloodstream. All the abortifacent potions ever concocted are traceable. Besides, the immunities against toxins Harry, Ron, and I developed years ago are legion. We couldn’t have survived the Week without them. Neither Draco nor Colin were harmed that day, so I don’t think..."

"You were poisoned, Hermione," Harry said firmly. "That was no normal miscarriage. You could have died. It wasn’t just the Polyjuice that caused the trouble... it was the drink itself. I doubt the poison was even specifically targeted at your child. It was for you. What we’re still not sure of is whether or not she was trying to harm you or Angelina that day."

"She certainly wants to harm me now," I muttered.

"Her motives make absolutely no sense, Harry," Hermione said. "I’m starting to think that Mo’s had it all along. Orla is deranged. She’s lashing out at random without any motive at all."

"Maybe. But if she’s become a tool of the Cabalistica, it would be a mistake to underestimate her," Sirius said grimly.

"Sirius, what exactly is the Cabalistica?" I was glad Hermione asked it, for I wanted to know too. "I’ve gathered that it’s something like the Death Eaters from listening to you and Harry talk... are they a group of North African or Arabic wizard assassins or something?"

He shook his head. "Not all of them. Not even most. They do seem to meet in Egypt for some reason. This is the third account we’ve heard of some sort of annual conference at El-Kharga."

"That still doesn’t answer my question. Who are they, then?"

"The greatest international assemblage of Dark covens in more than two hundred fifty years, and potentially the most dangerous in all history," Sirius replied. "The flip side of the Confederation. Allow me to show you some of what we’ve been able to find out."

Sirius took out his wand and pointed it at the space in front of him. "Gaea revolare," he said, and a translucent globe hovered over the center of the table. About twice the size of a Quaffle, it rotated slowly in midair.

"The Cabalistica was formed the year that the Second Voldemort War ended," Sirius began. "Its foundation was a number of informal alliances that the Dark Lord had made with sorcerers from all over the world. When he was defeated, they didn’t all scatter to the four winds as they did during the First War. Instead, they formalized their league and began to plan for the future.

"There are seven known groups that make up the Cabalistica. The first is the Death Eaters." The magipolitical map of Europe glowed green, with a Dark Mark covering the map of France. "Witches and wizards from all over the Western world. They’ve infiltrated places as far away as Australia and Argentina. Everyone present is more than familiar with this group, so let’s move on, shall we?

"The next group is known as the Great Society in the Caribbean and the Americas, and as Asili in Africa." The maps of Africa, the Caribbean, and certain areas of the Western Hemisphere now glowed purple with fluttering golden wings. "The Winged People. They’ve tended towards the Dark Arts since prehistoric times. And they hate Muggle-borns more virulently than even the most bigoted Death Eater."

"The Society and Asili placed the Sponge in Lucius Malfoy’s hands," Lupin said, looking at me. "And they were handsomely paid for the use of the very tool that had been used to enslave them centuries before.

"More insidious still is the Priesthood of the Flowery Death," Lupin continued. The map of Mesoamerica glowed bright orange and was stamped with a jadestone flower. "Most wizards and witches are not religious. However, these descendants of the ancient Maya, Aztecs, and Toltecs never stopped paying homage to the ancient war god Huitzilopochtli, who actually was a powerful wizard who lived sometime in the 200s B.C. Their most potent dark magic requires human sacrifice. Many of their potions require human blood.

"I should say here that there are many Mexican wizards and witches on our side who do not belong to the Priesthood, and they are in the majority. The Aurors of the Mexican Congress of Magic are quite diligent... the Priesthood has been driven underground."

"Not underground enough," Ron said. "Didn’t they have something to do with the May Day Massacres in Europe?"

"They thought up the idea in the first place," said Sirius. "Earned them a Snitchful of Quidditch points with the Dark Lord and his lieutenant Malfoy. Nasty lot... we have several affiliates in Mexico and Guatemala keeping an eye on them."

After a brief pause, Hermione shook her head impatiently. "That’s only three of the seven..."

"Well, there’s the Chalybians," Harry said. "Headquartered in the foothills of the Caucasus, right, Lupin?"

Lupin nodded as Southern Asia and the Arabian peninsula glowed yellow, with crossed scimitars about where Afghanistan would have been. "Although they have sympathizers from the Balkans to the Himalayas. Vicious mercenary types... they’re among the fiercest duelers in the magical world. One of their many specialties is mind control. A Chalybian came up with the Imperius Curse thousands of years ago, during the time of the Hittite Empire."

"The one thing I do remember about them is that they’re strictly wizards," Harry said. "No witches at all. They do tend to keep witches in close quarters in that part of the world... although their witches are dead powerful. I’d rather cross wands with a Chalybian than his wife any day of the week."

Fred made a grunting noise. I still refused to look at him.

Sirius continued. "The Cabalistica is rounded off by Hei-Dao—Chinese for "The Black Way"—and two other groups. The Children of the Widow follow the ancient arts of the wicked Russian sorceress Baba Yaga, and the Kali Mandir... well, strange isn’t the word for them."

"Their stronger magic is all eros or thanatos," Harry added. "Their darkest curses require either brutal rape or human sacrifice, so whenever we catch them they’re either in the midst of an orgy or a bloodbath. Parvati’s got a cousin who used to be a member of that cult... Sai’s covered with knife scars from head to toe."

The globe now glowed green over China, with a yellow dragon over it. Russia was gray and emblazoned with a brown bear. India was fuchsia, with a strange symbol on it that I suppose represented the Kali Mandir.

"So that’s the Cabalistica in a nutshell," Sirius finished. The globe disappeared, and was replaced with their symbol, an androgynous human figure draped with a Lethifold. "The most dangerous coalition of witches and wizards ever assembled."

I was still a bit dazed about everything I’d just learned. Surely my own sister hadn’t attended a meeting of such a sinister group.

Fred summed up my thoughts. "So you mean to tell us that the Death Eaters are now singing "It’s A Small World After All"? And that there’s a "We Are The World" version of my wife’s family reunions? Seven times the fun, I’m sure... well, that’s just corking, isn’t it?"

"Who’s their leader?" I asked, ignoring Fred.

Harry shook his head. "We don’t know. They’ve been doing an excellent job at cloaking their activities. Everything we know we’ve had to piece together from accounts such as yours, Angelina."

Lupin’s mouth was set into a firm line. "Every time an affiliate has been sent to investigate the inner workings of the Cabalistica, they have disappeared without a trace. The Living Shroud isn’t their symbol for nothing."

"Well, without a strong leader how could it be worse than when Voldemort was in charge?" Ron said, shrugging.

Harry looked over at Ron. "You haven’t heard the reports we have been getting. It’s starting all over again. And just like we learned from our mistakes last time around, they have as well."

Ron chafed. "Well, I’m through with all that. I lost enough the first time around. I have no desire to get involved again."

The look Hermione gave Ron at that comment spoke volumes. I could tell Hermione had a difficult time accepting Ron’s lack of interest in saving the world. Apparently my sister-in-law did not believe in the old saying, "To each his own."

"So, what’s their aim this time?" Fred asked. "Do they just want to be spooky and mysterious, or do they have some Foolproof Diabolical Master Plan as usual? I’m sure they’re not just gathering in Egypt to chat with the mummies."

"Really, Fred, isn’t it obvious?" Hermione asked. "They want to continue where Voldemort left off. They want to destroy all traces of Muggle blood from the wizarding population worldwide."

I shook my head. "Why? What have the Muggle-borns done that’s so horrible that so many hate them and wish them to be eliminated?"

"It’s not about what they’ve done," Harry said. "It’s a complicated matter."

Sirius nodded and went into lecture mode. "Try to see it their way. We teach the students here that humans, magical or not, are both hierarchical and territorial. What the first part of that means is that deep down inside, somehow we don’t feel as if we are complete unless we can look down on someone else... and even the best of us falls prey to that old vice from time to time. The oldest wizarding families can trace their roots back a millennium at least, and most of them get a sort of pride from that. Some wizards and witches believe that because we can use magic, we’re somehow better than people who cannot.

"Not only do we like to establish a pecking order, we like to claim things. People, land, precious metals, consumer goods—the one with the most wins in the end. Many feel that since magic is exclusively for witches and wizards, it is one more thing we can place on this inventory list. After all, we’ve had magic to make our lives more convenient since the beginning. We live twice as long as the Muggles do, on average, and don’t suffer half as much. Instead of spending six weeks in a cast, we have spells that can mend bones in six minutes. We can cure all sorts of maladies. If we’re willing to cross the threshold of morality, we can make others do our bidding. Time and space aren’t the barriers to us that they would be if we didn’t have Time-Turners and broomsticks.

"We’ve always known that Muggles have grown to possess some qualities that we do not. As Draco Malfoy points out, they are innovative. They are much more able to accept change than we are. They are also highly rational, almost to the point of seeming imbecilic. Many of them, even when confronted with evidence of the supernatural, will seek any explanation besides the obvious."

"As stated in the Philosophy of the Mundane." Hermione was nodding, obviously pleased to be back on a topic she knew something about. "All of these qualities have made the most modernized countries formidable in recent years. Draco says that there will soon come a point in time when their technology will be so advanced that it’ll be... indistinguishable from magic."

We were all silent, letting that sink in.

"What also concerns them is the increase in psychic ability amongst Muggles," Sirius said after a while. "We’re not sure why, but we do know that without the wizarding use of telesthetics, Voldemort might still be alive. We know it... and we’re pretty sure that the Cabalistica knows it as well."

"Psychic ability isn't limited to those without magical blood," Fred said.

"Rough forms, no. Witches and wizards can develop almost any telesthetic ability to some degree with an extreme amount of discipline and practice if they’re powerful enough," Harry explained. "But the natural forms of psychic ability--hyperempathy, true clairvoyance, ESP--belong to Muggles only. A select few at that."

Lupin nodded. "Once in a while, a magical child’s born with some sort of psychic ability--but the wizard or witch in question is almost always Muggle-born. Like Hermione. Like most of the students here at Dumbledore. Like Sibyl Trelawney."

I snorted at this. Trelawney was a fake if there ever was one. "You can't be serious, Remus. Trelawney's hardly a step above using one of those ridiculous plastic eight balls with the floating triangle," I said.

"Angelina, you don't know," Harry said quietly. He raised his head and his bangs parted slightly to reveal his scar. "She may've been a crazy old bat, but she did possess some sort of precognitive ability. She predicted Wormtail's escape back to Voldemort before it happened. She also predicted..." he paused here, as Lupin and Sirius leaned forward on the table, palms spread out on the cool glass. Harry reached up and brushed his fringe apart more definitely. "She also predicted this."

The silence in the room was deafening. No one moved an inch. I felt suddenly very sad for Harry... and wished for the hundredth time since Hogwarts that one day he’d find peace.

Hermione reached over and took Harry’s hand in hers. "Destiny is destiny," she said softly, looking into his eyes. "To whom much is given, much is also required. No matter how badly we might wish it to be otherwise."

Harry nodded slowly, mouthing the words "thank you".

She smiled back.

I believe, at that point, the two of them ceased to realize that there were other people in the room.

My face grew warm as I recalled the exchange over the intercom, hoping against hope that no one besides Sirius could read my thoughts. Fred wasn’t looking at me at all... he’d produced a trade magazine from somewhere and was flipping through it. Neither were Sirius or Lupin--they were now looking at the notes Lupin had taken as I’d talked about Diane and Orla, and were talking quietly between themselves.

I turned my head and looked over at Ron. He had lost all color in his face. His eyes frowned first, soon followed by his lips. All of a sudden, he stood up and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

This effectively snapped everyone back to attention.

"Oh, he's just stressed," Hermione said, then turned back to her best friend. "He told me everything just now, Harry."

At this, Harry stood up so fast that his chair tipped over and crashed to the ground before it had a chance to disappear. His mouth was slightly open. His eyes were wide.

"Everything?" Harry repeated. "Ron told you everything?"

Hermione nodded as she let go of his hand. "Everything," she replied. "The seven million Galleons for the Ludlam Agency, borrowing the difference from Draco, and all the details of Orla Quirke's betrayal. I can’t believe she’d go so far as to fabricate a baby to use in her lies... I hope she’s caught soon, and I want to do all I can to help."

Sirius’ eyes widened. Both he and Remus looked astounded for a moment... but only for a moment. In no time flat, they either remembered all the details of Ron’s trouble... or at least remembered that Fred and I were in the room, too.

As for Harry, the surprised look had disappeared from his face.

It had been replaced by one that chilled me to the bone.

In that moment I realized that in all these years of knowing Harry Potter, I’d never really seen him as the rest of the wizarding world does. Growing up I’d been amazed to learn that a kid three years younger than I had ended the war that had killed my dad. Once he actually got to Hogwarts, it was a shock to find out that this larger-than-life figure we’d heard about for most of our lives was for all intents and purposes a regular kid, and a clueless Muggle-raised shrimp of a first year, at that. A bit of a disappointment at first, I think... but then he was redeemed in my mind for all time the first time I saw him play Quidditch.

In the years since then, Harry had become an acquaintance, almost another brother-in-law. The first public event he’d attended at the close of his three-year seclusion was a certain March 2001 wedding... between that and the fact that Ron proposed to Hermione during the reception, anyone but Fred and I would have felt quite upstaged. We thought it was a great joke at the time, and it made the occasion all the more memorable. In the years since then, he’d been at plenty of Weasley family events, dropped by for the occasional game of Exploding Snap with or without Ron, and never forgot Malinda’s birthday.

But I’d never seen Harry really, really angry before... had never even witnessed a single one of the feats for which he was so famous. In the abstract, I knew that he’d dealt the death blow to Voldemort after having faced him in some form seven times and living to tell the tale... but I’d never had occasion to connect any of that stuff with my old Quidditch teammate and Fred’s all-but-adopted kid brother.

He was extremely angry then, and everyone knew it. For a moment, I was frightened. If an enraged Hermione Granger-Weasley made one want to steer clear of the vicinity for awhile, Harry Potter infuriated made one want to take up permanent residence in a Gringotts vault.

What I couldn’t figure out was why he so angry.

Sirius was looking at his godson intently. Lupin stood up and was shaking his head. "Now, Harry..."

"Damn it, Remus, this is the last broomstraw! You were right all along. I see now he doesn’t plan to ever tell her about..."

"Harry?"

Hermione was frowning. She didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest, but of course she wouldn’t be. She did seem very worried, though.

"Are you all right?" she asked, standing and placing her hand on his shoulder.

Harry stared at his friend as if he’d never seen anything quite like her. And as he stared, his features softened bit by bit. By the time he muttered "I am now" in a strained, false voice the frightening expression was completely gone. He put his arms around her for the briefest moment, pecked the bridge of her nose, then pulled away.

I exhaled as quietly as I could. Lupin sat back down.

"I'm glad you know, Hermione," Harry said, clearing his throat.

Then he left the room as well. The door slammed behind him.

Hermione stared after him, then turned to look at Remus and Sirius. Seconds later, she glanced at her watch.

"I can’t believe it’s nearly six o’ clock," she said, changing the subject and the mood in the conference room so abruptly that it gave me mental whiplash. "I’ve got to get back to Paracelsus. I told Neville I’d fill in for him tonight."

Lupin nodded. "It is time for dinner, isn’t it? Would the two of you care to join us?" he asked Fred and me. "Your daughter would be welcome as well."

I started to accept Lupin’s invitation, but Fred shook his head.

"Thanks, but no thanks. Haven’t seen my home in nearly two days, so I think I’ll collect my wife and child and head there."

As much as I wanted to protest, I held my peace. Fred was giving me the silent, aloof treatment... which meant that he was still hacked off with me. I knew that it wouldn’t have been a great time to assert my independence.

So after going back up above and collecting a sleepy Malinda, we said our good-byes and headed home.

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

By the time we arrived back in Hertfordshire, it was after dark. Malinda was thoroughly tired from her day with the students at the Dumbledore School, so after feeding and bathing her, I put her to bed straightaway.

When I got back downstairs, Fred was seated in his favorite armchair, reading one of his Muggle spy novels. John Le Carre. Oh, yes--he was none too pleased with me. It was in every crease of his forehead, the way he gripped the book tighter as I approached my chair by the fireplace, the way he refused to even acknowledge my presence.

I was too weary for an argument at that time of night. Not to mention the fact that I’d stayed up half the night before with Hermione, and my oh-so-brief sleep had been interrupted by that bathroom trip. So I decided to make conversation with my husband instead. Or at least try.

"How did the new product meeting go yesterday?"

He continued to read. After the painful seconds of silence stretched into minutes, I tried a different subject.

"How’s George? Anya? Did you get a chance to go by the hospital before you went gallumphing off with Ron?"

Still no response. You’d think that I was wearing an Invisibility Cloak, charmed soundproof. If he’d heard me, he gave no indication of it. Since talking about the past didn’t seem to be working, I decided to try the future.

"Tomorrow’s Sunday... the Prophet should have the inserts with all of the sales items. Is there anything specifically you’d like for me to get?" He murmured something from behind his book. "What was that?"

The paperback hit the carpet with a firm smack.

"I said, Angelina, that you told me you were going to grocery shop today."

I shrugged. "My plans changed." Then I glared at him. "As did yours last night."

"That was totally different, and you know it!"

"No, I didn’t know anything! You didn’t bother to owl. You didn’t even think to send a simple Floo message to let me know where you were, how long you’d be there..."

"Excuse me, but you’re not my mother or my Remembrall, Angelina!"

"But I am your wife! I can’t believe you knew what was going on with Ron all this time and didn’t tell me! Don’t even get me started on the consulting work you’ve been doing for Sirius and Harry that I knew nothing about..."

"What business was it of yours?"

"You are my business," I snapped. "Anything that concerns you, concerns me."

"Really, Angelina? Lately it seems as if you’ve been so concerned about everyone else that you haven’t had much time to think about our family."

"Fred, I do nothing but think about you! I was thinking about you and Malinda when I gave up a position I’d worked extremely hard for. Doesn’t that count for something?"

