Paradise Lost1b

8:45 a.m.
The wind whistled in her ears, lifted the hair from the back of her neck
and danced amongst the wispy curls that clung to her neck before
disappearing into the back of her cloak. The rest of her was snug enough,
between her outerwear, the boots, and the fact that her face was buried
somewhere in the dark folds of Harry’s voluminous black cloak.
She felt them dip and soar. In response, her insides turned upside
down and inside out. Moaning in fright, she tightened her arms around
him, desperately trying to shield her eyes from the view.
“Harry...” she said, voice slightly muffled against his back as she shut
her eyes tightly. “I... don’t... don’t like this. Please... slow... down.”
“No can do. We’re not even out of Oxfordshire yet.” He pulled down
into an elegant swoop. “Sky’s great this morning, isn’t it?”
“Harry! Stop it... how fast are you going?”
“Not sure... it’s not as if there’s an airspeed indicator on this thing, you
know... from my estimates, somewhere between 90 and 100. Not fast at
all.”
“No, that’s way too swift. I haven’t flown in years... you know I don’t
like it...”
He slowed down considerably then, almost coming to a full hover.
“No, I don’t know. You never minded flying with me before. I’m not the
one who used to spin his broom in place while you were on the broom... or
plummet suddenly into a death drop just for the hell of it...”
Hermione felt green at the mere memory of Ron’s antics. “Don’t
remind me.”
“What’s the matter, then? Why so nervous?” He peered over his
shoulder at her.
“I don’t know...” Hermione sighed. “This morning shook me up is all.
I’ve always been so afraid that I’ll fall to my death... I’m not a natural flier,
you know it’s my witches’ heel...”
“You’re not doing the flying. I am. And you’re not going to fall unless
I throw you off, which isn’t likely. Just hold on tight, relax, and enjoy it.”
“How can I enjoy it when I absolutely hate it?”
“Hermione, it’s all in how you look at things. If you approach the
broom thinking ‘oh, I hate this and I’m going to fall and break my neck’
then the worst will happen. You won’t enjoy it at all. If you flip the Galleon
and tell yourself ‘I am going to love this, I’m flying with a trusted friend
and it’s a privilege to be able to do what most human beings can only
dream of’, this can be a lot more pleasant for you.”
She was silent as she let his words sink in. It’s all in how you look at
things...
He sped up. And she summoned all of her courage and opened her
eyes.
Harry was right, she thought. There was nothing to be afraid of, even
at this fantastic speed. There was only the silver sky above and the green
carpet of forest and meadow and glen below... the clouds her constant
companions, the wind her friend.
She began to laugh. Throwing her head up to the sky, she let the
laughter swell up like a fountain from deep inside her. It was cleansing,
this laughter and the wind all around her, and she felt herself tingle with
excitement from head to toe. Soaring, sliding... tumbling, freewheeling...
over, sideways, and under...
An eerie sense of déjà vu cascaded over her like an Invisibility Cloak.
Hadn’t she felt this way before? Certainly it had been a very long time
since she’d flown with him... perhaps long before her marriage... but she
couldn’t quite remember when exactly it was.
One thing was for sure, though.
Whenever I’m with him, I feel so oddly... safe.
“Having fun yet?” called Harry, wind animating his already wild black
hair.
She rested her chin on his shoulder and smiled. “You’re right. I don’t
mind flying with you at all.”
~~~
They arrived at the deserted ABFN station in the Leaky Cauldron’s
beer garden one minute before nine, hair in a fantastic state of disarray,
panting from the great swallows of crisp, clean autumn air they’d gulped
down as they landed.
“Well, I suppose this girly broom has some juice in her after all,” said
Harry, leaning the Moonbeam 3000 against the wall. “Who would have
thought?”
“Thanks for the ride,” Hermione said, tone’s softness surprising even
her.
He walked over to her, reached out, and smoothed a stray wisp of
chestnut hair back behind her ear.
“The wind loves that complexion of yours,” he said. “I don’t think
4. What the Body Remembers
I’ve ever seen you look so rosy before. You ought to fly at high speeds
more often.”