"Not if you’re going to use your free time to play amateur detective. I told you months ago that I wanted another child. We’re supposed to be looking into kindergartens for Malinda... whether to send her up to Hogsmeade or to find a suitable place close to home. It’s almost April, and you haven’t even bothered to purchase any seeds for your garden yet.

"When’s the last time you visited your mum? She’s been to her London residence twice since we saw her at Convention. For that matter, what happened to your weekly lunches with Alicia? I don’t think you’ve made the time to meet her yet this year. Our eighth wedding anniversary is a week from Tuesday, and we haven’t made any plans yet!"

I was thoroughly ashamed... most of the time, I was the one reminding him of the date. I started to open my mouth in self-defense, but he kept right on going.

"Yet every time there’s a family crisis, you seem to be right in the thick of things. Boxing Day. New Year’s Day. The Leaky Cauldron, the day Hermione was poisoned and miscarried. And now today, you just happen to show up at the Black and Potter Foundation, an institution that never held the slightest interest for you before. Now, I thought we’d agreed back in January that we’d keep out of it..."

"Wait just one minute," I interjected. "You just spent the past twenty-four hours off with Ron doing who-knows-what Merlin-knows-where. Now, perhaps you’re not actively trying to seem like a hypocrite, but you’re doing an eerily good impression of it."

"You’re forgetting one important thing in all this. Ron is my brother. You are only related to Hermione by marriage, and the two of you were never that close before you somehow wheedled your way into her confidence..."

"Hermione needed someone to talk to last night! Who was she supposed to confide in, her doting husband?" My voice dripped with sarcasm. "And you weren’t concerned about how ‘close’ we were before you dumped our daughter off on her!"

"At least I’m concerned about where Malinda goes! Whose idea was it to drag her along today? If I’d wanted her to skip up and down the corridors of a high-security facility, I would have never left her behind in the first place!"

"And how was I supposed to know this? Telepathy? I’m sorry that I’m not your twin... I’m only your wife!"

"Keep on reminding yourself." Fred threw up his hands. "I’ll be damned if I allow Ron and Hermione’s problems to affect what goes on in this household."

"But you already have!" I shouted. "You still haven’t told me where you were last night!"

He let out a long breath. "Ron needed me."

"No, I need you, Fred. I need you to be honest with me. I need you to stop shutting me out by trying to put me in this protective bubble. I need you to tell me what’s going on, because I gathered that Ron didn’t tell Hermione everything. Perhaps I can... I mean, we can do something to help."

His eyes grew wide. Then they shuttered quickly.

"You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you? Let me make this clear, then. Stay out of it!"

"You can’t tell me what to do!"

"Just did." He punctuated it with a nod. "Time you got your priorities in order."

He had to be kidding.

"All right, Fred," I said in my silkiest voice. "I see your point. I was wrong and you, once again, are right."

My sudden acquiescence threw him for a Firebolt loop-de-loop. "So you agree with me?"

"Of course. After all, you are the head of the household. The powerful, wise and strong wizard, whereas I am but a mere brainless witch. Proper order of things, isn’t it?" I picked up my wand from the mantel and used it to Summon an afghan and two pillows from the wicker chest at the far end of the room. Then I tossed them into his face.

"What’s all this?" he demanded, thinking I was in a playful mood.

"Well, since you’ve decided to sanction what I can and cannot do, I’m assuming you’ve decided to switch hats from my husband to my father. And fathers don’t sleep with their daughters."

I grabbed another cushion, and threw it at him with all the vim I could muster.

"When you remember that you only have one daughter and are ready to resume your role as my equal, then you are welcome back in my bed. Until then, sweet dreams."

With that, I stormed up the stairs.

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

Neville’s wand traced my spine over the regulation pillowcase-like hospital shift as he muttered the spell he’d cast over me for the past five years. I sighed, staring at the stone walls of his Hogsmeade office. Framed parchments and plaques decorated the walls, as did pictures of his late parents and his formidable grandmother, over a century old and still as feisty as ever.

One moving portrait caught my eye. It was a still life, reminiscent of the fruitbowl painting that concealed the Hogwarts kitchens. Only this picture was of oranges, arranged like so many children’s Boinging Balls in a crystal bowl.

Pictured in the foreground was a jar of Downing Foods’ Orange Marmalade, and underneath it an inscription: "a clear or thick preserve made with citrus fruits, usually containing the shredded rind of the fruit, and traditionally made with bitter Seville oranges."

Marmalade. A sticky amalgamation of the bitter and the sweet, forming a delicacy that no proper English pantry was often without.

There was also a wizarding grandfather clock... but no Muggle equivalent. Which was bad. I had no way of knowing whether I was late for my afternoon interview or not.

Usually, I scheduled my therapy at the Granger-Longbottom-Zabini-MacMillan Clinic in Diagon Alley. But today I happened to be in Hogsmeade for three reasons. I’d spent the morning eating breakfast with Penelope and being lectured about the merits or lack thereof of every single wizarding primary academy in the entire United Kingdom. Most of the forenoon I’d spent shopping for Malinda’s birthday party, Fred’s anniversary gift, and birthday presents for the three Weasleys who were April Fools by birthright. After my therapy appointment, I had an interview with none other than Maureen Ludlam scheduled.

"It’s high time we did a feature article on her," Jeralyn, the new sports editor, told me. "I’d like to do a series this spring featuring the new power brokers of today’s Quidditch. The players get all the glory, and yet behind the scenes the movers and shakers are changing the very face of the game. Mo Ludlam is one of the few witches among them, and fast becoming one of the most powerful... but how much do we really know about her?"

I knew Mo had made a favorable impression on Jeralyn during the All-Star Match, but I had no idea how favorable. I told her about the possible conflict of interest—after all, Mo was Ron’s agent and the last I heard was dating Bill. But Jeralyn had waved all that off. "I want a good interview and a solid article to kick off the series." The bottom line was that I was no longer the Head Witch in charge of Prophet sports, and would have to take assignments I didn’t want like everyone else. So that was that.

We were to meet in the Three Broomsticks at one. It was only a little after twelve...

"You seem to have regressed, Angelina," Neville was saying. "Have you practiced your flying at all this winter?"

"Not since before Christmas," I replied. "I’ve been rather busy." The truth was, I hated flying as a cripple. My rationale was simple. If I couldn’t soar and swoop and zoom as I used to when I was young, I’d rather not do it at all.

"That’s no good," Neville replied. "If you don’t make use of what we’re trying to do for you, these sessions are a waste of your money and time."

"Perhaps they are," I said testily.

Neville examined my face carefully. Then he set his wand on the examining table and folded his arms.

"You do realize that you’re pregnant, don’t you?"

I nodded.

"With twins."

Now, that was something I didn’t know. "What gender? Fraternal or identical?"

"Can’t tell without casting, you know that. Have you made your appointment with Blaise yet?"

I shook my head.

"You had better. From my calculations, you’re nearly a month along. And your blood pressure is higher than I’d like as well... have you told Fred?"

I shrugged.

Neville opened up my medical chart. "He’ll figure it out sooner or later. You’ll be showing soon."

I didn’t say a word.

"Well... as I’ve said, you need to speak with Blaise’s secretary to make your first prenatal appointment."

I nodded.

"Today, Angelina."

I nodded again.

When I stepped outside of Neville’s office, the warm sunshine of the morning had been cloaked by angry gray thunderheads. Wonderful... the overcast sky reflected my mood just then perfectly. I got out my wand and muttered a quick "Impervius!" just before the first raindrops splashed on the hood of my cloak.

After inquiring after the time in 3W’s Hogsmeade store (all the answer I got from random passers-by was "Time to take cover...a storm’s coming!", which made me wonder for the umpteenth time what use magical clocks were to anyone in the modern age), I learned that I had a good half hour before I was due to meet up with Mo. Since I didn’t want to spend the time either surrounded by Fred and George’s fawning employees or outside in the rain, I ducked into Honeydukes.

It was Saturday, and judging from the number of kids crowding the store, it was a Hogsmeade weekend. I always tried to find out when those were in advance so that I could avoid them. For the kids always reminded me of my friends... my life before the war came and changed everything.

There was laughter. There were exclamations of delight over the selection and variety of palate-pleasing sweets. There was teasing, and even a bit of chasing through the store before one of the clerks put a stop to it.

And then... I saw a flash of blonde hair, and heard a trill of laughter I hadn’t heard in over ten years.

I turned with surprise. The young girl was turned so that I could not see her face. She was flanked by her friends, who all seemed to be no more than thirteen. There was a roly-poly brunette who seemed to be the source of the fun, a too-tall black girl who giggled a lot at what everyone was saying, and then... a boy with carroty red hair dragged over his dreadlocked friend to join in the fun.

Squinting, I walked towards the merry little group. Slowly. Trembling. Afraid, though my fears was utterly irrational, that my footsteps would shatter that fantastic dream. And as I walked, I wondered what I would have done if I had chanced to meet my thirty-one year old self when I was still a slip of a girl.

But as I got closer, I realized that memory and distance had played a cruel trick. The brunette’s eyes were purplish blue, not mirthful hazel. The black girl was the milk caramel shade of my youngest sister, much lighter than the honey brown I’d expected to see. What I’d thought were dreadlocks were actually cornrowed braids. And not only did the redhaired boy have no freckles... there was no sign of an ever-present twin.

The intensity of my gaze must have caught their attention, for one by one, they broke off their conversations and began to stare back. As was their right... they probably thought I was some sort of weirdo.

The last to turn around was the little blonde girl. And the eyes that met mine were not Katie’s. The smile was that of a young stranger, but friendly, perhaps even inquisitive.

My eyes stung. It was too much at once... the shop, the memories, the cohesiveness of that little group of kids who knew nothing but a world of peace.

"Is everything all right?" the blonde girl asked, not unkindly.

I nodded, and reached past her into one of the vats.

"I’m just fine, dear. It’s that you and your friends are carrying on a time-honored tradition. I used to come here often during my Hogwarts days, you know."

The kids glanced at each other, then at me as if I were an ancient soul. I didn’t like feeling like a relic, so I changed topics.

"The sugar quills are my favorites," I said, carefully taking a few from their vat. "Do any of you like them?"

The blonde girl nodded. "I love them, but not as much as Tavia does," she said, and the black girl laughed some more. "Claire likes Droobles Best Blowing Gum," she indicated the brunette, "Jordan prefers Every Flavor Beans," the boy with the braids nodded, "and Davy likes the Ice Mice... his brother Jon fancies the Chocolate Frogs..."

In spite of myself, I gasped. She could have been Katie... years before... selecting sweets for... for... for our crowd.

"But Jon got detention," Davy told me in a conspiratorial tone, "for handing ‘round Exploding Bonbons in Professor Weasley’s class. Most fun we’ve had in Defense Against the Dark Arts all year..."

The blonde girl gave him a pointed look. "But my favorites are the Toothflossing Stringmints," she said. "And the Peppermint Toad Creams. I do love mint so..."

It was too much. I nodded quickly and walked away, the remembered aroma of fresh, crushed mint filling my nostrils.

Katie.

When I turned back a second later, the children were gone.

In their place stood a witch who was familiar even in profile. Mo Ludlam walked along the aisles, filling her bag with an assortment of sweets. She was dressed down in plain shirtrobes of sandwashed indigo denim, no makeup at all enhanced her light olive features, and her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun that reminded me of Minerva McGonagall. But even so, she was turning plenty of heads.

Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?

A dapper young wizard who could have been no more than twenty followed her around for a moment or two. When she either ignored him or failed to notice his existence, he tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned around patiently. "Yeah, how can I help you?"

"Excuse me, miss, but I wanted to introduce myself..."

"Oh, thought I had stepped on your foot or something," she said, grinning.

He laughed as if Mo had made the joke of the century. "Your sense of humor matches your exquisite beauty, miss. My name is Trevor... please tell me your first name, as I already know what your surname is... or soon will be, if I have anything to say about it."

She kept smiling. "Trevor, how nice to meet you." I almost laughed when the poor young wizard grabbed up her hand to kiss it and she shook it vigorously. But he still wasn’t giving up.

"The pleasure is all mine. Rather strange that we’re shaking hands, isn’t it... wait a minute! I know this hand. Pardon me for being frank, but this is the hand I’ll hold in mine as we marry... as you’re having my son and his sister... as we grow old together... as we..."

She extracted her hand and sighed.

"Look, son... Trevor... how old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?"

"I certainly don’t. I am eighteen years old, and in my final year at Hogwarts. But I’ll be graduating soon... be taking my N.E.W.T.s in a few weeks... and my father’s guaranteed me a job at the Ministry! And we... well, we could live in our family cottage in the Cotswolds... but once I’m established..."

Mo sighed again. Yet the sigh was one of studied patience, and her jewel-set brown eyes were kind.

"Trevor, I am thirty years old. I’m the sole owner of a thriving business. I have three residences of my own. I’m not English, so I never took N.E.W.T.s, but I’ve had my Apparation license for almost fourteen years now. I’m crusty and rusty and dusty... you don’t want a tough old bird like me."

"Age is nothing but a number when it comes to true love!" At her kind yet firm look, he crumbled into the boy he still was. "Don’t you believe in love at first sight?"

She laughed to herself. "Funny. When I was eighteen, I would have scoffed at the very notion, but now I believe I do. Must be getting soft in my old age."

"You keep saying that you’re old... but you’re... you’re the most beautiful girl in the world to me!"

She laughed again, and off to the side, I had to stifle a chortle of my own. "Thank you. And now, do me a favor. Lavish all that attention on some little girl who deserves a great guy like you, okay? Now, that would make me really happy."

"I don’t want some little girl!" Trevor protested. "I want you. I’ll die if I can’t have you."

"Well, before you kick the bucket, leave your family’s address and I’ll send a wreath of flowers for the funeral."

His face fell. "You’re mocking me."

"Oh, come on kid, lighten up. Life is all about being able to laugh at yourself. Anyone who says differently is trying to sell you something. Besides," she lowered her voice and tilted her head in the direction of the store counter, "there’s a pretty girl standing at the register who’s been giving me the evil eye for the past five minutes. Go on and put her out of her misery, will you?"

Trevor’s eyebrows raised. "Really?"

"Really," Mo smiled.

Without another word, Trevor sauntered towards the front of the store. Mo shook her head, laughing to herself again, and went back to picking out candy.

I stepped forward. "Breaking hearts again, are we?" I teased. "Great wizards, Miss Ludlam, you certainly start young."

Mo turned around. When she saw me, she said, "Angelina! I’m glad to see you!"

Before I knew it, I was being hugged. There was no pretense of the sort that usually exists between witches... no false niceties. The hug was warm and sincere. She pecked my cheek, then drew back, grinning from ear to ear.

"You had the same mind as I did! Is your sweet tooth as big as mine?

"Bigger, most likely," I grinned back. "But today I’m actually shopping for my daughter’s birthday party. Part of the many joys of motherhood, I suppose."

"Yes," Mo nodded, "how well I can relate."

I was puzzled. To be sure, I didn’t know if Mo had any children or not. On the surface, she seemed to be so career-oriented that motherhood was completely incompatible with my mental picture of her.

"You look surprised to hear me say that," she said. "I'm no stranger to raising children, you know. My parents were killed in a freak hunting accident when I was fifteen. My sister Shanna—the one who covers sports for the Ontario Oracle--was seven, and my Quidditch-playing brother Rory was only five at the time."

I was rather taken aback. "Oh, dear. I’m sorry."

Mo nodded. This time her smile was a little forced. "It was all such a long time ago--fifteen years. You never really get over it, but time helps. Anyway, I was determined that no one would break up the family... so I did what I had to do."

"And thus the interview begins," I said. "Tell you what. Why don’t we pay for these sweeties, and then continue this over a drink at the Three Broomsticks?"

"Sounds like a plan to me," she agreed. Then a quirky sort of grin lit up her face. "Oh, wait a minute. That was the original plan."

We headed up the street, hoods drawn over our heads. I supposed she’d enchanted hers waterproof, for her sapphire cloak was repelling the raindrops as well. Lightening flashed across the gray skies, momentarily making them as brilliant as a sunny day. A loud thunderclap sounded as Mo opened the door of the pub, and then we were inside.

The pub was crowded, as it always was at midday. Yet Mo headed right to the back of the room, where there was a small, vacant table... I followed her and sat down gratefully. It wasn’t until I was seated that I realized just how very tired I was. Mo must have noticed this, because she told me to sit down... she’d get the drinks.

She returned five minutes later with a glass of water for me and a pint of ale for herself. On the way back to our table, she was stopped several times by people she obviously knew. I watched as she smiled, joked, inquired after the health of wives and girlfriends and mothers... for most of those she stopped to chat with were men. A few of the witches and hags sitting at a crowded table looked daggers at her as she passed.

"Still got on those wet oil cloths, eh?" she asked, setting the water down in front of me. "You’ll catch your death."

Snapping back to attention, I said, "What are oil cloths?"

Mo stared at me with confusion as she sat, then seemed to remember something. "You know, I go back and forth so much between England and Canada that I’m always forgetting where I am. Oil cloths are just raingear in Toronto-speak... your cloak."

"Oh," I said, shrugging my sopping outwear off and setting it in the seat beside me. "I don’t know where my mind is... I’m sorry."

Mo grabbed my hands from where they rested atop the table. "Honey, what’s wrong? You look like someone ate your last sugar quill."

I shrugged. "It’s nothing," I muttered. Then I laughed to myself. "You know, I used to have a handle on my life. Then... it broke."

She nodded. "I know the feeling, hon. Too bad experience is something you don't get until just after you need it." Taking a sip of her ale, she grimaced. "Damn, I miss Molson’s," she said. "Best beer on the planet. So, what’s eating you?"

"Shouldn’t I be the one interviewing you?" I asked.

"Well, I’m in no rush. And it’s not as if you’re some random reporter who’s never seen me outside of pro sports management... I’d love a chat."

How could I have resisted? As Hermione had observed, there was something in Maureen Ludlam’s open, friendly demeanor that put even the most introverted at ease. She was that rare woman who is vivacious, and at the same time, extremely down-to-earth and informal. Accessible. There was nothing of the pampered princess about her... none of the prissiness that even the nicest pretty girls tend to have.

As I told her a bit about my troubles in the vaguest and most abstract terms I could put it in--someone I knew was having trouble in her marriage and my husband didn’t like me interfering—I got a chance to observe Mo in a way that would enable me to flesh out the feature article. This was a witch who spoke loud and fast, laughed heartily and often, and after being reconciled to the fact that English ale wasn’t her favorite Canadian beer, swigged at her tankard with as much gusto as Rubeus Hagrid would have.

After about ten minutes of this, I had to break off to comment.

"I’ve never met a witch like you before, Maureen. How do you do it?"

She goggled. "Mo, call me Mo. I thought we were past the formalities... and how do I do what?"

"Disarm people so completely. Make them tell you their life stories. You’re so easy to talk to."

Mo shrugged. "Part of my job skills. I’m an agent. To my clients, I’m manager, accountant, lawyer, therapist, and sanitation engineer all rolled into one..."

"It’s more than the job, it’s you. I hope you don’t mind my saying this, and I’m sure you’ve heard it a thousand times, but you’re one of the loveliest women I’ve ever seen."

She smiled. "Why would I mind? Of course, I don’t see it at all, but thanks for the compliment. Gotta save ‘em up for bad hair days."

"Oh, shut it," I giggled. "You probably wouldn’t know what a bad hair day was if you fell over it. I’m just getting warmed up. You don’t act anything like most women who look like you."

"Probably because I’ve been a tomboy most of my life," she laughed. "It took me a good twenty-five years before I wore makeup or heels. I always used to dress the way I am today, and at times would cut my hair short and wear wizards’ robes because I was busy and it was easier. For the longest time, the rumor mill in Canadian Quidditch circles had it that I was a lesbian."

I didn’t want to ask it. So she answered it for me.

"I’m not. Although I went through a period in my teen years when I wondered. I’d never been physically attracted to women, but my godmother, who is a lesbian, said that she didn’t realize her preference until her husband died. I even considered experimenting a bit with girls in my late teens... but it wasn’t all that satisfying of an idea. By the time I was in my first serious relationship with a man, I knew I was straight as an arrow."

She got this naughty gleam in her eye all of a sudden. "There’s nothing on Gaea’s green earth like being seated on a fantastic broomstick, if you know what I mean. Especially when you don’t need an Engorgement Charm beforehand in order to find it and it’s attached to a hunky bod. Wouldn’t you agree?"

Now, that snapped me right out of my depression. I spat out the sip of water and lemon I’d just taken. "Oy..."

She cackled. "I know I’m outrageous. Occupational hazard. My line of work requires me to be able to talk trash with the best of them. And that’s all it is... talk. I’m no whore, and contrary to popular opinion I didn’t sleep my way to the top. You wouldn’t believe the sorts of things wizards say when we’re not around, and I’ve heard all of them. So I’ve learned to give as good as I get."

"I mean, is there ever a time when you feel out of your element, Mo? Or shy?"

"Gracious, no," she said frankly. "I used to be ten times more boisterous and headstrong than I am now. You ought to have known me at nineteen. I’ve grown mellow since I’ve come to England... you Brits are so reserved. It’s cute. I think it’s because your Isles are so cramped and overcrowded. Now, Canada is so huge we have to shout in order to hear each other."

"So there’s a vast cultural difference?" I asked, extracting parchment and quill from my satchel. "I have Muggle relatives in New York, Miami, and Toronto, so I sort of glommed the States and Canada together."

"You’ve been committing a cardinal sin," she grinned. "No true Canuck wants to be classed with those morons. I’ll never forget what my first boyfriend, a Yank, said when he found out where I was from. ‘I love Canada. I practically grew up in Albuquerque.’ Wasn’t the brightest torch in the corridor, eh?"

I laughed. "Americans can be annoying. My Muggle cousins used to ask us all sorts of silly questions about England. But they’re not a bad sort, not really... my boss and one of my best friends at work are both from the States. I’ve always wondered what that part of the wizarding world is like, and other than Toronto, I know next to nothing about it."

"It’s amazing. Great place for witches and wizards to keep to themselves," she said, mirth leaving her face for a moment. With a nostalgic sigh, she continued.

"Like I said, Canada’s a huge country... so vast that if you tried to Apparate from Prince Edward Island to Vancouver, you’d end up somewhere in Nunavit. We have the Maritimes in the east, with their little quaint fishing villages and folks descended straight from Scottish Highlanders. There’s Quebec, where nothing but French is spoken from St. Lawrence to Hudson Bay. There’s the prairie provinces—Saskatchewan, Alberta, and Manitoba—where there’s nothing but rolling plain as far as the eye can see. Out west, there’s Vancouver and the rest of British Columbia... it’s rocky out that way, with mountains that make the Alps look like foothills.

"To the north, there’s the territories—Nunavit, the Northwest Territories, and the Yukon. Gets cold as Siberia up there... I know from firsthand experience, as my godmother’s daughter is a prospector and we spent Christmas one year a stone’s throw away from the Artic Circle. And then you have the province that’s at the heart of it all. Ontario. My home."

"I love Toronto," I grinned, still writing. "There’s such a thriving and diverse wizarding community there."

"I know. I grew up in it... although we didn’t really move to Hamilton until I was eight. Before my sister Shanna was born, we lived in the Muskoka region year-round, and afterwards we summered there. Oh, Angelina, that has got to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. Scrub pines... tall spruces... lakes so still at dawn that they can shut up even me... here and there a wild, blossoming cherry tree... fields of mulleins... and wildflowers tangled in the undergrowth. Best of all, my godmother lives there still."

"You talk a lot about your godmother," I said softly, jotting down the information about Muskoka. "She must be an amazing woman."

"Yeah, she is. She’s everything to me these days. Parent, advice counselor, advocate, and most of all a friend."

"Did your parents know her when they lived in Wales? Is she from Britain, too?"

Mo laughed. "Far from it. Grandmother Dot--Dorothy Lightfoot--is Indian. Not the sort of Indian you find here, the native American kind. She’s a member of the Ottawa Nation, although she’s mixed with Chippewa and Blackfoot and Potawatomi, and even has some white ancestry. Great woman... powerful witch."

"Interesting," was all I could think of to say.

"‘Interesting’ doesn’t do her justice. When my mother and father were killed, Dot immediately took the two little ones in with her. No orphanage for us. She then demanded that I finish up school at the Anishinabeg Institute for Magical Youth--the Canadian equivalent of Hogwarts. As the Canadian Ministry of Magic mandates ten years of compulsory education, from ages nine to nineteen, I had four more years left.

"But I wanted to take care of my own brother and sister. I didn’t like being away from them. So at the end of my sixth year, I dropped out."

My eyes widened. "You mean... you mean you’re not a fully credentialed witch?"

"I am," Mo replied. "Canada’s not nearly as strict as England in that regard. At the end of year ten, an exit examination is required. Our Ministry grants exceptions for accelerated students, usually in year nine, once in a blue moon in year eight." She flushed with pride. "I was the youngest witch in Canadian history to pass that exam."

I was floored. Then I remembered that she was a chess whiz.

"So I got out of Anishinabeg Institute early and went into the League."

"You said at the All-Star Match you played for a year before becoming an agent," I told her, still writing. "I had no idea you were only fifteen at the time."

"Actually, I was sixteen when I signed with the Lemberg Lava Lizards--an expansion team out in Saskatchewan--and seventeen when I said good-bye to the game," she replied. "Quidditch was my parents' passion and their dream for me. I love the game, but I never wanted it for myself. But by then, I didn't have time to stop and think about what I actually wanted to do with my life. There was Rory and Shanna to think of, you see.

"I got a job clerking at the Luke Lawless Sports and Entertainment Agency's Toronto office. The salary was considerably less than what I'd made playing Quidditch. At least both houses were paid for. But it was all I could do some months to make ends meet... I know what it's like to go hungry, Angelina. I know what it’s like to want and not have.

"One day, our best agent in the office went off the deep end. He was a Brit, you see, and he'd just received word that his entire family had been Sponged. Wife, children, even an elderly grandmother.

"Of course, we all felt sorry for him. But Quidditch was proceeding as usual in North America... the war barely affected ticket sales in Canada and the U.S. Even after giving the other agents as much of Evanston's roster as they could handle, there were still five clients left that no one wanted.

Mo held up her fingers and began to tick off her clients’ situations.

"There was a second-round draft pick who was neurotic... he ate so many of his broomstick straws that by the end of any given match, the back of his broom would be pointed up in the air. There was also a free agent out of Winnipeg who'd seen better days--he was blind in one eye. A trashy exotic dancer whose belly resembled a spare tire. A warlock who did Vegas magic shows. And a washed-up lounge singer who'd been a drummer for a band that was popular in Finland in the 1970s.

"Those were my first clients," she said, laughing to herself. "In two years, I’d turned all of their careers around. The second-round draftee made it to the All-Star Match the next season. The free agent became a coach whose team made it to the World Cup semi-finals. The exotic dancer opened up a center for mystic meditation. The warlock tapped into the vast Muggle video and DVD market. And the lounge singer has opened up one of the most popular wedding parlors in all of Canada."

I shook my head. "How did you do it?"

"Easily. I believe in my clients, hard, and I make them see what I see. My motto is ‘tough love’... I don’t kick ‘em while they’re down, but if they look like they want to stay down, I’ll grab ‘em by the collar and jerk ‘em back up again."

"Great philosophy," I laughed.

"It’s the only way I know. My parents and Dot taught me resilience long ago. In life, you’re going to fall down. We all do. The thing is, some of us stay down. Others of us get back up. I get back up... and my clients must do the same. I leave them no choice."

"So you were working for Luke Lawless when you became an agent," I said. "How did you come to open your own agency?"

"Oh, that came soon afterward. By war’s end, Luke had made me branch manager. My client roster expanded, too, and along with it the amount of commission I was making. Rory and Shanna no longer had to stomach watered-down Mulligan stew... they were eating steak and lobster. Soon I was able to buy Luke out -- and the Hamilton branch office became the first headquarters of the Ludlam Sports and Entertainment Agency."

Again, I was stunned. "How old were you at the time?"

"Twenty-two. I’ve been an entrepreneur for more than eight years. From the first year, 2001 until 2004 my agency experienced a period of expansion and exponential growth. I opened a small branch office in the United States, another in Brazil, a third in Bombay, and finally one in Auckland. It was easier, you see, than paying all those travel bills for globetrotting agents. And more convenient... Apparation and broomstick travel and Floo networking can only go so far. None of my offices overseas were as big as the Hamilton one, though. I can be frugal when it comes to certain things... I’d rather put extra Pucks into my agents’ salaries than into fancy overhead."

It took a moment before I remembered that the Puck was the Canadian wizarding currency. They are disks made out of solid onyx. Nevertheless, it currently takes a good twenty-five Pucks to make up a single Galleon. In fact, the Galleon holds its own against most exchange rate fluctuations, which may be why most proprietors in Canada, the United States, and Australia prefer good old-fashioned English Galleons to even their own ministry-issued currencies.

Mo was still talking. "By the time my twenty-fifth birthday rolled around, I was one of the most influential witches in the sports and entertainment industry worldwide. I thought I’d gone as far as I possibly could go... and joked to my friends about retirement."

"Retirement at twenty-five? Surely you had another career lined up."

"I did," she said. "You know, being a single career witch is all well and good. I had a damned good time and met a lot of fun people. Yet when you said that if the heart was empty, the head didn’t matter, you were more right than you knew. The reason why I was always surrounding myself with people was because I was afraid to be alone."

I’d stopped writing. A good reporter with ethics (meaning that ones like Rita Skeeter and Rachel Ratliff don’t count) knows what to strike from the record.

"That’s my boggart for sure. Takes a lot to shake me... but the thought of myself, old and useless and alone, has kept me up many a night."

We were both silent. I wanted to tell Mo that she’d never be alone unless she wanted to be. I wanted to ask her if she’d ever been in love. I wanted to advise her to give Bill a chance...

I said none of those things. I switched back into reporter mode.

"How did you come to live in England?"

"It was all Luke’s doing. It was summer 2004, and we were having lunch with some other agent friends. Just before dessert, he makes this huge announcement. ‘It’s time for me to retire, Mo.’ I told him to hush. ‘As if you’re in your dotage... pass the cane and walker. Really, Lukey!’

"But he was serious about it. He’d been in the business sixty years. His wife was sick. He wanted to devote more time to her... Merlin knew he hadn’t been the best husband. Always away at some game, or at some client’s beck and call... somewhere along the way, he said that he’d forgotten to live." Mo trailed off. "He didn’t even have any children of his own to pass on what he’d built. Which was why he wanted me to buy him out entirely.

"I told him I couldn’t. He told me I could. ‘Remember, I peruse all of the industry reports as carefully as you do. You’ve barely set foot on the Continent, my dear... and in truth, a witch hasn’t lived until she’s seen England. Why, England to our kind is what America is to the Muggles! And you ought to see what marvels have come about there since war’s end.’ You should have seen the look I gave him.

"’There’s also quite a lot of young, successful wizards there... sprightly young witches, too, some of the most beautiful in the world... exactly the set you’d do well to mix in. I foresee even greater success for you than I had, my dear.’"

"The more I though about it, the more I liked the idea. Both Rory and Shanna were at Anishinabeg by then—I knew I could still spend plenty of time with them during their vacations, and if there was an emergency while I was in England, Dot would be nearby.

"So I bought Luke out on two conditions... that he stay on as a board member and senior advisor. And that he keep a few of his VIP clients like Ron Weasley."

I had to laugh at that. "You didn’t care much for Ron?"

"I didn’t even know him at the time. Nor did I care to. I’d built my agency from the ground up. I wasn’t interested in superstars at the time... and the Red Weasel was out of the galaxy entirely. We agents talk about the divas and primadonnas and princes of the industry all the time. I naturally assumed that Ron Weasley, War Hero and Quidditch Star, had an ego the size of Hudson Bay. I didn’t think a man like that would want an agent who would constantly remind him of just how human he was."

"Do you still think so?" I asked.

"If I did, there’s no way I would have dealt with him as long as I have. We didn’t end up meeting in person until a few months after I’d moved to Liverpool, at the All-Wizarding Chess Finals. And it was so surprising. I thought he’d be insufferable. But he’s not. He’s funny and confident and kind and warm and accessible and real and just... wonderful. Not to mention kind of cute. Of course, I’d never tell him any of that... his head might explode. Does your sister-in-law realize just how lucky she is?"

"No," I said honestly. "Hermione’s... well, she’s Hermione. She’s known him for so long that I think she doesn’t see him anymore."

"That’s no excuse," Mo said. "Some women get excited about nothing and then marry him. Other women have everything and can’t get excited about it. That’s how I perceive Hermione Granger. She’s so damn unemotional... and not very friendly at all. She’s cordial enough to me, but the other Cannons Wives called her the Ice Queen. In the Quidditch world, speculation about why someone like Ron stays with someone like her is rampant. I find myself having to defend her all the time."

I shook my head, remembering her hyperempathy. "Hermione’s not cold. I think it just takes her a while to warm up to people. She doesn’t share our philosophy that ‘there are no strangers... only friends we haven’t met yet.’ And that’s just fine. Some women are like that. She’s nice enough once you get to know her."

"Well, I’ve known her for four years and she hasn’t warmed to me yet. I’m okay with that. It’s just that it’s the first time I’ve ever had a client’s spouse take such a strong dislike to me. I’m the best agent I know how to be for her husband, and I’ve tried my best to be good to her. Yet in her eyes, my best isn’t good enough." She trailed off. "Maybe she’s entitled to hate me."

"Mo, she doesn’t hate you. Don’t take Hermione personally. She’s always been the way she is, take her or leave her," I replied. "She and Ron are having a hard time of it because of the scandals. And you said Orla was your friend?"

"Yes, she was. The best one I had here in England. She was my accountant and executive assistant from the moment I took over Luke’s Liverpool offices. We complemented each other... she was blonde and sweet as spun sugar, and I was a boisterous, cynical brunette. I gave her a voice... she gave me a makeover. It’s because of her that I know how to dress and wear makeup and flirt. I was never interested in that stuff before."

"Oh, come off it. You must have been born flirting," I teased.

"Okay, I probably was. But really, I wasn’t conscious of it until Orla, who’s a huge flirt as well," she admitted. "Our methods were different, but the goal was the same. See how many strays you can pick up by night’s end. It was such a power trip, knowing that you could have any man you wanted."

"Except for the gay, married, and otherwise committed ones," I corrected.

She gave me a look. "As far as I’m concerned, Dorothy can keep her friends. Now, don’t get me wrong. Gay men make great buddies, and before I moved to England, I was a bit of a ‘fag hag’. But nowadays, most of my men friends are straight. As for the ‘otherwise committed ones’, it all depends on how strong those commitments are... and if he’s out clubbing without her and goggling at me for hours on end, it makes me wonder. And married men are..." She shook her head and trailed off. "... interesting."

Suddenly I felt uncomfortable. "Interesting how?"

"They’re the biggest heartbreakers in the game. It’s true that there are plenty of married losers, but a lot of married men were and still are good catches. And they know it."

"Married men should be at home with their wives," I said severely.

Mo didn’t flinch. "Married men have had mistresses ever since there was marriage. They seduce you until you take leave of your senses and your morals. They screw your brains out and do all the things with you that their wife is unwilling to do. They set you up in a nice house, and give you money to keep yourself pretty for them. They wine you, they dine you, they make all sorts of promises they can’t keep. For in the end, they’re married to their wife. And no matter how she is or what she’s done, she has his last name and you do not. I’ve had many, many friends who’ve had their hearts broken because of this sad truth... Orla is a case in point."

I wanted to get back to Orla, but I still felt uncomfortable. "And you, Maureen?"

"Oh, hon, if they gave a prize for rotten judgment, I’d win first, second, and third place. Honorable mention, too. So I came to a decision not long ago. No man is worth the aggravation of falling in love with him. I’ll be damned if I ever go through that again."

"What about Bill?" I asked, setting my quill down. I’d stopped writing a while back.