She stepped back, putting some much-needed personal space between
the two of them. Never mind the fact that she’d just spend the better part of
the past half hour clinging tightly to him, inhaling him, feeling his
exhilaration. She was so disappointed and frustrated when the ride ended...
and the feeling had not yet dissipated.
All she could think about was what she’d done on her last night in this
world three years before. Where she’d been. And who she’d been with. If
she wasn’t careful, she’d end up in the same place and the same state
before the day was out. Hearing the same insane proposition whispered
headily into her ears.
His arms. His bed. His life. For always.
No. You know exactly where that road leads, Hermione. You don’t
want to traverse it again.
She took another step backwards... and banged her head against the
wall that led to Diagon Alley.
He shook his head, not bothering to hide his amusement. “That sure
isn’t the way to go about things, is it? Or do you remember?”
“Oh, sod off,” she said, clapping her hands over her ears to stop them
from ringing. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”
In a instant, she was trapped between the wall and his wand. Or rather,
the wall and him.
She inhaled, which may not have been the best idea. For her senses
quickly were filled with his presence... and all of her resolve melted.
“Oh, it’s dead easy,” he said huskily, face inches away from hers.
“Like riding a broomstick... you never forget how to do it.”
For a split second, she thought he was going to kiss her. Her lips
softened and she fought the urge to wet them. Her mouth, Merlin help her,
watered slightly in anticipation.
And then he turned away and tapped the brick just to the right of her.
“Pardon me a moment, will you?” he said, pushing her gently aside.
“Let’s see here...” After a few quick taps, the gateway to Diagon Alley
appeared, and he finally turned towards her. “Ta-da.”
The look on Hermione’s face was eloquent indeed.
“Well, let’s get going! Time waits on no one, even if she is a beautiful
witch who looks rather as if she wants to bite my head off presently... after
you, my dear...”
She pushed past him and walked out onto the bustling wizarding
street.
That was at least the second bad idea she had within her first five
minutes in Diagon Alley. She only walked twenty steps unaccosted. On the
twenty-first step, she was recognized.
“Flying toads!” exclaimed a woman who had been pointing into the
windows of Eeylops Owl Emporium for the benefit of her companion
when Hermione caught her eye. “It’s Hermione Granger, just like the
Prophet said this morning!”
“That isn’t the Hermione Granger,” said her partner grumpily. “The
Hermione Granger would have never put that Muggle streaky stuff in her
hair...”
The woman elbowed her companion sharply. “It’s called highlighting,
you prat, and that is the doctor if I say it is... besides, just look at who’s
directly behind her...”
Hermione had frozen into place at the sight of the woman’s wild
gesticulation. Now she turned around and...
“Blimey, it’s Harry Potter!” said the woman’s companion. “Bloody
hell, you’re right and so was the Prophet... that is Dr. Granger!”
The news spread like wildfire. Soon the entire street was whispering
and pointing and staring at them.
“What the hell did they tell these people?” asked Hermione angrily as
she pulled Harry into Flourish and Botts, faces peering in the window after
them. The shop was nearly empty, as Hogwarts term had started a fortnight
before.
“Well, quite a few rumors have arisen surrounding your leavetaking,
although Draco and Neville told everyone the truth... that you were taking
a sabbatical to do some research in the Muggle world. No one quite
believed it, though. So they came up with all sort of strange stories.”
“Such as?” she asked as they found a deserted aisle near the back of
the store.
“Well, you were supposedly murdered in a good three-quarters of
them. And Ron and Maureen play the villains in about half of those.”
“Oh, honestly.”
“Right. A lot of people are suspicious of the Ministry of Magic these
days. Your average wizard on the street thinks that you were done away
with, and the Ministry was paid off to cover it all up neatly.”
“One would think that people would have something better to do with
their lives than to spend so much time prying into ours,” Hermione hissed.
“I mean, Muggle celebrities get some respite from this sort of thing... but
I suppose our world doesn’t believe in fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Fifteen years and counting is more like it,” said Harry. “Times have
been hard around here lately... it’s hard to analyze this sort of thing, but
I think we remind people of the hope everyone felt during the Pax
Dumbledorica.”
“The hope that... Harry, why are you speaking of the Pax in past
tense?”
“Because it is a thing of the past,” said Harry. “You mean that neither
Malfoy nor Ginny told you?”