"Bill and I are friends. I know your mother-in-law likes me a lot, but she doesn’t know me, not really. Neither do the rest of you. I wonder how much she and all of you will like me when..."

I cut her off. "Come now, Mo, you can’t be nearly as horrible as you think. Ron really likes you a lot, and from what I hear, jumped through hoops recently to help you out. Even put his marriage at risk because of it. I know Ron, and I know he wouldn’t do that for a terrible person."

Her dark brown eyes widened. "Ron... told you?"

"Sure has," I said. "He’s told Hermione, too."

Now her mouth dropped open. I wondered if it was the first time in her life she’d ever been at a loss for words.

"You know," I said, "you shouldn’t feel bad about having rotten judgment. All of us can make claims in that department. Orla tricked you. She tricked many people. My question is, what are you doing to protect yourself?"

"Not nearly enough," Mo said slowly. "Especially considering the fact that she’s making it personal... she’s dragging a child into the middle of it."

"Oh, yes, Ron told us all about the child. I have to wonder where Orla got the kid from... he does look an awful lot like the baby pictures I’ve seen of Ron at the Burrow. What a rotten woman... Hermione almost believed that Ron had fathered the kid."

The color returned to Mo’s face. "Well, if she can’t believe her husband, who can she believe? Orla’s lost her mind, and I feel sorry for her. I love her dearly. I miss her friendship. Yet it was almost inevitable. She’d been fighting the Darkness for a long time... and then, something pushed her over the edge."

"Why was she fighting so hard?" I asked.

"Because her mum was a Death Eater... her mum’s not even human. She’s some sort of fairy..."

"A dryad?" I asked, per my observations around the New Year.

Mo shook her head. "A naiad, to be exact, and a special kind of naiad that’s a veela-like dark creature... can’t remember for the life of me what it’s called, although Orla told me several times. Anyway, Mr. Quirke fell in love with Orla’s mother while on a trip to Greece the year after VW1 ended. Usually that type of water nymph’s like a preying mantis... she mates and then devours... but Mrs. Quirke took a liking to Orla’s dad. She left her Grecian river, traveled back with him to England, and tried her best to live as a normal woman.

"Then VW2 hit, and Mrs. Quirke’s nature could no longer be denied. She... well, she gobbled her husband up in the end after all just before she joined up with Voldemort."

"Ouch," I muttered.

"Very ‘ouch’. She wanted to pull Orla out of Hogwarts, but the Dark Lord decided she would be of more use to them there. He wanted her to sniff out the turncoat contingent at Hogwarts... so that his minions could snuff it out.

"Orla didn’t succeed, which made her mother feel as if she was all the more worthless. After the May Day Massacre was foiled, she disowned Orla on the spot. She hasn’t talked to her since, and Orla doesn’t know what became of her. She assumed that her mother died during the war or shortly after. So she went to work for Luke here in England, and that’s how we met.

"Even while we were friends all those years later, Orla’s mum had a powerful hold on her. She was always referring to what Mrs. Quirke did and didn’t do, liked and didn’t like... I tell you, it drove me half crazy. She all but worshipped her mother as goddess and sovereign of her life. And this was one goddess she never could seem to please.

"So after we had our huge argument last year, I suppose Orla went to seek out her mother. When she reappeared several months later speaking peace and bearing an olive branch, I should have known better. She’s now hell-bent on destroying me... and Ron, too."

"What does she have against Ron?" I asked.

"Ever see the movie Fatal Attraction?" I shook my head. "Ah, well, goes to show Muggle boyfriends are good for something after all. Truth is, Orla’s had a crush on Ron Weasley since she was a kid at Hogwarts. He didn’t even know she existed there, and afterwards, she was just some random secretary and bookkeeper... first Luke’s, then mine. She tried every trick in the book to get Ron in bed. No such luck. It was the poor girl’s first experience at failure when it came to men.

"Now, my motto about such things is simple. If at first you don't succeed -- give up! No use being a damn fool. There are plenty of other fish in the sea, and even more desperate... I mean, eligible bachelors. Why chase down a married guy who thinks his wife is Pallas Athene herself?

"But of course, Miss Orla had to be difficult. That girl doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone. She doesn’t realize that there are lines that you do not cross. Which led to our argument this spring... and the end of our friendship." She was silent for a moment. "You can only be young once, but you can be immature forever. Poor Orla."

I finished the last of my notes, then set my quill down.

"Great wizards, I’ve told you all my business... don’t you go ghostwriting an unauthorized biography, now," she grinned.

I laughed. "I’ll let you see the article once I’m finished with it."

"Good. Glad to see you smiling again. Don’t worry about Fred. He’ll come around and realize you meant no harm."

"Thanks, I really appreciate that," I smiled. "Any final thoughts?"

She shook her head. A few long tendrils of dark hair had escaped from her bun, framing her face and making her look positively gorgeous.

"That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it," Mo winked. "You know, this has been a real wand blast, honey. We must get together one day and just hang out. I know of a pub in Brighton whose owner’s wife is Canadian... and they have Molson’s on tap, bless their souls."

I nodded, even though I knew I wouldn’t be drinking much of anything in the months to come. "That would be nice. I’m no lush, but I do enjoy a good drink from time to time. Almost as much as I love to indulge at Honeydukes."

"I know what you mean, hon. As Dot always says, ‘Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.’ Words to live by."

"I’ll drink to that," I said just before our nearly empty glasses clinked.

Before I headed home that day, I went to the Hogwarts grounds to sit in the memorial field... once our old Quidditch pitch. It was too early for the poppies, but the grass was already vividly green and the eternal flame at the base of the monument burned as brightly as ever.

My eyes closed. It had been twelve long years. Yet I wondered if the pain would ever go away.

I see dead people. That is nothing unusual—all witches and wizards can and do. Nevertheless, I have only ever encountered unhappy or malevolent spirits, for such are the only kind that become ghosts. I could not mistake any of them for Kathleen Jane Bell, who was happy all her life and who died while trying to do a kindness.

But once in a while, always in spring or summer, I catch a whiff of mint... and hear what has to be Katie’s merry laugh. And if anyone were to meet her, they couldn’t possibly be frightened by a wraith of such loveliness. She would still seem a girl of nineteen. Death at least spared her the diseases and desiccation of age. And I would know that smile, for I wouldn’t be able to resist smiling in return. If she should speak...

Now, my imagination has always been vivid, but the laugh has each time been accompanied by a glint of light in the darkness, much like her shining fair hair. And each time I tell myself it is a trick of the light, for when I turn to face the source of the sweetness and light... there is nothing there.

Nevertheless, I know she is here, somewhere, and I need no evidence. However much I might yearn just to speak with my friend one last time, it is impossible.

Just like all dreams.

I stepped carefully from the stands onto one of the paths that criss-crossed the green and led to the monument. As always, I stopped a few feet short, glanced up at the sky that I used to soar across as a girl, and then reached out my fingers to touch the names on the monument. Katie’s was at the very top.

One day, dear heaven, I will make my departure too. And when I do get there, I will go and sit with Katie and my father, and I will tell them that I love them. For if I could do it all over again, those would have been my very last words to them before they embarked upon the last sleep of all. And when we have been reunited at long last, we will get up and walk the crystal streets of the land of the Next Great Adventure. As a goblin would, I kiss the earth to this, sealing this promise and this oath.

I touched my fingers to my lips, then placed them atop the name engraved on the granite obelisk. Then I used those fingers to touch the ground.

Just before I left and returned home on the late Hogwarts Express, I dropped something into the grass just beyond where the eternal flame burned.

It was a sprig of fresh mint.

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

The first of April was a rainy day, as April in England often is. By dawn, our living room was filled with gifts for both Fred and Malinda. I’d also made the mistake of leaving my window open the night before, so that I was unceremoniously awakened by several owls, including Harry’s Hedwig, Ron and Hermione’s Circe, George’s Judy and our own Punch dropping heavy parcels onto my head and back.

"But it’s not my birthday!" I protested loudly as they all fluttered away.

I was busy all morning, first picking up after Malinda as she left a trail of wrapping paper all over the house, then preparing a late breakfast for us both as she squealed and squirmed to go and play with her new toys again. After that, there was no time to rest, as the entire house had to be cleaned from attic to basement (thank goodness for Boswell’s Best Bundimun Scouring Agent!), and decorated to properly receive her little friends.

The first of the kids arrived well before the time I’d specified on the invitations, two o’ clock in the afternoon. Penelope was always early, as were most witches who’d been Ravenclaws during our school days. She’d also brought all of her children with her.

Percy and Penelope have seven children, all of whom they consider their own. However, Penelope was only ever pregnant twice. The first time was with Percy, Junior, known to the world as little P.J.—although at thirteen, he wasn’t so very little anymore. The second was with her nearly six year-old twins, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Gryffin and Raven for short. Gryff and Rave for even shorter.

Their other four children were adopted, though it’s hard to really think of them that way. Maggie, Mary, Paul, and Joe have been with Percy and Penelope ever since their Auror parents were killed in the midst of one final Death Eater retaliation a few months after war’s end, during the International Confederation trials. Their hair is more auburn than the Weasleys’ trademark fiery, carroty shade, but they all have brown eyes like Molly’s and freckles like my husband and all his sibs.

My in-laws have taught them fully about their parents and allow them to ask any questions they want about their birth parents, Dwight and Eliza Dinwiddie. But the children all have the surname Weasley, we’re their aunts and uncles, and Molly and Arthur are as much their doting grandparents as they are to any of the other children.

Maggie--Margaret--at nearly sixteen is the eldest of Percy’s kids, and the eldest Weasley grandchild. She’s a serene sixth-year Ravenclaw. She was five when her parents died, so I’m sure she remembers them. Yet for the past decade, Percy and Penelope have been the only parents she’s ever known. From what I’ve observed, she’s the typical oldest child, wanting desperately to please Mum and Dad while keeping the younger ones in line. A child after Percy and Penelope’s own hearts.

The other girl is madcap, merry Mary. She’s an eleven year old, first-year Gryffindor, and always getting into trouble. When she was little, the most frequent word you heard around Percy and Penelope’s Hogsmeade home was "MARY!" Yet there’s not a sweeter girl anywhere in the world. She’s caring and loyal and made of fine mettle that’s going to make her one hell of a woman some day.

The other boys flank P.J. in age, but Paul and Joseph are much more like each other than their adopted brother. Paul’s fourteen and Joe is twelve, only a few months younger than P.J. Both of them are Hufflepuffs, and pleasant enough kids. But Fred says he’s never seen boys act like them in his life.

"They can’t even have a decent row, Angel!" he told me one night early in our marriage after we’d kept them all day. "This afternoon when I was repairing our broom in the backyard, they were playing with that Quod I kept in the shed..." He had to pause for a moment as I fussed at him for not having got rid of the thing. The Quod is a ball used in the inane American version of pseudo-Quidditch, Quodpot. Why anyone would want to play or watch such a sport is beyond me.

"Then Joe threw the Quod at Paul, hard, and it exploded in Paul’s face. So Joe rushed over to him, brushes the ashes and soot from his hair and says, ‘Are you all right, dear brother? Please tell me that you are not hurt.’ And then he starts crying until Paul says, ‘Do not upset yourself over trifles, sibling of mine. I shall go into the house, and Aunt Angelina will have me good as new in no time.’ And then they hugged and went back to the house arm in arm."

"What’s wrong with that?" I had asked at the time. "It’s good to see siblings getting along."

"Angelina! They’re seven and five! They’re supposed to have a knock-down, drag-out fight, not kiss and make up!" At the time, George had just "come out" to his twin, and Fred was having a hard time wrestling with the knowledge that his brother was bisexual.

Now, religion and ethnicity are squicky issues in Muggle society, just as magical birth is in the wizarding world. Yet sexuality is squicky in both... although in my opinion, it shouldn’t be. Love is love is love. There’s so precious little of it these days, that when one finds it, one needs to hold fast to it. No matter what it looks like when it comes.

Whatever societal norms dictated, Paul and Joe only could be what they knew how to be... simply themselves. When the kids stayed at Hogwarts over the winter holidays, there was a dance much like the Yule Ball during the Triwizard tournament.

Of course, Mary and Joe were too young to attend. He stayed in the Hufflepuff common room playing games with his friends. Mary snuck into the ball, of course. She forced her best friend, Phillip Diggory, to come with her. Phil’s an unassuming boy with unruly brown hair and thick spectacles who always ends up taking the fall for her. P.J., the only other Weasley kid in Gryffindor, protested about it all the time.

"If Mary says ‘jump’, Phil asks ‘how high’. How sick is that?" my nephew complained. To which Mary merely smiled her lopsided grin, punched her brother lightly on the shoulder, and winked at us.

Maggie attended with her boyfriend, Ralph Goosey, the current Head Boy... as his mother Lucy is the current Minister of Magic, there was much pleased tutting on the part of her socially conscious parents. And Paul went with his longtime crush, the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team.

"Poor little bloke likes ‘em rough," George said, shaking his head.

The look on his twin’s face couldn’t be summed up in words.

Malinda was happy to see them all, and the feeling was mutual. They enjoyed tossing her about... she enjoyed being the center of attention. She’d been the youngest Weasley grandchild for five long years. I wondered how she would react seven months later, when her place was usurped by the new lives growing inside of me...

But there, it wouldn’t do to think of such things just then. Especially since I’d tiptoed downstairs while Fred was asleep one night, waved my wand, and whispered a quick "Obscuro". A simple Overlooking Charm would suffice in private and long, flowing robes would cause my pregnancy to be hidden from the public until I wanted it to be revealed.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want Fred to know. Although we were at odds just then, I loved him with all my heart. The distance between us was sheer torture. Especially since I’d been having nightmares. Strange dreams that I did not understand, and my strong point was never Divination. I often woke up frightened and trembling... and crying.

I knew what would cure me. I needed Fred beside me as I slept. I needed his strong arms to pull me down to him whenever I started up from a bad dream. I needed his large frame to cover my slender one and blot out the world. I needed him to fill the terrifying emptiness inside of me always... needed his optimism and nonchalance to banish away all my darklings and fears.

For in every night, three o’ clock comes. The last watch. The darkest hour. And lately three o’ clock had seen me wide awake. Not speculating... knowing that I hadn’t seen the last of war in my lifetime.

But I couldn’t let my husband back into my bed, at least not yet. Of course, we’d gone away for our anniversary, spending the night at the Tolkien Hotel in the Emerald City. For that one night, we were able to put aside our anger and enjoy each other in every way. But the next morning, I was angry with myself for being weak... for he still hadn’t apologized for the way he’d treated me over the Black and Potter Foundation visit.

Besides, I didn’t want him to know about the next generation of Weasley twins. I knew how he was, knew that once he learned I was pregnant, his mind would immediately flash back to the horrible time I’d had with Malinda. And as he tended to do with everything, he would overreact. I’d be a virtual prisoner until the babies were born.

All I wanted to do was buy myself some time. For what, I didn’t know.

Soon, the other children arrived. Malinda had been in and out of several preschools over the past few years, attended a play group from time to time, and was extremely popular wherever she went. She got her extroversion honestly... neither Fred nor I are shy. And like us, she loves a good party.

As it was Friday anyway, Fred came home early from work. Since it was I who opened the door, he pecked me quickly upon the lips before Malinda bolted straight into him like a human Bludger. I smiled as I watched them, but felt an ache too. The truth was that I missed him, missed him badly. What’s more, I needed him.

Perhaps ‘twas the season for marriages to fall apart. A dragon lasts virtually forever, but only the young and hopelessly naive hold love to the same standard.

I sighed.

After the party was over, Cho showed up to take Malinda with her to spend the night. She was virtually glowing with happiness. Her silky black hair was cut into a smart pixie style, and her fuchsia robes made her look like a flower.

"I’ve just been traded to the Cannons," she announced to me as Malinda flew upstairs to gather her things. Fred had gone to the hospital to see if George was still coming to the twin’s ‘grownups only’ birthday dinner with us, Alicia, and Lee.

That was the best news I’d heard in a while. "Really?"

"Really. They weren’t happy with the reserve Seeker they’ve been using since Ron left for Liverpool."

"I expect it’ll be in the papers tomorrow," I said, grinning. "Congratulations! I haven’t seen much of you lately... you were missed at Bill’s promotion dinner."

"Had an away game," she shrugged. "Besides, I’m... well, you might as well know. I’ve been a bit unsatisfied with my on-again, off-again status with Harry. So I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other any more."

"I had no idea," I said. "I’m sorry."

"Don’t be. He’s great and all, and I’m sure plenty of witches would kill to be in my place, but he never let me get close to him. We’ve been dating off and on for more than four years, and we dated a bit during my last year at Hogwarts, but he’s really not the best boyfriend material in the world."

"Blimey," I murmured. That was surprising. I’d always assumed Harry was firmly in the Nice Guy category. "What’s wrong with him?"

"Intimacy issues galore. Whenever I’d bring this up, he’d get offended, thinking I was referring to the sex. Which I wasn’t... Merlin knows he’s the best I’ve ever had." Cho shook her head slowly, worrying her lower lip with small, even incisors. "What he doesn’t seem to understand that intimacy isn’t just sex. It’s trust. It’s love. He never, ever let me get close to him, not really. All we’ve been to each other all these years is friends with great chemistry."

"Oh," was all I could think of to say.

"It was a mutual decision, really. I’ll miss him and a lot of things about him, of course, but... I’ve fallen in love in a way that Harry never allowed me to when I was with him. He wishes me well in my new relationship, of course, and I wish him well in life."

"Who are you seeing now?" I asked, curious.

"His name is Dion. Satyr from Patmos... he was at the New Year’s Eve party. Great guy, if a bit short. It feels great waking up to him, and seeing the look in his eyes, and knowing that I’m his world. And by Merlin, you can’t imagine what he can do with those hooves."

Personally, I didn’t want to. I had a vivid imagination, but I knew when to leave well enough alone.

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

Dinner at the Wonderland Restaurant in the Emerald City had been on my "must experience" list for a long time. I'd heard from Alicia that it was the place to dine for good food and wild atmosphere. She’d talked about it so much that I figured I wouldn't need to go there to have a feel for the experience. Even after her thorough preparation, I was completely astounded by the goings-on around me even before the large rabbit came to take our order.