“No, they haven’t, they said they’d speak to me today about the
economy or something... whatever has happened here?”
Harry’s voice lowered. “The wizarding world has changed,
Hermione.”
“Changed? Changed how? Harry, stop being cryptic and mysterious
and just tell me what’s going on.”
So, there in the dusty aisle of Flourish and Botts, he told her. And
what he told her nearly made her hair stand on end.
In the fall of 2010, Victoria Jenkins, editor-in-chief of Witch Weekly,
sent confidential communiqués to the international news desk of the New
York Times and the city desks of several major London newspapers. In the
letter, there was a proposition: for a million dollars each, she would show
them proof that there was indeed magic in the world.
During her trial much later, Victoria insisted that she was not the
author of the letters. No one believed her, though. She had developed a
gambling problem, spending up many of her Galleons at the Exploding
Snap-and-Crap tables offered in abundance at many wizarding resorts. Her
creditors were threatening torture... nothing was more frightening to a
debtor than a goblin collector. The circumstantial evidence against her was
considerable... and the handwriting was hers. She was sentenced to four
hundred years of Deep Petrification and Charm-Suggestion in Azkaban, the
new way to handle convicted felons.
“No better than Dementors,” sniffed Hermione. “I was totally against
that sort of thing, and I’m rather sorry I wasn’t around to lend my support
against the Magical Criminal Rehabilitation Act... what did you say about
it?”
“Absolutely nothing,” said Harry. “Her trial led the Ministry to push
the act through at the speed of a Snitch, and anyone who questioned it was
called in for questioning themselves. There was a frenzy that surrounded
the trial, the like of which I’ve never seen before in my lifetime, not even
during the Scourge and the Sponge epidemics during VW2. Sirius and
Remus said it reminded them of what things were like during the first
Voldemort War, only worse...”
“But Harry, it isn’t as if the Minister of Magic is someone like Fudge,
weak and ineffectual... Lucy Goosey would never allow anything like that
to happen...”
“Of course she wouldn’t,” said Harry. “But you see, Lucy was
assassinated the same week the letters were sent out.”
“What? Harry, you can’t be serious! Such a thing... why, nothing of
the sort could ever happen! Has a sitting Minister ever been killed in
office?”
“Not for four hundred and twenty-eight years. Mind, the official cause
of death was heart failure... but she was poisoned. The tea she took that
Monday afternoon would be her last... by dinnertime, she and her top aides
– everyone who’d had a sip from that pot – were dead.”
Hermione sank back into the bookshelves. “Who’s Minister of Magic
now?”
Harry’s expression was grave. “Brian Riordan.”
“Harry, no!” she gasped. “Whose bloody idea was that? Brian is not
Minister material and he never will be! Why, the only reason he’s got as far
as he has in life’s because of his evil father and that slave-driver of a wife
he’s got...”
“Right,” he said grimly. “Brian is a thousand times worse than Fudge
ever was. He’s weak, and ineffectual, and craven. Worse still, his wife sits
in the Cabal, and its affiliate groups are growing stronger by the day...”
“Diane Riordan running the Cabalistica? Why, poor Angelina must be
devastated... oh, I always knew that sister of hers was one disagreeable
woman.” She frowned. “Harry, how do you know all this? Have the
Confeds or Black and Potter been able to penetrate the Cabalistica?”
“We do have our spies,” said Harry. “But the fact is that the
Cabalistica no longer bothers to hide in the shadows. Their activities are
still clandestine to a degree, but everyone knows of their existence... and
many people are clamoring to join affiliate groups...”
“Why didn’t you stop all this?” asked Hermione sternly.
He was laughing bitterly. “Et tu, Hermione? I’m not omnipotent or
even close to it. Yet that’s not the first time I’ve heard that question over
the past couple of years.”
“It’s a valid question, Harry. I know if I had been here, I would have
tried my best to stop this insanity.”
“As did I,” he said. “We all tried... the entire Order. That is, until the
day the Muggles found Hogsmeade... and Hogwarts.”
Hermione’s eyes were like saucers. “No.”
“It was almost the end of us, Hermione,” he said. “You know very
well how Muggles are. Most of the reporters laughed off Victoria’s
supposed offer, but two took her up on it. They did an excellent job of
disguising themselves – after all, they must have had several wizard guides
– and things would have been much different if they hadn’t been followed
by Scotland Yard... and the damned CIA.”
“Oh, no...”
“Once they followed the reporters into and around Hogsmeade, they
detained them and notified the British and American governments. Of
course, there are certain Muggle governments who are aware of our
existence, and those are two of them. Perhaps things could have been
covered up and the snoops Obliviated if one of the reporters hadn’t
Spidered the story to the Guardian.”
“And of course, Parliament had to respond in some fashion.”
“Yes, but none of us anticipated what they did. They deemed us ‘a
subversive movement, perhaps fostering terrorism’ and decided to take
immediate action. They swooped down upon Hogwarts without warning.
Thousands upon thousands of Muggle troops... the teachers fought them
off, but there were too many of them...”
“No, it’s not possible, Harry! How could such a thing happen?”
“Well, it did happen. They arrested children , Hermione, little first and
second years, and carried them away... as I’ve said, they must have had
wizarding help. By the time we got there they were long gone.”
Harry told her the rest quickly. There was a time that winter in which
everyone in the wizarding world felt that all was lost, that the days of
persecution would return... and their fears were justified by the proceedings
of the first United Nations/International Confederation of Wizards summit
on Valentine’s Day 2011.
The Confeds wanted the young British wizards and witches, who were
being kept in high-security labs around the world, back. The United
Nations stated that this was impossible... for how would they have any
guarantees that there would be no wizard retaliation in return?
The United Nations began to make demands. They wanted lists of all
registered witches and wizards worldwide and temporary quarantines for
all. Maps of the approximate location of every single wizarding settlement
on the planet. And the right to run “harmless” laboratory tests on the
children.
The Muggle world did not greet the news of the hidden magical
element within it with joy. Most people were angry to learn that there could
be witches living right next door to them. Dignitaries from the three major
Western religions were horrified. The Christian fundamentalists cried that
the apocalypse was at hand, the Muslim extremist mullahs used it as more
justification for their shrill cries of jihad, and a few radical Old City rabbis
saw it as a way for the Third Temple to be rebuilt, for surely the magic
could make the Dome of the Rock disappear...
“What a mess,” said Hermione. “Now, since I don’t remember any of
this being in the Muggle news, what else happened?”
“Several things... we ended up having to work with the damned
Chalybians of all people. Drakkar was instrumental in getting them away
from the Cabalistica...”
Hermione smiled. “How is he?”
“The same,” said Harry. “As intense as the day he stormed into the
Great Hall at Hogwarts sixth year and stared Ron down... anyway, we were
able to get all of the children out. In scale and scope, it was perhaps the
largest magical operation in history.”
“But the Muggles still knew about us,” said Hermione.
“Yes, they did. Although they couldn’t breach our barriers without
magical help, they knew we were here. And you know how dead persistent
Muggles can be... it was only a matter of time before they figured it out,
and there would be a major world war that no one could predict the
outcome of.
“Well, along came this relatively obscure bloke by the name of
Sebastian Borgin. Jack of all trades, it seems... an apothecary with Pansy’s
company, Parkinson and Locke, he put himself through St. Mungo’s
pharmawizarding course by working as an Obliviator. His father was a
Death Eating Dark sympathizer, but Sebastian renounced his family’s
ways. Anyway, he came to the Ministry and offered to coordinate the
cover-up. And... he did it.”
Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “How?”
“Well, Sebastian merely pointed out how our retreat from the Muggle
world was handled in the seventeenth century. We handled things much the
same way this time around. A few very public recantations, a small number
of memory charms at a high level, and pretty soon everyone thought the
whole thing began with a hoax and developed into mass hysteria. The
international Muggle press outlets ran articles announcing that the kids
were all found to be normal, it was regrettable that people were so misled,
but there was nothing to it after all.”
“Like flying saucers and cold fusion... no wonder I heard nothing of
it,” laughed Hermione. “I was completely immersed in my work with the
CDC at the time, so much so that I often missed the international news, and
you know that Muggle scientists are the biggest lot of skeptics.” She read
something more on his face. “That’s not all, is it?”
Harry shook his head. “No, it isn’t. In fact, those were good times
compared to what we’ve been living in since.” He paused. “Hermione,
you’re Muggleborn...”