Alicia, being Alicia, ordered for herself and her husband-in-all-but-name. Flippantly, without taking a single glance at the menu or a second look at our waitwiz.. er, waitrabbit. Lee cracked a joke about being late for "a very important date" and the rabbit glared at him as if he heard that particular wisecrack all the time. After the rabbit left with our orders, the entire table burst out laughing, even George and Presh, who'd been silent up until then.

It was worrying me a bit that George wasn't really speaking when he arrived. It was his birthday, and yet he didn’t seem to be happy about this. As we approached the table, Fred pulled me aside and said that his twin and Presh had gotten into an argument earlier in the day concerning how little time they'd been spending together recently.

The comment cut into me a little, as it mirrored the argument I'd had with Fred that resulted in his new sleeping location. But George had good reason: the woman he'd loved and thought to be dead for years had popped up in the middle of a Quidditch All-Star game and he was spending time with her (when she wasn't being run through a thousand tests, as Neville had told me during idle conversation in that last physical therapy session). Fred was being a male chauvinist pig who didn't care to include his wife in his life. The situations weren't identical, but it gave tension to two-thirds of the table.

Our food arrived, with phrases like "Eat Me" and "Try Me" on different dishes. I giggled at the reminders of one of my favorite fairy tales and it felt really good to get a laugh out. I looked over to Fred.

"Could you pass me the butter?" I asked politely, if not a bit stiffly.

He looked at me for a moment, stone-faced and said, "Get it yourself. It's my birthday." Both of us knowing it was a stupid reason as any, I gaped at him for a moment. Presh politely handed me the butter with a small smile.

I pinched Fred under the table, mindful to use my preciously manicured and ridiculously sharp nails. He jumped a little, but didn't give me the satisfaction of a good yelp.

"Well, if the birthday boys aren't going to stir up some trouble, I fear all is lost for the world," Lee joked nervously as Alicia wiped a bit of dressing from the corner of his lips. "Geroff!" he said, squirming away from her. I just laughed. The two of them were as entertaining as George and Katie had been the time we...

I swallowed hard and blinked back tears. Now was not to the time to get weepy. As put out as I was with my husband, I was determined that at least George would have a good time.

"So," I said brightly, with a smile at George, who was aimlessly swirling a leaf around his plate where only the letters T and E were remaining, "How have you been, George? Anything new?" His head lifted up and I could tell from his facial expression that it was definitely not the right thing to say. Presh shifted uncomfortably in his chair beside George.

"Oh, not much," George replied, trying to insert carelessness into his tone. "It's my birthday today, you know." Bad joke, but we laughed anyway.

"Seriously?!" Fred said excitedly, startling all of us. "It's mine, too! What a coincidence!" And from there on out, they turned from the Men Who Sulked into Gred and Forge.

I didn't dare cap their exuberance until they began debating loudly on whether or not the nervous man in the booth near us was going to stop turning over the ring box in his hand and just ask the woman sitting across from him for her hand in marriage.

"You two are positively impossible. I don't know how Angelina puts up with you," Alicia said, raising her eyebrows at Fred. "And you," she added, turning on George, "You never acted so juvenile when Katie was at the table." I winced; she'd always had an easier time talking about Katie than I had. "Why, George Weasley, I daresay you were whipped."

George opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. "I most certainly never was whipped!" Presh, who had been tapping his fork irritably on the table since Katie's name had been uttered, got up from the table angrily and muttered a vague "Excuse me for a moment" before stalking away.

George sat back in his chair with a sigh and a frown, crossing his arms. Lee and Alicia exchanged an uncomfortable glance, but George sat forward and waved it off.

"If Presh wants to have a temper tantrum, far be it from me to stop him," he finally said. He rubbed his face briefly with his hands, then looked up with a smile and ruffled hair.

"How's Anya doing?" I asked hesitantly. I wasn't entirely sure how George would react, but conversation was piddling. Contrary to the expected reaction, he brightened.

"She's doing a whole lot better... more good days than bad now. Hermione’s friend Susan has been running her through loads of tests and it's definitely taken its toll on her. She..." he paused a moment here, as though mustering up the nerve to speak, "Sometimes she doesn't recognize me... doesn't recognize anyone." I looked at Fred; I had confessed privately to him that I thought maybe the woman we thought was Anya was some sort of imposter... and that would hurt George more than anything in the world.

"Too bad, isn’t it?" Alicia asked idly. "I never got to know Anya. But when I heard about her death, I was... sort of sorry, I guess."

"Yeah, you three were never very nice to her," George said. There was no trace of malice in his tone; he was just stating it as fact.

Fred shook his head. "It wasn’t that they were mean, George. Anya just... sort of faded into the background. The sort of girl that if you weren’t looking for her, you’d miss her."

"Maybe she faded for all of you, you know," said George, shaking his head. "But not to me. Never in my mind. I took her for granted, but I needed her. Like water to drink. Like air to breathe. Like my wand. And I never realized that until it was too late."

Fred looked for a moment as if he was about to make a joke about his brother’s maudlin mood, but must have decided against it, for he was quiet.

"You know, on a birthday not so long ago, Anya gave me a plant... she was always good at Herbology, remember? No, I suppose none of you do. Anyway, it was an agave. That plant reminded me of her, although it’s not half as beautiful as she was, and plants don’t love or talk or laugh.

"The agave is dead useful. You can use its leaves in all sorts of waterproofing potions, or use them to make a writing material loads better than parchment. You can separate the fibers and make handsome cloaks... and from what I hear, the wizards in Mexico, where the plant grows native, do. You can get everything from soap to poultices to thirst-quenching liquid in the desert out of it... it was the best thing anyone ever got me, and every time I looked at it I saw nothing but her.

"I wasn’t much good at Herbology. So what I didn’t know about that plant, I learned shortly after I thought her dead. Once in its lifetime, just once, the agave puts up a single spear which bears these yellow, sweet-scented flowers. And then... it dies."

We were all quiet. No further attempt was made to create a festive atmosphere.

"I promised myself I would never love another woman again," George finished. "And I’ve kept that promise..."

"Until now," said Presh. No one had noticed his return to the table. "What now, George? What am I supposed to do while you’re trying to figure out what you want?"

George took a deep breath. "Presh, I am trying. You know what you mean to me. You also know what she meant to me..."

"And is to you still," Presh growled. "Well, you can’t have your Cauldron Cakes and eat them too, Georgie boy."

"Really?" Lee asked innocently. "I do it all the time." Alicia jabbed him in the ribs, and when he started to protest, she shook her fist at him with a teasing glint in her eye.

Presh ignored him and turned back to his boyfriend. "If you have a taste for both, how could you possibly ever be satisfied with one or the other? Just as I’m not enough for you, she won’t be either."

"She was enough in the short time we had," George said, blue eyes locked with Presh’s liquid brown ones. "She was more than enough."

"Ah, what the hell, go and put all your eggs in one basket," Lee murmured. This time Alicia did sock him.

This time, George ignored his friend. "I never lied to you about my past, Presh. I never said I was exclusively gay."

"What you said was that you hadn’t been with a witch in five years. Only wizards... and your one serious relationship since then had been with Marco. Now, I respect the fact that you’re not the type to march in parades down Diagon Alley... not all of us have to be political. But you’re not a boy, George... you’re thirty-one today. A wizard of age should know his own mind."

"I do know my own mind, Presh," George snapped. "I’ve told you where I stand on this. It’s a ‘wait and see’ situation. And if you don’t like it, then..."

Presh stood up so quickly that the rococco chair rocked back and crashed to the floor.

"There’s nothing to like about a gay boy toy playing at being straight. When you get tired of playing nursemaid to that... that dull mouse, send me an owl. I refuse to wait with bated breath while you choose which side of the fence you’re going to fall on. No matter what you might believe, you cannot straddle it forever."

As Presh sashayed out, a rather large caterpillar sauntered over to our table, with hookah in hand. He settled his bulk into Presh’s vacated chair and blew a lot of white smoke around... so much, in fact, that momentarily we were all blinded.

Once we could see again, the caterpillar sort of wove back and forth like a charmed snake. My eyes must have been wide as saucers, for Alicia laughed and said, "It’s part of the after-dinner entertainment. We’re to have our fortunes told."

The caterpillar shifted his head around the table. When he got to me, his whiskers tickled my nose... I had to sneeze. He drew back, beady, lidless eyes meeting mine.

"WHO... are... you?"

I squirmed under the overgrown insect’s scrutiny. "Oh, well... I... I’m Angelina Weasley. How pleasant to meet you..."

Alicia cackled. "Wrong answer, Ange!"

For my foible, I received another faceful of smoke. Then the caterpillar repeated the question. We repeated this process several times until I could barely breathe. If the restaurant was attempting some sort of promotional gimmick, it had failed utterly.

"WHO ARE YOU?" the caterpillar thundered as I wheezed. No wonder they say there are plenty of worms in hell.

"I... don’t... know," I said wearily.

Suddenly the smoke was cleared away. I was rather glad... even though the sensation of fresh air was at first a shock to my poor oxygen-deprived lungs.

The caterpillar put down his hookah and began his fortune-telling tricks.

"You have a clever, deep mind and the talent to excel in highly inspirational lines of endeavor as a dramatist, artist... or a writer. You can be lifted by beauty in all forms and are at the most creative when inspired. You delight in mystery always, and always must seek answers at the expense of all else. Your quick temper can flare up suddenly and be over just as suddenly, leaving you very sorry for any suffering you have caused."

Fred was nodding. "That’s my wife, all right."

I glared at him. Was he trying to imply that I was sorry for punishing him for being sexist and unfeeling? I wasn’t!

Yeah, Angelina, keep telling yourself that.

Alicia was next. Since she was a veteran Wonderland diner, she wasn’t nearly as stupid as I was. She said she didn’t know right away. "You are practical and materialistic, with a strong desire for a good standard of living in an environment where you are in contact with refined, successful people. Your interests are more focused on your social life and convivial living, with any pressing or difficult issues being put off as long as possible."

"Sounds just like me," Alicia said with satisfaction. "I always say, ‘Never put off till tomorrow what you can avoid altogether.’"

Then the caterpillar predicted Lee’s fortune. "You have a rather cynical outlook on life and rather materialistic standards. In reaching your goals, you are very independent and resourceful, patient and determined. You are very positive and definite in your own ideas and opinions, and others are drawn to your sense of humor."

We all said "Yes!" at once. Lee merely shrugged with a pleased sort of grin.

Then it was my husband’s turn. "Your active, restless nature demands action and you dislike system and monotony. Having considerable vision, you are adept at formulating new, more effective ways of doing things. You do not find contentment in the routine tasks and responsibilities that are associated with home and family or with administrative detail in the business world, so you have to guard against frustration and even moods of depression over your personal responsibilities."

"Sounds just like him," I said acidly. At his glare, I lifted my chin and turned back towards the caterpillar.

Finally, it was George’s turn. "At times you can be extremely happy, expressive, full of fun, and good-natured. Yet at other times you find congenial association impossible, being controlled by self-pity, moods, and depression. If you could express only the constructive qualities and restrain the negative qualities of your nature, you would always be good company..."

"Slim chance of that happening," Lee joked. The caterpillar immediately blew a gust of smoke at him.

Alicia murmured, "Hang on, speedy, the larva wasn’t done."

"These contrasting qualities make it difficult for people to understand you and can lead to friction in your personal life," the caterpillar continued. "You are deep, philosophical, and refined, but your extremely sensitive nature causes you to become depressed over any real or imagined slight. You find it difficult to be patient, practical, and systematic, preferring to act impulsively as the mood hits you.

His performance complete, the caterpillar disappeared with one final, dramatic puff of smoke.

"Your reading was twice as long as mine," Fred complained to his twin. "It’s my birthday, too."

George shrugged, then looked at me. "Think of it this way. After I leave here, the festivities will be over... I’ll be back in that hospital in Miami. But for you," he winked at me, "the celebration’s just beginning."

Alicia and Lee guffawed at this. If only they knew.

*********

That night, I had what proved to be my final nightmare before things fell apart.

The wandering angel is alone, on a vast plain. She stops briefly, looking up at the sky, sighing. To go back there, she says to herself, silent to the nothingness, shrugging wearily.

To go back...

She interrupts herself, a wave of laughter causing her to double over and fall to the parched earth, but there was no reaction to her presence, nor would there be throughout the journey, indeed from the beginning of time. A mortal chill perhaps, a whisper of something there, then embarrassed silence, unbelief her scalpel.

How ironic, the fallen angel remarks, again to herself. I yearn to return to a time that I have spent all of history trying to convince wizards and witches is indeed the stuff of mythos, a phantom longing, somewhere that is nowhere, for it does not exist. A time when the magic existed side by side with the ordinary in peace and harmony.

To go back to Faerie...

She recalls the arguments so profound, the thoughts planted as seeds, nourished and allowed to spring full-bloom in their time, wreaking the havoc that magical prejudice has been causing over the centuries.

"The filth you allowed into this school during your tenure as Headmaster will someday be the death of our kind. When there are no more witches and wizards left in the world, no one will be left to praise your works or deify your name."

Oh, yes... Lucius Malfoy had been her faithful servant. So had Voldemort, the dark mage formerly known as Tom Riddle. So had Grindewald. And Faustus. And Ibadiran. And countless other magical fools, hers to use as tools until her relentless touch had utterly and completely broken them... had caused them to be something less than fully human.

The fallen angel, in her wanderings, sees the skeleton of a man. Bare to the bone, there is no way of telling whether the person was Muggle or wizard during their lifetime. She studies it for a moment, then goes past. Behind her there is no trail, no footprints. The sand is as undisturbed as ever.

"And this is your handiwork?" I say as we meet, again, an eternity after Faerie.

"Oh, yes, it is," she replies. "Hear the wind--it cries questions without answer. Look at the sand—hope and faith crumbled, through which we walk undetected. Good turned to evil. Light turned into darkness. Eden forsaken. Paradise lost."

She casts a glance over the endless mile, parched, with skulls turning to powder, stirred up in patchy little clouds by not-distant cries in the air, wind from the forlorn lost she had beguiled into selling her their very souls.

"Magic," she says with a menacing smile.

"What you have made of it."

"Yes."

"Then if it’s magic, why can’t it be everlasting?"

The wandering angel then disappears, and I am punting. Although it is no lazy English stream I was navigating... it is a vast ocean. Gray-green water touches the horizon in every direction. I have no way of telling east from west, have no sense of time, but I gather from the sky that it is either late dusk or early dawn.

I blink, and there is another boat beside me. In it are Ron and Hermione, so deeply engrossed in conversation that I doubt either of them see me. They are laughing like children, and indeed their voices sound as if they are fifteen years old.

"I think that one looks like a lion," says Ron, pointing up at an oddly shaped nimbus stained pastel by the spectacular sky.

Hermione shakes her head. "No, no, no... it’s a unicorn. The one over there... now, that one looks like a lion. The others look like a snare drum, a plum-cake, and oh, I don’t know... a loaf of brown bread."

"Brown bread?" They both laugh at this. He pecks her cheek and she blushes. She ruffles his hair affectionately and his ears turn red.

Hermione is now saying something profound as usual. "The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, ‘What, you too? I thought I was the only one.’ Wouldn’t you agree, Ron?"

"I would. For you *are* the only one. You are alone, Hermione, of your own choosing."

And just as suddenly as the boat had come, Ron disappears. In his place sits Harry.

"I’ve learned that there are four kinds of love," he tells her. "Romance asks, ‘Do you love me? Because all I see is you.’ Friendship asks ‘Do you see the same truth?’ Or at least, ‘Do you care about the same truth?’ And Affection says, ‘You’re nothing to owl home about, but you’ve been by my side for so long that I can’t help but need you.’"

"What is the fourth?" Hermione asks.

"Can’t label that one so easily. There are no words to describe it. But once you experience it, it makes all else in life--yes, even peace--seem like broken toys and faded flowers."

"Have you ever experienced anything of the sort?"

"Merlin only knows if I’ve ever tasted anything like it," he replies. "Perhaps I’ve only imagined the tasting. Like a lotus. A man would die to forget the sweet taste of it, and go utterly mad in the process."

Immediately, Hermione’s mouth is stained bright red, lips dripping with the juice of some strange fruit. And Ron just as suddenly returns to the boat, hands stained with the same red juice that rouged Hermione’s lips and cheeks.

"There were once three friends," Hermione says. "A, B, and C. If A should die, then B loses not only A but A’s part in C. At the same time, C loses not only A, but A’s part in B. The explanation to the proof is this. In each of my friends there is something that only the other friend can fully bring out... out... out..."

As Hermione’s "out" echoes across that vast ocean, long, silvery strings attach themselves to her upper lips, nostrils and eyelids. Others protrude from shoulders, elbows and wrists. The strings are taut, so that Hermione dangles several feet above the boat like a marionette. Both Ron and Harry reach upwards toward her, but she is hanging just beyond their grasp.

Then she dances, and as she is dancing, the water turns into blood and begins to boil furiously. And there is the precise snipping sound of a Shearing Charm, and Hermione falls back into the boat. Limp as a rag doll with no bones.

And then the boat capsizes into the boiling, bloody water... and Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger are no more.

The sky is completely red now, and sheet lightening crackles across it. Raindrops of blood fall into the never-ending ocean and the punt... and onto me. Each one fizzles, the ones that touch me sear my skin, and eat away flesh, blood, bone, and beyond. Whatever else can be said about the rain, it is corrosive... and I know I am being consumed.

Now the air around me is filled with wraiths. My father and Katie, who I am expecting to see, are not present. My mother and sisters and their husbands are. So are my in-laws. My friends. My co-workers. Everyone else I know, all of the quick and none of the dead.

And then... I see Fred. Eyes hollowed out, appearing as if he is covered in powdered sugar. Holding a ghostly Malinda in his arms, they hover just beyond the boat. I reach out to him, oblivious to the sea that has gone from blood to lava. The punt rocks like a white water raft... it catches fire... it disintegrates, and a formidable earthquake from the depths of that hellish ocean sends me plummeting into the liquid magma.