“Yes...”
“Well, it seems that blame for the close brush we had with an
apocalypse was laid on the shoulders of allowing Muggleborns into our
world. Victoria was Muggleborn.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous as it may sound, it’s true. The Ministry has not issued a
single MagiCard since last spring. No more little Muggle-born witches and
wizards are admitted into Hogwarts. And the Muggleborns already in our
world... well, suffice it to say that they are not having a picnic.”
“Persecution?”
“Yes.”
“As bad as during the Second Voldemort War?”
“Worse. They’ve all been required to register with the Confederation
and wear an amulet that tracks their comings and goings... it seemed that
the Confeds liked some of the United Nations’ ideas after all, the damned
hypocrites. Businesses of Muggleborns are now marked with placards that
read ‘Mudblood Owned’ and they are almost universally reviled. It’s
affected the entire wizarding economy... Gringotts is nearly impregnable
now.”
Hermione sighed. “This is what comes of not requiring Muggle
Studies of everyone who goes through magical schooling...”
“What?”
“The Holocaust, of course.”
“Oh. Well, it hasn’t come to that yet because I’m sure they’d find
themselves in a situation much like what occurred in Denmark during the
Second World War. There are too many who disagree wholeheartedly with
what has been happening, even if there isn’t much vocalized protest yet.
No one is going to sit back and allow them to be harmed.”
“No, you’ve only allowed them to be marked for death,” said
Hermione softly. Sadly. “What about me, Harry? You keep saying them,
when I’m one of them too.”
“I’m sure the Ministry will grant you an exemption, Hermione, even if
they think to send you an owl about registration. No one thinks of you as
Muggleborn anymore... you’re the heroine of the Second Voldemort War
and the co-creator of the Danae Project, and that’s that.”
“I am Muggleborn,” she said. “I don’t want any ‘exemptions’. I will
wear their damned amulet, I will put a placard in the Granger-Longbottom
Clinic window if they want, and I will spit in their faces if they try to go
any further than that.”
“Hermione...”
“No, Harry. If it wasn’t for the Muggle strain in the wizarding genetic
pool, there would be no more magic. Muggleborns and halfbloods tend to
have advantages that purebloods don’t have! Think about it, Harry... most
of those who we know who are extraordinary in anything have recent
Muggle ancestry! Your own mother was Muggleborn, and you saved our
world twice over! Think of the others... one of our best doctors, Simon
Branford, had two Muggleborn parents. Dean and Justin are Muggleborns,
Seamus is half-and-half, and they are three of our most talented
businessmen. Penelope’s Muggleborn, and they call her the ‘sharpest
magilegal mind in a century’.
“Malfoy’s a notable exception, and the Weasleys and many other old
wizarding families are respectable, but most of the families that pride
themselves on their ‘purity’ are fearfully inbred and minimally talented.
“I think Lee Jordan says it best... what does he always say? Oh, yes...
‘That blood shit is a piss-poor excuse for those who think that the world
owes them the right to look down on their betters.’ Or something like that...
what he says is much more funny, of course, involving something or the
other about hummus and rotting fish. But the point is the same... I think it’s
just sour grapes, is all. We can move about in both worlds... they and their
Neanderthal ideas are stuck into a marginalized corner of only one.”
“Be that as it may,” said Harry, “their ideas aren’t so marginalized
anymore. Many people do think that the Muggleborn habit of going back
and forth between the worlds is dangerous...”
“And you, Harry? What do you think?”
He looked into her eyes. “Me? I think we all might need to sit back
down at that stone table and make it gold again before there’s a bloodbath.
I think we need to rip the entire Cabalistica network up from its roots and
purge its foul presence from all the Thousand Worlds. Yet all in the Order
are urging for moderation.”
“Not all,” said Hermione. “Don’t forget I’m an inducted member of
that Order too, Covenant or not. What else has changed?”
“Where shall I begin? Any imitation of Muggle technology has been
at best frowned upon and at worse shut down. They stopped the Hogwarts
Express from running... parents have to fly their kids up to Hogwarts and
ship their trunks ahead of time as they used to do prior to the King’s Cross
station being built. The WWN is no longer broadcasting. Malfoy had to cut
the entire magitechnological side of Malfosoft... but you know Malfoy...”