I know agonizing pain and utter terror. And then I know nothing further... for I am now a ghost as well... a ghost with wings... yet another wandering dark angel...

I sat up in bed, screaming. Afterwards, I was glad Malinda was away that night. I wouldn’t have wanted to frighten her with my nonsense for the world.

The bedroom door flung open. Fred rushed in and over to the bed, sweaty, panting. He quickly gathered me up in his arms and held me until I stopped trembling. His pajama top was open... my cheek rested against the crisp red pelt that covered his chest.

"It burns!" I sobbed. "The fire..."

"Hush, love, you’re safe with me," he whispered into my hair. "Nothing can hurt you here, I promise. Not even me."

"Just hold me, darling," I said. "Don’t talk. Just listen for once, Fred."

In brief, halting words, I told him all about the nightmare. How variations of it had been recurring on a nightly basis. How I was afraid to sleep because of it. How it was so vivid, so real that I was afraid of its portents.

I finished with what has to be one of the most healing phrases in the English language.

"I’m sorry, Fred."

"I’m sorrier, Angel."

"Oh, we were both to blame as always. For we’re both so..."

"Stubborn," we said together. Then we laughed.

Fred was still holding me, and I quite enjoyed being held. "I think you ought to tell that dream to someone who’s good at Divination. I’d say Ron, but he’s rather preoccupied at the moment." He paused. "Angel, I want to tell you everything. I've kept it from you long enough, and my reasons for doing so don't seem as sound as they once did.""

I really enjoyed being held. "Can’t it keep until morning?"

He laughed. "Didn’t think you’d want to wait, knowing you."

"Actually, there is something else I can’t wait another minute for..."

Then his mouth descended upon mine. It’s been a decade and a half since our first kiss. Yet I never ceased to marvel at the heady warmth of his lips upon mine. Sensations so familiar and yet so new. As his hands stroked my back through the black silk nightgown, I melted with a heady moan.

"Please," I whispered softly.

In reply, he lifted the silk garment over my head. Slowly, he let it fall...

And after that, there was nothing but the two of us. Our kisses. Our caresses. At times gentle and leisurely. At other times urgent and hungry. There was no shadow cast over us. There was no curse to be deflected. There was no war or pain or fear. Only love everlasting.

Just to be close to him...

Just to be close to the man I’d loved for half a lifetime. That was my heart’s only desire. Or so I believed that night, on the cool sheets, in the dark, his lips brushing mine, his body my anchor, the scent of him in my head like music, drowning out all other songs.

What had begun with a nightmare had ended in reconciliation. What had begun with fear had ended with love.

So it was in the beginning.

So it now and ever shall be.

Magic without end.

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

Draco and Ginny’s engagement bash was the following evening. Fred and I did not get a chance to have our talk that morning. By the time I woke up, morning was half over and there was a note on the bedside table. Apparently he’d got an owl from George earlier. Anya was being released from the hospital that afternoon and he wanted help in transporting her and the precious few things she had to his Hogsmeade flat.

I was humming and trying to decide what I’d wear to the party when Cho and Dion dropped Malinda off that afternoon. When my daughter saw what I was doing, she snatched her favorite warm-weather robes of mine from the pile of clothing on the bed. They’re bright yellow silk...

"You don’t want Mummy to look like a canary, do you?" I asked her.

She giggled. "It’s not yellow, it’s more buttery. You’ll be Princess Buttercup in your robes, Mummy!" Thanks to her box of 64 Colorwands, she’d just learned more elaborate colors than the nine in the preschooler box... and she was quite proud of that fact.

So I did end up in the yellow robes. Knowing that I wouldn’t have occasion to wear them again until next year. Draco and Ginny weren’t going to announce their date until the party, but by the time the wedding rolled around, I’d have to buy something new for it. I owned no maternity dress robes.

Malinda watched me with rapt eyes as I dressed, much as I remember watching my own mother get ready for parties as a girl. I pinned my wild curls up neatly, and it took some time to do it. I’d all but decided to cut my hair short for the summer. The bulk of my third trimester when I was carrying Malinda was spent in the winter. The bulk of it this time would be during the warm months... I was mentally preparing myself to be hot and miserable. Cooling magic takes too much energy to rescue the average Horkalump-sized, full term witch from the ravages of summer, and I hoped to be out and about until my due date this time.

But in the meantime, I was rather pleased with my appearance. I had a pair of matching, strappy heels to go with the robes. I wore my usual makeup, but tried a berry shade of lipstick. I had a lot of floral pins, a long-ago gift from my mother... I pinned them into my hair. Once I had on my earrings and wedding rings, I was ready to go.

Malinda was going over to Jim’s house again, as the teenage cousins were still at Hogwarts. Once Fred came home and dressed in his own dress robes, we took her to Jim’s via broomstick, then flew the rest of the way to the Emerald City Portal.

By the time we approached the Narcissus Tower from the Dumbledore Flyway, dusk was over and stars studded the nighttime sky like jewels. Fred docked his broom in one of the last available slots, and we entered the Emerald City.

The party was being held on the roof of the Tolkien Hotel. Of course... the establishment was owned by Malfosoft, after all. One of the first unusual things you noticed about the establishment was that the staff wasn’t of the usual house-elf and Squib variety... they were men and women of a magical race known simply as hobbits. Efficient, practical folk, they lived just about as long as witches and wizards did... and ate six times a day.

A hobbit whose shiny name badge read "Emmaus" in gold lettering took our light cloaks, then showed us to the green-and-gold carpeted staircase. We then walked twenty-one flights of stairs to the roof... there was no Muggle elevator, and no way of Apparating directly to the top. Yet the murals on the stairwells provided constant amusement, as they were constantly changing. From the looks of it, the story that was being told centered around a number of rings, but I was more interested in getting to the party than watching the moving pictures.

When we reached the top, there stood a liveried hobbit. He opened the door to the rooftop suite for us... and even I, who have seen many extravagantly decorated Society events (I cannot bring myself to call them festivities or celebrations) over the years, was briefly struck speechless by the sight before us.

As to be expected at any wizarding fete, there were candles hovering in the air where they were needed, and thousands of fairies bordered the edge of the... was it the roof? The room? The suite was both outside and inside at the same time. It was impossible to tell where the sky ended and ceiling began. Perhaps this was because there wasn’t a defining wall separating the two. Or perhaps it had something to do with the the tiny, glimmering lights in a multitude of colors, all throughout the room, that seemed to change the shape of the space from moment to moment.

Cocktail tables were scattered around the floor, each topped with still more candles. They began as tables for two, but as more witches or wizards approached, drinks and hors d’oeurves in hand, they would grow larger to accommodate the newcomers, and sprout more spindly looking chairs of golden wood.

Hobbits passed through the crowd--some brandished trays of elegantly arranged cheeses and crackers while others passed pink champagne to the guests.

The evening was much warmer in the Emerald City than it had been in England, which made me wonder again where it was located in the Muggle world. I tried to look over the edge of the roof to see, but the fairies swarmed around me, their lights making it impossible to see anything beyond the spectacle and illusion.

The party had been in full swing for over an hour, and many people were already there. The guests of honor were nowhere to be seen, though... I wondered where Draco and Ginny were.

As we walked in, we passed by the bar. The bartender was not a hobbit, but a witch—and a striking-looking one at that. Black ponytail, pouty, full lips, and pale blue eyes. When my reflection was caught in those eyes, I sent a cordial half-smile her way. She smiled back, but as we passed, I felt her eyes boring into my back.

Now, I’ve never been paranoid, but I made a mental note to watch my drink that night.

At first glance, it was apparent that most of the guests hailed from disparate yet intersecting circles. For instance, Ginny’s invitees included not only the family and the usual wartime Hogwarts alumni (mostly former Gryffindors, but not exclusively), but also Gladrags co-workers from London and Paris and other fashionistas. Yet one could see Lavender Brown Finnegan engaged in conversation with Gladrags designer Madeleine Rancier, who she’d probably never met before, as if they were old dormmates.

Speaking of old dormmates, Lavender’s best friend Parvati Patil was home for a visit from her ambassadorial post in Surinam. She was dressed in robes of lavender gauze that reminded me of a sari. She was also laughing and tossing her head quite often at the antics of her date for the evening... Harry, who seemed to be having the time of his life as well. They occupied a table by themselves and seemed to be quite oblivious to their surroundings.

"Look at those two. Didn’t they date at one time or the other? Maybe even as far back as Hogwarts?" I asked Fred as we approached the gift table with our packages. Draco and Ginny didn’t really need anything, so they’d asked for gifts of wine to add to their soon-to-be-combined collection. Ours was a Gascony red wine, dated 1742.

He shrugged. "Can’t remember. Don’t think so."

"I don’t either, but perhaps I’m forgetting something. Never would have thought Parvati and Harry..."

Fred shrugged again. "Why not? Harry’s taste runs to the exotic. Besides Ginny, I don’t think he’s ever dated an English witch."

The foremost witch in all England was already making the rounds of the gathering with her husband. Hermione’s robes for the evening were a dream, and indeed most everyday working witches could only dream of wearing what I recognized as a Sonia DasGupta original from the Gladrags limited collection. Sleeveless, dip-dyed coral silk and georgette robes. Carwash hem all around, slit from knee to ankle. Matching embroidered and beaded pashmina shawl. I’m no clotheshorse, but I wanted those robes.

Hermione was drawing quite a few eyes, but she didn’t seem to be paying attention to that... she was too busy bustling about making sure everything ran smoothly.

"After all, that is what a matron of honor is for," she said crisply as she took the bottle from us and handed it to the hobbit who was managing the creative rack display.

Ron, who was standing next to her, shook his head. "Thought that was what a wedding planner was for... where’s Heidi, by the way?"

"I told her to sit for a moment. Heidi does this sort of thing all the time, so it must be monotonous. It’s all old hat to me... I know quite a lot about weddings," said Hermione with a wave of her hand. Then she picked up a clipboard, and put on a pair of reading glasses, and addressed the hobbit. "Glibbet, if you’d be so kind as to inquire of each guest what their name is, this parchment’s all set up with checkboxes for you..."

Glibbet looked puzzled, but bowed politely. "Pardon me, madam, I only speak your tongue. I cannot read it." Something in his tone of voice reminded me of Percy.

Fred was doing his best to stifle a laugh. "Hermione, isn’t that what gift tags are for?"

"No, this is to prevent my sister-in-law from being harried with lost or detached name tags tomorrow," Hermione continued. "Always remember, Fred, people who think they know everything are a great annoyance to those of us who do."

Ron’s eyes rolled to the top of his head. "Fancy getting a drink with me, love? And the Nortons are here... we haven’t seen them in more than a year, so..."

"In a minute, dear," Hermione said absently. "Hold still... you’ve got a lipstick smudge on your face." From nowhere, she efficiently produced a cloth napkin, wet it with a discreet flicker of her tongue, and began scrubbing his cheek.

"Hermione, geroff," he protested, squirming away. "You’re rubbing all my skin off."

Her hands went to her hips. "Then next time, tell the witches to keep their sodding lipstick to themselves!" she said, throwing the napkin at him and storming away. It landed upon his head so strategically that it completely covered his head like a caul and made him look like some sort of red-eyed Cyclops phantom. Ron snatched the napkin off and walked briskly after his wife.

Normally Fred and I would have looked at each other after a display like this, and laughed our heads off. But lately, there wasn’t much to laugh about when it came to interaction between the two of them.

"Angelina! Fred! Over here!"

It was my sister Diane. She was sitting at a corner table near the entrance with a company of notables. Husband and Deputy Minister of Magic Brian Riordan. Brian’s younger brother Nick, chief of Malfosoft’s legal department, former wartime Slytherin and member of the wedding party. And Nick’s date, a watery-eyed blonde who seemed to be quite intimidated by the company she was keeping.

As we walked over, I had to wonder if anyone who’d been present that day at Black and Potter--Harry, Ron, or Hermione--had let on to Diane that I’d shared with them information I knew full well she wanted me to keep confidential. Then I realized that the thought was ridiculous. Between being captivated by Indian diplomats and trying to repair a marriage in trouble, Diane was the least of their concerns just then.

"This is the sister I’ve been telling you all about, and her husband, the bride’s brother," Diane said. "Angie, Fred, meet Christina Rosetti. Newly hired Obliviator with the Ministry here... and Draco Malfoy’s cousin."

As Christina extended a frail hand in greeting and I shook it as gently as I could, I said, "I didn’t know Draco had any family living."

"Only my brother and I, on his mother’s side," Christina said in a small, pretty voice. Her English was thickly accented yet understandable. "His grandmother and my mother were sisters... I do not know of any others."

I was surprised that Christina was Italian, yet had the same ultrafair coloring as Draco. She then explained that her family was from a northern Italian town called Merano, where there was a thriving wizarding community.

I was still puzzling over this when Diane began raving about the wine. "Delightfully full-bodied, slightly woodsy... and the aroma! Smell this, Angelina," and she almost stuck the goblet up my nose. "I haven’t had Corsican vintage this fine since that trip we took in... what was it, Brian? ’99? ’02?"

"It was ’02, dear... remember, that was when we got Shapechanger." Shapechanger was Diane’s pedigreed pet Puffskein. I’ve never owned one, but Fred said the Weasleys had a foundling baby Puffskein when they were all small. He and George wanted it, but Molly gave it to Ron, who’d found her in the first place. So one day when Ron was away for some reason, he and George went in search of the original owner, found him, and returned the pet before Ron returned home. Irrational Ron then insisted that Fred had used the Puffskein for Bludger practice, and so the family legend of my poor husband as Cold-Blooded Boy Killer of Defenseless Animals has persisted to this day.

Most of that species are docile and kind, but not so Shapechanger. Never has a more insufferably vain non-human creature existed. She’s not friendly to anyone but Diane, either. Once when I was over there and sat on her by mistake (she’d been snoozing underneath one of Diane’s zillion cushions), she sent that scavenging tongue into my ear like a dart and almost ruptured my eardrum.

"Diane’s the wine collector, and Brian collects antique broomsticks," Nick said to Christina. "He and Malfoy have quite a competition going... Malfoy, of course, has many more, but Brian’s inherited a few from our grandfather that Malfoy would sell his soul to get hold of."

Brian was nodding. "Whenever he’s over, I don’t let him alone in the same wing that I keep the Oakshaft 79 prototype in."

Diane sighed loudly. "Men and their broomsticks."

"Not just men," I reminded her. "Plenty of witches love the smell of a new broom, or the history behind an old one just as well."

"Plenty of witches suffer from broomstick envy," Diane retorted. "Me, I am as comfortable on the ground as I am in the air."

Of course she was. For the millionth time, I wondered why she’d inherited the wings and I hadn’t. If anyone wanted a perfect illustration for the expression "life isn’t fair", all they had to do was look at the two of us.

The conversation went back to wine for a while, then to various and sundry other topics. Then Draco showed up at the table and the conversation returned right back to brooms. Not that I was complaining... but I could see Diane cut her eyes.

"You’ll never guess what I’ve got, Riordan," Draco said to Brian in a mocking sort of tone, even more smug than he usually seemed.

Brian stared at his old friend for a moment. Then, "You don’t mean to say... the original 1820 Smethwyck... the unlisted one... the one the great-granddaughter’s refused to sell for more than eighty years... the one that she promised me she’d send a owl if she decided to..."

Draco just looked at him. Then a satisfied half-smile crossed his features.

Brian guffawed. "Touché, you duplicitous bastard!" Brian said in a tone that was somewhere between good humor and good old-fashioned envy. "I should have never told you it was still in existence."

"Yes, your stupidity was my gain," Draco said. "Pity they don’t sell toupees with brains attached. Ready to sell that Oakshaft?"

"Malfoy, the day I sell you my crown jewel is the day you catch a Bandersnatch," Brian said.

"Consider it done," said Draco. "Make sure you wrap that broom with care. I’ll send one of my elves for it tomorrow."

Diane tutted. "My, how conceited. Some things never change."

"I’m not conceited," Draco replied. "Conceit is a fault, and I have no faults." Ginny, resplendent in brightly patterned Pucci robes, walked over just in time to hear this remark. "Ah, vixen, you’ve come just in time to help extol my many virtues."

"Not now, darling, we’re in polite company," she said with a wicked grin right before they exchanged several kisses in greeting. "As for the others, well... we’d be here all night, and I could think of better ways to spend the time."

Diane was shaking her head. "So damn cocksure," she snapped. "I suppose the only one who’d have you, Draco, was this yes-witch. No one else would be able to stand you, that’s for sure."

"Oh, come off it, Di," Nick replied. "Love isn’t just for the poor. And as the goblins say, gold covers a multitude of sins."

"There isn’t enough goblin gold in England to rescue a woman who’s sold her soul to a daemon," Diane shot back.

Draco then stared at my sister, gray eyes frozen.

"Experience is the best teacher, isn’t it, Diane? I’m sure you could write a textbook on the subject," he said. "Come, vixen, we have other guests to greet."

And those other guests were steadily arriving. Bill Gates was there with wife Melinda--any other Muggle in this crowd would’ve had to agree to selective Memory Charming, but certain Muggles do associate with the magical. The parents of Muggle-born witches and wizards are a case in point. They and the Gateses were among those lucky few who carried the MagiCard, issued by the various ministries worldwide, which allow Muggles to retain all their memories of witches and wizards, magical beings and beasts, "miraculous" phenomena, and the like.

Cassandra Claire also was in attendance. Tonight she was escorted by none other than Dr. Simon Branford. Both seemed to be getting along splendidly. I was glad to see that Simon had bounced back so well after Ginny’s engagement. And it was a thrill to see my imposing boss giggle and blush like a fifteen-year old girl... in all the years I’d worked at the Prophet, I’d never seen her look so happy.

"You fancy redheads, don’t you?" I teased Simon when we met up at the bar, noting the Muggle shirt and necktie visible underneath his robes. It was black, but flashed the following message in neon green lettering: "We are Malfosoft. Resistance Is Futile. You Will Be Assimilated."

Simon flushed and collected his drinks from the lady bartender, whose eyes I felt on me once again. "Only certain ones these days. Cassie is perfect."

And, judging from the playful banter and intense interaction between those two, I supposed the feeling was mutual.

As there was no dancing, it was basically a mix-and-mingle affair. The expensive band that wedding planner Heidi had hired was keeping the mood mellow, playing and singing mostly the sort of standards you’d expect to hear at a posh cocktail hour. After a while, I found it boring and was in the middle of convincing my husband that we could have much more fun at home...

Then a Filibuster’s firecracker was thrown straight into our midst.

For some hours, my mother-in-law had kept saying, "Where is Bill?" And every time, my father-in-law would reassure her, saying he’d be there, that he’d most likely gotten held up, that there was some good excuse for him being late.

There was.

He and Mo Ludlam won the award for Dramatic Entrance of the Evening, wands-down. If my Prophet colleagues had been invited, they would have had a field day. Underneath his cloak, Bill was wearing an awesome navy Muggle shirt and black slacks.

And Mo was wearing the exact same thing as Hermione.

While there wasn't the cliched stark silence, the volume definitely dropped. Mo looked a little startled at this, as if she had no idea anyone would ever stop conversation at her entrance. I looked over at Fred and promptly placed a finger beneath his chin and closed his mouth.

Small murmurs ran through the crowd as Mo and Bill approached Ginny, who had her arms full of the wine bottles Hermione had handed her. Bill took a few from his sister and the two Weasleys ventured off somewhere, presumably to find a place for the wine.

I saw Mo stand awkwardly by herself for a few moments, searching for familiar faces. I stepped forward to say hello, but she turned to the bar and ordered a drink. The strange woman behind the bar poured her vodka martini (straight up with an olive) with an odd sort of smirk on her face. Looking a little nervous, Mo gave a tense smile and took the drink. Pulling on Fred's arm, I led him over back over to the bar and we flanked a very relieved Mo.

"All right, Mo?" Fred asked.

She nodded. "And here I thought I moved in the jet set. This is way out of my league."

"Oh, you can’t be serious," I said, swirling my water about. I hadn’t drunk a thing all night. Something had told me not to.

Mo was going to take a first sip of her martini, then lowered it back down at my words. "I’m not kidding. I feel like a stuffed goose in a bakery that sells nothing but fine French pastry. Not my idea of fun, if you know what I mean."

"You act as if you can say ‘fun’ and ‘Malfoy’ in the same sentence," Fred said. "I’m shocked the prat didn’t charge admission."

"Not so loud, dear," I replied. "We’ve still got the hen party, the stag night, and rehearsal dinner to go. Not to mention the reception... don’t go giving our brother-in-law to be ideas."

Mo laughed. "Definitely a couple after my own hearts. You know, another thing I never understood about rich Brits is why they pay all these Galleons for fancy digs like these... and then barely feed you."

I shrugged. "It’s not just the rich, to tell you the truth. It’s a matter of national pride.... British food, by definition, must run the gamut from mildly interesting to just plain boring to dishes only a Englishman could love."

"Believe me, I know. When I first moved here, it took me nearly a year to understand that not everyone is passionate about food, the British among the very least. Drink, yes. Eats, no."

"There’s nothing the matter with our food," Fred said, a trifle indignantly.

"That’s because you don’t know any better, dear," I replied. "Molly’s the exception to the rule... you were extremely lucky growing up."

Mo grinned. "Hey, sure there’s good English food to be had. Take for instance, traditional cream tea at those quaint little country bed-and-breakfasts and inns. Hot scones. Homemade jam. Thick clotted cream. That’s about as British as you can get."

"Told you," Fred said to me, with his "neener, neener, neener!" look.

"Oh, sure," Mo continued. "I always enjoy the experience for its intrinsic worth. Even though often I suspect the supposedly home canned jam came from a Spartan Sorcerer’s Supermarket jar."

That set us both to laughing, and soon Fred had to join in too. In her mirth, Mo set her untouched martini back on the bar. Exasperated, the lady bartender snatched it back so quickly that a few droplets landed on the wood finish... and proceeded to burn so many holes into it that it rather looked as if a contingent of miniature toves and their corkscrew-like snouts had been set loose upon it.

I blurted out, "Did you see..."

"What?" Fred asked, wiping his eyes.

But no. Fred and Mo hadn’t seen, that much was obvious. Their backs had been to the bar, and as they turned to glance in the direction that my eyes were pointing in... the damage had been repaired.

I looked up, and the bartender’s back was to me. She was hastily preparing drink orders and setting them on a circular tray.

Now, I knew that pregnant women weren’t always the most balanced people in the world when it came to normal hormonal levels, but I didn’t think I was going batty. Or was I?

If I was, I couldn’t blame it on the food. I hadn’t drunk or eaten a thing all evening.

Mo was still going. "Well, at least this isn’t one of those pretentious American wizarding highbrow affairs, with the pro caterers who can make a salmon look like a Rembrandt still life, then expect us to eat it..."

"Nice to encounter a witch who knows her Classical artists," a deep voice with a heavy Italian accent said directly to the left of us.

The owner of that voice was so handsome and so very blonde that you needed a pair of sunglasses to look at him. I was certain that his was the picture illustrating "Adonis" in the dictionary. Yes, he was blonde... and his features reminded me of Draco’s. Yet where Draco was slightly built and cut from patrician cloth, this giant seemed to have been hewn from a slab of fine marble... one could tell that he knew what it meant to work with his hands. The result would have made Michelangelo himself proud.

Another difference was their eyes. Draco’s seemed to alternate between cold calculation and disquieting intensity. This man’s pale blue ones were warm, and as utterly beguiling as a summer sea.

Mo summed any red-blooded witch’s reaction best. "Hey, handsome... if I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?"

"Dei! I adore a woman who gets to the point."

"Yeah, Dante, the two of you are well-matched," Ron, who was standing next to him, said. "If one could earn wages for flirting, you’d both get time and a half for working overtime."

"And then some," she said, reaching over to poke Ron in the arm. "What can I say? My life’s philosophy these days runs something along the lines of ‘Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow they may cancel your platinum Gringottscard.’"

Dante was obviously taken with her. "Aren’t you going to formally introduce me to your gorgeous friend, Ronald? And her companions as well," he added as an afterthought.

Ron forced a grin and made the introductions. Dante Rosetti was a young up-and-coming Swiss banker, the brother of the Christina we’d met earlier, and also a cousin of Draco’s. We all chatted a bit, Ron and Dante flanking Mo, and I wondered where Bill was. Then Draco and Ginny sauntered over.

"Oh, how good of you to come, Dante!" Ginny said warmly, hugging him until Draco cleared his throat. "I thought you’d be detained with work. We didn’t expect to see you until closer to the wedding."

"I had to see it for myself, bello piccolo topo," Dante replied. "When Draco owled me with the news, and told me who the girl was, I nearly choked to death. I lost a great deal of money to Christina and Nick that day, you know."

"I see you’ve met the famous Maureen Ludlam, cousin," Draco said, by way of changing the subject. "And you haven’t taken your eyes from her yet. A word of warning... Miss Ludlam runs the premiere sports and entertainment agency in all Britain. She also moves in the best circles... and triangles."

Ron looked ready to knock Draco’s block off, but that was nothing new. "Brilliant, Malfoy. You know all your shapes... good boy."

Mo glared. "Draco, don’t you have something better to do right now? Besides insult me, that is?"

"Maureen?" Ginny said quietly. "Last time I checked, it was our party. And I have a suggestion for what you can do... go find your date before my old friend Madeleine steals him completely away from you. Be a first, won’t it?"

Mo whirled on her heel and stormed away. Ron then raged at his sister. "Ginny, you’re a woman of conviction... after you know what Malfoy thinks. Why not get an opinion of your own?"

"I do have opinions of my own!" said Ginny. "Strong opinions --but I don't always agree with them. That’s what my Woobiekins is for, of course."

Instead of backing away from her in disgusted horror as he would have only a year or two before, Draco kissed her so soundly that Dante hooted, Ron’s eyes rolled to the top of his head before he headed in another direction, and Fred pecked my cheek. And again when Draco said to his fiancee, "Keep this up and I’ll send everyone home right now, clear off that bar, and..."

"And what?" Ginny didn’t let him answer, though. She shushed him with another kiss, and another. The next war could have started... I don’t think either of them would have cared. Since this left Fred, Dante and I standing about rather uncomfortably, I tried idle chit-chat again.

"We met your sister Christina earlier this evening. Nick said she’s one of the new Obliviators. How did she..."

Just then, the strange lady bartender walked in the midst of our little cluster... and tripped over Fred’s foot. The tray of drinks she’d been carrying spilled all over my robes. Before I could react in any way, she apologized profusely, used a quick cleansing spell to get rid of the mess on the floor, and scurried off.

My robes were still sopping wet. There was nothing to do save to head to the powder room and get myself dry.

There was only one occupant in the powder room when I entered, an elderly woman who appeared to be of some indiscernible American Indian stock. Her hair was salt-and-pepper gray and twisted into a bun, but her face was unlined. Her robes were the prettily pleated "broomstick" style older witches and incurable romantics alike favored, with a patchwork print made of symbolic herbs, flowers, and runes.

"Some party," I asked as I wet one of the courtesy towels, planning to scrub away some of the stickiness a mixed drink or two had left.

The woman’s beetled black eyes twinkled. "I’ve not seen its like in many years. Indeed, I’m certain I’ve never seen its equal."

I laughed, dabbing at my robes. "Oh, I’m sure you’ve attended better. I know I have."

To which the older woman replied rather severely, "I didn’t say I hadn’t attended better. I said I’d never seen its equal."

Her curt answer trickled through my head like water through a sieve... a journalist learns early on to develop a thick skin and not to take things personally, and that skill carries over into everyday life.

For a moment, we said no more as I conjured up a miniature Whirling Dervish to dry my robes. The same spell is used to dry wet hair. As they dried, I noticed something.

They were stained blood red.

No spell I could readily think of seemed to be able to restore my robes back to their original saffron state. I was crushed, to say the least. Not only would I have to leave the party immediately, the only crepe de chine silk I owned was destined to be relegated to the dustrag pile. One thing was clear... either my trusty wand had a bad case of chizpurflitis, or the red dye was permanent.

But who would go about putting henna into drinks?

"Clarus vestis Bundimundus!"

The older witch had pointed her wand at me and cast so fast I hadn’t realized what was happening. I looked down. No traces of the stain that had seemed so dire moments before remained.

"Just a little cleansing spell," she said with a cryptic smile. "Though my people don’t tend to cast with wooden wands... as my grandfather said, that was ‘the white man’s way’. Grandfather’s words, not my own. But that isn’t the critical question that remains, child."

It took me a moment before I realized she wanted some sort of response. "Which is?"

"Was it the spell, the wand, or my will that removed the unremovable?"

I blinked.

"There are some stains that nothing can ever remove. Wouldn’t you agree?"

I had to think about it for a moment. Then I nodded. I certainly had some in my life.

"Wouldn’t you also agree that with time, gentle handling, and a contrite heart, sometimes... well, child, sometimes even stains can make a cloth more beautiful?"

I blinked again.

"I don’t believe I caught your name," I said. "Who did you say you were affiliated with? The bride, the groom, or both?"

"I didn’t. I didn’t say I was attending the party at all." She sighed. "I doubt they would find the company of an old hag like me desirable."

"Why ever would you think something like that?" I asked with alarm. This was a private powder room... if she’d had no invitation, how did she get in?

"Walls are not the barriers to me that they are to you, child." The woman punctuated her sentence with a laugh that was eerily familar... I knew I’d heard it before, but couldn’t recall where. "Think about it. Whenever old hags like me show up in the midst of a fairy tale, it’s a sure sign of impending danger or imminent disaster. We’re bad omens. Always.

"Now imagine the hysteria that would ensure if the selfsame old hag showed up in the middle of ‘happily ever after’. No, no. Best to let the sleeping lie, for both dogs and children are innocent. Even if we cannot rest, no need to disturb the rest of the blameless, eh?"

I gulped, not feeling very comfortable at all. In fact, now that my robes were back to their usual sunshiny state, I was ready to head back to the festivities.

"Thanks for the martinizing," I said as kindly as I could manage. "Is there anything I could do to repay you... perhaps bring you back a drink?"

"I require nothing here, child," she said with a watery smile. "Except... you could do me a small favor." I nodded, and from underneath her broomstick robes she produced a sealed bottle. "Please deliver this to Bill Weasley. Would you mind?"

"Not at all," I said, curiosity piqued. As my husband often observed, it didn’t take much.

She then grasped my free hand.

"I am grateful, child. We shall meet again soon. Until then, remember this. Anything can happen. Anything can be. Go reclaim your dreams, Angelina Weasley."

And through her firm, leathery handclasp, all the hope that experience had taught me to shun came flowing back into my veins.

"You’re a good girl," she said finally, as I released her hand and walked towards the door. "Be sober and vigilant, and not only for the sake of the child to come. There is danger present here."

"Danger?"

"Oh, yes, child. Danger. The Muggles say that coral is an endangered species, you know... worthy of our protection."

What was she getting at?

"There are women in grave danger here. Those who would notice as a matter of course have been lured away. My Star Eye knows of the danger, but she knows not what the danger is... and she will not listen to me. That’s the Ludlam in her... Guy wouldn’t listen either. It killed him and his wife. I’m determined it will not kill their child."

It clicked. "You’re Mo’s... you’re Dot Lightfoot?"

She winked. "One and the same."

I was fascinated, especially after all the stories Mo had told about her former guardian. "But you’ve got to come in and meet everyone. My husband... his brothers and sister... you’ve..."

She held up a hand. "No, I don’t believe I will. The time will come for meetings and greetings soon enough. Now is not the time. Please hurry."

I did. The minute I was a few feet away from the powder room and in sight of the rooftop entrance, I quickly uncorked the bottle and extracted the slip of parchment. After all, she hadn’t told me not to open it, had she? Besides, if the message was so confidential, why on earth didn’t she seal it properly?

The first thing I noticed was that it was written in the same strange script as the owl from Boxing Day’s envelope was. The second was that I had no idea what the message was about. No wonder she hadn’t bothered to seal it.

Exasperated by the cryptic note, I replaced everything as I’d found it.

It took no more than five seconds to locate Bill once I re-entered the gathering. He was speaking French to Ginny’s Paris friend Madeleine Rancier in low tones, and she was blushing and murmuring to him, low, also in French.

Since I don’t know any other Muggle languages besides English and Jamaican patois, it was of no use to attempt eavesdropping. So I cleared my throat, and handed Bill the bottle. He didn’t seem surprised at all, but nodded his thanks and uncorked the bottle.

Although I couldn’t see it, I knew exactly how the message read.

Q: EVEN IF THE SEA IS PINK, HOW CAN THE CORAL DRINK? IT DOESN’T EVEN THINK!

A: WELL, THEIR SKELETON REMAINS, JUST THE SAME... ISN’T THAT INSANE?

--D
"Thank you, Angelina," said Bill.

"It was nothing. Where is Mo? I haven’t seen her for a while." I was hoping to remind Bill that he had brought a date for the evening. No matter how much of a weakness he had for French girls, it was shameful to neglect her.

Bill pointed a lazy finger in the direction of the band, where a small yet prominent group of admirers was surrounding Mo like a swarm of honeybees, teasing her, trying to coax her into singing for them. All male. Most of whom had certainly not come alone.

If we hadn’t had our talk, I most certainly would have had a different opinion of this. But I couldn’t think that Mo was intentionally luring anyone. She was so free of pretense... what you saw was what you got. Not her fault that wizards and Muggle men alike liked what they saw.

"Thank you, Angelina," Bill said again, and I took that as my cue to leave so he could go on schnoogling Madeleine.

I walked away, but continued to look towards the music stand... then around the party in general. Several familiar faces were missing. My sister Diane and her husband, along with Nick. Harry and Parvati. Most of the Weasley adults. Draco and Ginny. I wondered if they’d announced their wedding date and location, then slipped away.

I thought of the strange bartender... there didn’t seem to be any sign of her, either. Perhaps she’d taken a short break.

Because of my scoping, I almost ran into Hermione, who was carrying a glass of pink champagne.

"Gracious, I’ve not had the chance to drink a drop yet," she said to me, in a chattery sort of tone. "I’ve got all of the wine and champagne that’s arrived so far arranged, thanks to the help of that poor little hobbit... it is a shame, the way Draco imports these illegal aliens from Middle-Earth, hires them for a pittance that even the most conservative modern house-elf would balk at, then refuses them even the most basic education. Hobbits are clearly classified by the Ministry as Beings, not Beasts... are you listening to me, Angelina?"

For I was still staring at the band. All of a sudden, Mo threw up her hands and let the divine Dante Rosetti lift her up onto the stand... he put his hands around her waist and set her up on stage as if she weighed no more than a doxy. Lucky girl.

I turned back to Hermione with a grin. "Flying toads, I think she is going to sing."

"That is so tasteless. She has clients and business associates here. She ought to reconsider... that is, if she ever wants to be taken seriously in her business," Hermione retorted. "Of course, she’s from Canada." As if that explained everything.

When Hermione spoke of clients, I thought of Ron and looked about for him. He was nowhere to be seen. As the bandleader announced her, Bill came up to the side of the stage to speak with her. He was so tall that Mo only had to incline her ear a little bit to hear him.

"She does have a nice voice," I said.

"She does have on my robes. I’m sure I had them first; Sonia DasGupta custom-sewed mine."

"Well, that’s nice and petty of you, Hermione. Both of you happen to look good in coral, and have the means to purchase the best... it’s not like you to be so catty, dear."

Hermione looked daggers at me. "Told you Maureen Ludlam brings out the worst in me. And if my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me, that is your husband amongst that crowd of wizards who are hanging on her like so much stubborn lint."

"So what? She’s not going home with him, Hermione. Or for that matter, any of the rest of them."

"I’m glad you have so much faith in her character."

"I do," I replied. "You know what else I think? I think if Maureen Ludlam didn’t have so many male friends, she’d be a lonely soul because women like us jump to conclusions about women like her so often."

Before Hermione could respond, Mo announced the song she was going to sing.

"I know that I’m most likely breaching some unwritten code by doing this..." ("Then why do it?" asked Hermione under her breath scathingly... "Be nice!" I muttered back.) "...but if I’m going to sing, I’m going to dedicate this one to the happy couple." Which was a nice sort of thing for her to do, considering that the couple hadn’t been all that polite to her earlier.

Hermione sniffed, raising the glass to her lips... then lowered it when Mo began to sing a Doris Day standard. As we inched closer to the stage, I had to wonder why Mo never considered a career in music.

The night doesn't question the stars

That appear in the skies

So why should I question the stars
That appear in my eyes?

Her eyes had been closed for the majority of the song as if she’d been contemplating something. Now, as she neared the end, she opened them and began to scan the gathering.

Of this I'm more than just sure

My love will last and endure

I'll never, no I'll never stop loving...

She never did sing the last word. Instead, she jumped down from the stand, raced over to us like a gazelle... and snatched the champagne glass out of Hermione’s hand. Wrong thing to do. For in the snatching, a third of the pink champagne landed on Hermione’s robes... the ones that were identical to Mo’s.

Hermione looked as if she was either going to slap Mo or commit murder, whichever was most convenient. Instead she snatched the flute back.

"You have no class!" Hermione said through gritted teeth.

"And you have no idea what you were about to do," Mo said, snatching back the glass.

Hermione snatched the glass back again, and this time a few droplets splattered on not only Mo’s robes, but mine as well. I stepped back and took my wand out... the last thing we needed was a catfight, and for someone so concerned about manners, Hermione seemed very determined to start one.

"Listen, you ninny, that glass is poisoned."

"And exactly how would you know this?" Hermione said, anger evident, for every single muscle in her body was tense. "Unless you... or you know who..."

"Oh, stuff it, Hermione! No matter what I think about you personally, I’m not about to stand here and let you kill yourself!"

Hermione took a step back. "You still haven’t answered my question. How do you know the glass is poisoned?"

Mo’s hands went to her shapely hips. "Uh... why not just take my word for it, and get another glass? Better yet, why not go home?"

So fill up the glasses with treacle and ink...

"No, I’ve a better idea. Why don’t you go home? No one wants you here anyway... or at least, they wouldn’t if you weren’t throwing your gypsy charms around... Enthralling them!"

My mouth dropped open. Judging from the gasps of breath of some of those in the vicinity, others were just as shocked too. It is forbidden in most Western countries to Enthrall anyone... and indeed, other than the Unforgivable curses, that is one of the most dangerous spells anyone can cast. The Thrall is the eros counterpart of the thanatos-enforced Imperius curse. Where Imperius controls through pain, the Thrall controls through sexuality.

The Thrall is a complicated spell that very few wizards have succeeded in casting... but many witches throughout the ages have. Thousands of years ago, it didn’t have the stigma that it does now. Now, with the modern magical creed of "An’ it harm none, do what ye will’", it is no more okay to become an Enthraller than it is to go about pointing your wand at blokes shouting "Imperio!"

To accuse a twenty-first century witch of being an Enthraller is the equivalent of calling a Muggle woman a whore of the worst sort... one who’ll commit any sexual indiscretion in the book and then some. It is a horrible thing to say. The fact that Hermione had said it to Mo showed just how contemptible she found the woman... but she should have left it unsaid.

Mo’s eyes had closed the minute she heard Hermione’s accusation. Then she opened them and said, "I know you hate me, Hermione. I’ve tried my best to be a friend to you, yet you’ve proven to me that you don’t want my friendship... and to be honest, all things considered I can’t fault you for that.

"But if our positions were reversed, hon... if you had the knowledge and I had the drink, I would... I’d hope that you’d stop me from poisoning myself as well."

Or anything else that is pleasant to drink...

She moved towards Hermione.

Hermione took another step back. "I should quaff this just to irk you, shouldn’t I?"

"No, you shouldn’t. Put down the drink... we’ll go off somewhere and argue this out... fight it out, if you deem it necessary. But not a single drop of that will touch your lips."

Mix sand with the cider and wool with the wine...

Hermione raised the glass to her lips.

Mo took her wand out from the hidden holster sewn into her robes. I raised mine at my side, just in case this got ugly. Several others did as well.

Hermione raised the glass up into the air. "To your comeuppance," she said scathingly.

"Accio glass!" Mo said, using the simplest of Summoning Charms to take the flute away from Hermione. Before my sister-in-law could react at all, via wand or anything else, Mo turned up the glass quickly and drained it dry.

That was purely a reflex reaction, and not a very smart one at that. For when Mo realized what she had done, she let the glass drop to the floor... and screamed.

"Oh, shit!"

Christina Rosetti was one of those who’d come over to witness the exchange. Now she was pointing at Hermione’s robes... which were beginning to dry.

"Hermione, look at that stain!"

It was the same red that I’d had to get out of my dress earlier. Mo’s robes and mine were also sparsely speckled with red droplets as well.

Hermione’s fury dissolved like snow in the sun. Her eyes widened with alarm.

After her initial outburst, Mo was dead calm. "We don’t have much time... if Dot was right, this dosage is much more potent than the other. I just didn’t know where it was until a moment ago, or what they were trying to do... damn it... they’ll be here any second now, once I collapse and the alarm is sounded..."

"But you’re just fine now!" Hermione said, rushing forward to touch her arm. The minute she made contact, my sister-in-law went completely white. "I take that back. You’re not fine... you’re cold as ice! Mo, we have to get you to the hospital, immediately!"

"No," she said. Her beautiful dark eyes were starting to glaze over.

"No?" Christina repeated. Away from Nick (who there was no sign of), she seemed to be less watery. "Mo, you need medical care!"

"Don’t let me go to the hospital," she said much more calmly than I would have under the circumstances. "Don’t let me go with the stretcher-bearers."

"Why, Mo?" I asked.

"Just tell... tell him that I..."

"Tell who?" Hermione asked.

But she never answered either question fully. She collapsed into a silk and georgette heap of peaches and cream, and began to convulse.

The predictable things happened next, the prerequisite chaos and panic. Hermione, for once, was absolutely useless as a doctor. She knelt beside Mo and wept, trying to talk to the unconscious witch, babbling apologies that were near unintelligible. Stroking her dark hair away from her now-sweaty face and using all her skills as an empath to ease the woman’s suffering.

Fortunately, all the other partners in her clinic had been invited to the event. Neville ran off with a few droplets of the pink champagne, saying he was going to test it and would either return to the hotel or meet us at whatever hospital Mo was sent to within the hour.

When Blaise and Ernie attempted to induce vomiting, Mo began to convulse more violently... and appeared to bring up blood much as Hermione did during the Polyjuice Conference. This frightened us all... Hermione cried even harder, saying "It was true!" over and over again... where the hell were the stretcher-bearers? It wasn’t like them to be so late after a Summoning. Their average response time is three to five minutes... minute seven had come and gone... for all intents and purposes, Mo was dying before our eyes.

The stretcher-bearers arrived at last a minute and a half later, with their rods and neat little uniforms, bustling past us as usual, stretching their rods into functional transport cots. They lifted Mo’s limp form onto one of the stretchers... lifted her up... were about to rush her off to St. Mungo’s or Paracelsus...

"Avada Kedavra!"

It was Sirius Black. He and Dot Lightfoot burst into the room like twin avenging angels. She threw the second curse... and within seconds, all of the stretcher-bearers were dead. They were not only dead, they were not medignomes.

They were as human as I was.

"Get her to a room," Sirius ordered. "You, and you..." he indicated Dante and Nick, "carry her. Dot, you and Hermione see what you can do for her, and whatever you do, don’t leave this hotel. I’m going to see if I can locate Ron. Lupin is already searching."

"He went off flying somewhere with Harry," Fred said. "Who knows where they went?"

Sirius searched my husband’s face. "Come with me. We’ll find them if they can be found." Without another word, they left.

As Dante and Nick used the false medignomes’ stretcher to lift Mo, Dot placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. "Child, you are needed. Perhaps you and I together can make my Star Eye shine good as new again."

Hermione wiped her eyes and straightened up. "You’re a doctor, then?"

Dot laughed. "You could say that. I’m a medicine woman, Hermione."

She obviously didn’t know Hermione Granger-Weasley wouldn’t be much impressed with this. "That’s nice."

Dot laughed. "I’m like you in a few other ways. I’m stubborn. I’m Muggle born. I’m also a witch-hyperempath. Just like Neftis Abidijan. And... just like you."

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

"I was so wrong about you."

It was a half hour later. There were a half dozen witches and wizards bustling about the penthouse suite. Everyone was doing something... either in the living area chatting with the Ministry’s Department of Investigations, in the bathroom making poultices, in the kitchen brewing pain-relieving potions, or in the bedroom where Mo lay like a satin doll on the huge bed.

She had just come to, much as Hermione had the day of the Polyjuice Conference. She was weak as a kitten, cramping up very badly and in excruciating pain. Since they’d arrived, neither Dot nor Hermione had removed their hands from her. Dot was chanting under her breath in a language I did not know. Hermione was talking to Mo in regular English, coaxing, pleading... trying to make amends for years of slights. And I was the one appointed to run errands, to summon this person or that, to change the herbal poultices we’d placed on her abdomen when she’d first entered.

"I was so wrong about you," Hermione repeated. "And I proved myself to be everything that I accused you of."

Mo tried to speak, but Hermione shushed her.

"Don’t try to talk, my dear. Rest easy while we try to take away some of your pain."

Mo shook her head slowly. "I’m going to be all right, hon," she rasped. "I just don’t envy me the hangover I’m going to have when this is all over with."

Dot stopped chanting to shake her head. "A young girl like you shouldn’t be drinking at all. What have I taught you about liquor, Star Eye?"

"‘Candy is dandy, but...’"

Dot quickly went back to chanting under her breath.

After a while the old witch stood up, muttering something about needing to check on one of the potions herself, and left before I could offer my services instead. In an attempt to make myself useful, I took the cool cloth from Mo’s head, and went to wet it with cool water.

The two women were talking in low tones when I returned a moment later.

"When you’re back on your feet, Mo, I’m going to make this all up to you," declared Hermione.

"Now, don’t get all soft on me just because I’m on my deathbed," Mo said through gritted teeth.

"It’s not just that, really! We used to have so much fun back in the beginning. Lately Ron and I have been clashing so much that I tended to associate you with him, and I used you as a dumping ground for my frustrations. That was so unfair."

"Understandable," Mo said, letting out a deep breath as I placed the fresh cloth on her head.

"I only wish I hadn’t been so unapproachable. I was just... angry about the Ron situation, that’s all. I thought you were helping him hide something from me. I was even a bit jealous of the friendship you had with him. And the straw that broke the hippogriff’s wing was when I found out what went on behind my back... but I see now I was being a total bitch. After all, what’s seven million Galleons between friends?"

"I’m not sure that you’d want me as a friend, Hermione."

"What rubbish! You just put yourself in harm’s way to save my life. The money helped you out of a tight situation, didn’t it?"

"No."

Hermione looked as confused as I felt by Mo’s response. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that the money wasn’t for me."

I leaned over the bed to gaze down at Mo’s face. She was talking and breathing normally now, I saw, but her eyes were glazed over and unfocused.

Something was wrong. I raced to the door and poked my head out, yelling for Dot, Christina, and anyone else to come... Mo was in trouble. They came running, one by one.

"I don’t understand," Hermione said. "If the money Ron told me about wasn’t to cover Orla’s theft, Mo, then who on earth was it for?"

"The baby."

Dot bustled into the room with alarm. "Now, Star Eye, you don’t need to be babbling. Why don’t you take a good nap?"

"Because I’m not sleepy, Dot." Eyes still glazed. What had been in that poison cocktail?

Hermione was still in shock. "What baby? Whose baby?"

Now everyone else was queued up in the doorway. Christina had a spoon in her hand, still dripping lavender liquid. Nick was holding a fresh poultice. Dante’s quill dangled between his fingers, ink at the tip glistening.

"My baby."

"You don’t have any children, Maureen! Do... do you?"

"Of course she doesn’t!" Dot exclaimed. "Child, can’t you see the girl is sick? She’s not in her right mind..."

Mo continued as if she hadn’t heard her godmother.

"Yes, I do have a child. I have a little son. His name is Maury, after me. He just turned sixteen months yesterday."

Dot’s eyes darted about desperately, but she seemed as if her hands were tied. Later, I wondered if Hermione had done something to prevent Dot from interfering with the conversation. Dot was the more experienced witch, but Hermione is dead powerful when she has her wits about her... and almost as curious as I am.

"But... but... surely I didn’t miss anything," Hermione was now babbling. "When were you pregnant? Where is the child now? Why on earth did your child warrant millions from my husband and me? Doesn’t the child’s father give you enough support?"

Somewhere far and away, the door to the suite opened and closed again. But I was nearly oblivious to that fact, oblivious to all save the voice of the woman laying on that bed in the Tolkien that fateful night.

"I became pregnant over two years ago. Maury’s at home in Canada, and Dot is his caretaker. Luke Lawless came out of retirement to run the agency while I was on sabbatical. The money was established as a sizeable trust fund for Maury at my former friend and accountant Orla Quirke’s suggestion, just in case anything happened to me or his father before he came of age. Not only does his father does support him in every way, but he wants the best for him. He wants him to have everything he didn’t have as a child growing up poor... even if our son has to be a secret always."

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t have possibly asked it. So I did.

"Who is your son’s father, Maureen?"

Three things happened all at once. Neville entered the apartment, saying he had the test results in hand... and that Ron, Harry, and a host of others were right behind him. Dot tried to cast a Sleeping Charm over her goddaughter anyway, but as she muttered ‘Somnus’, Hermione cast a charm I’d never seen before, some sort of boomerang shield so that the spell sprang back on Dot and she sank to the ground, snoring.

And barely a heartbeat later, before anyone could stop her, Mo gave her answer.

"Ronald Weasley. Of course."

Hermione drew back her hand from Mo’s shoulder as if a snake had bitten it. Then she laughed. "Surely you’re lying."

"Surely she’s not," Neville said, eyes as wide as I know mine were in that moment. "She has to be telling the truth, Hermione."

"She’s a damned liar! After all I just said to her... after all I’ve promised to do!" Hermione stood up and shook her finger in Neville’s face. "She is lying... she has to be... my husband would never, ever do anything like that to me!"

"And just how do you know she’s telling the truth, Neville?" Harry asked from the doorway. His wand was out and was pointed towards the sleeping Dot... I wondered how long he been standing there. He was not looking at Dot, or Neville either for that matter, but staring back at something or someone behind him.

"Because the poison is not lethal," Neville said. "It contains some toxic ingredients... traces of henbane and belladonna... just enough to induce extreme muscular contraction and cramping pain in us, though it might kill a Muggle with a weak constitution, a child born or unborn, or someone elderly. Also some russet squirtberries... not harmful, but frightening... that’s causing the dark red vomiting. Whoever was trying to get to Hermione didn’t want to kill her, they wanted to take her somewhere and force her to talk about something she knows about... and that they want to know about."

"How do you know?" Christina asked.

Here Neville paused and looked from Hermione to Mo and back to Hermione again.

"It seems that the non-champagne component of that drink was found to be 65% Veritaserum. So you see, Hermione, Mo is telling the truth... for right now, it is impossible for her to lie."

I’ve only heard the equivalent of a jaguar scream twice. The first time was when I was a teenager, summering in Jamaica and visiting a friend in Mexico.

The second was right then, in that room, out of Hermione’s mouth. I’ve never heard the like of it since.

It took every single person in the room at that moment to control Hermione. Harry immediately disarmed her... for she had her wand out and was getting ready to point it at the bed, and I doubt very seriously if Mo would have ever got up from it again had Hermione succeeded in her intent. Dante and Nick tried to physically subdue her, but they ended up with burns for their trouble. I tried to conjure ropes to bind her... she snapped them the minute they came in contact with her skin.

"We have to stun her, and we have to stun her together," Christina told me, low, as the men tried to restrain her without success. I’d never known how powerful Hermione was until that moment. "Otherwise, she’s going to hurt herself and possibly others."

Harry could have been a great deal of help in that situation, but he wasn’t concentrating on it at all. He was yelling out the bedroom door, "Get your arse in here, Ron!"

I was thinking a million things in that moment. Uppermost in my mind was that seeing Ron right then might be just the incentive that Hermione needed to call down some sort of curse that would take us all out.

"Okay," I whispered to Christina. "On the count of three..."

But it turns out there was no need for us to do anything. For the moment Ron finally walked into the room and Hermione flew at him, flailing, screaming "You bastard!", Harry Stunned her and she fell limply into Nick’s and Dante’s arms.

We all looked at Harry with exasperation. He stared right back at all of us.

"Don’t look at me like that. I wanted to wait until Ron decided to walk in here and finally own up to what he’s done," he said simply.

Ron looked at Hermione. His face contorted with regret, sorrow, guilt, and a million other emotions... perhaps even relief? For the revealing of a deep, dark secret is the mental and emotional equivalent of exhaling.

"She knows now," he said flatly to Harry. "Satisfied?"

Again, the expression that flickered across Harry’s face frightened me.

"Try again," he growled. "Right now I’m thinking I should have done much more than just punch you."

Without another glance at Ron, he took Hermione’s Stunned form away from Nick and Dante. Gathered her up into his arms, red-stained, ruined robes and all. Slammed first the bedroom door, then the suite door behind them.

Ron stared after them for a moment. As did we all. It was a scene for the ages... we had a Sleep-Charmed Indian medicine woman snoring on the carpet, a siren and scarlet woman recovering from a poisoning on the massive bed, and had just witnessed the famous Three experience their biggest collective crisis to date. The evening that had led up to this unbelievability hadn’t been anything to sneeze at, either.

Ron kept staring at the closed door for a moment more. Then he muttered something to himself, and turned to face the half-delirious figure on the bed.

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