“Oh, yes. Kingdoms may rise, and kingdoms may fall...”
“But Draco Malfoy will endure forever,” they both said together.
“Or find a way to make money, at least. Does he really love his gold
more than his wife?” asked Hermione. “I still can’t understand how that
marriage works.”
“Well, he does love Ginny, that I’m sure of,” Harry said. “But if asked
to choose between the two, I don’t think it’d be a pretty sight.”
“Well, I doubt if he will. You know Ginny loves being rich as much as
Ron does... or did,” she said, slowing down with some self-surprise. It was
the first time since dinner with Jack that she’d said Ron’s name aloud.
Harry merely acknowledged it with a brief knowing glance, then said:
“Shall we finish up here, then, and head to Malfoy’s? You said
Ginny’s expecting you by afternoon tea...”
With that, they started down the aisle towards the front of the store.
11:15 a.m.
It was shaping up to be the best birthday she’d had in years. After
leaving Flourish and Botts, Harry and Hermione finished up in Diagon
Alley, going from store to store before the heavy lunchtime crowds arrived.
Hermione felt a bit like she was starting Hogwarts again. Only this
time, Harry was by her side instead of McGonagall and her mother. She
purchased parchment and ink, a new cauldron, some very basic potions
ingredients (the storerooms in Ayr would suffice for the more exotic stuff
like extract of dragon liver, re’em blood, erumpent tails, and rumpwort
spines), and a great horned owl for her mailings.
“What will you call him?” asked Harry.
“I don’t know. I’ll let you decide.”
He cocked his head to one side as he looked at the sleeping bird in the
cage that he was holding. “Let’s see here... how about... Achilles?”
“No, I’m tired of Greek names. I think I’ll call him Duskchaser. That’s
satisfactory enough. How is Hedwig, by the way?”
Harry sighed. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Oh, no, Harry! What happened?”
“I don’t know. Sent her off for the post one morning during the crisis
with the Muggles and she never came back.” He shrugged. “Don’t look so
sad, it’s not the end of the world. Hedwig was getting on in years... and
although enchanted owls live a long time, they’re not immortal.”
“Have you got a new owl yet?”
“No, couldn’t bear to. Hedwig was my first friend after Hagrid... she’s
irreplaceable. I just use the owlery at the school if I need to send a message
or parcel.”
Their last stop was Ollivander’s, and it took quite some time for
Hermione to be fitted for a wand. But even as she paid for her new one,
Ollivander was frowning.
“Not an exact fit, Dr. Granger,” Ollivander muttered. “This one is not
a perfect fit by any means. It can only mean one thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Hermione absently, opening her purse and
extracting the pouch that contained the bit of gold she’d had taken out of
her Gringotts vault... Ollivander’s was one of the few shops in Diagon
Alley that did not accept the GringottsCard.
“That your wand is still somewhere in the world, calling out to you.
Like an extension of yourself trying desperately to find its way home. And
trust me, Dr. Granger, you will find it, for you still have much work to do
with it.”
Harry held the door open for her, and she stepped out of the wand
shop, clearly puzzled. “Wonderful. This wand’s a dud, and I’ve got to cast
some sort of shielding charm posthaste.”
“What’s wrong? Did something happen recently?”
Hermione looked about, still noticing the attention they were gaining.
Here and there, a camera flashed. She groaned. It had been a long time
since she’d been under the microscope, and it wasn’t any more pleasant of
an experience than it had been before.
“Not here... wait until we get back to the station,” she whispered.
They were back in the beer garden less than five minutes later. Harry
took a seat on one of the benches, settling all of her parcels and the owls on
one side of him. Hermione sat on the other side.
“Who’s been trying to attack you?”
“Well, I’m not sure that their motives are sinister. But strange things
are happening all around me. And something else, too... time’s changing
and I’m being followed.” She told him all about what had transpired in
Chicago, meeting Heath on several subsequent occasions, and the strange
blond man who seemed to be everywhere.
At first she’d planned to be a bit guarded – after all, the information
could potentially implicate her as being mentally ill – but this was Harry.
After keeping everything that had transpired over the past two months to
herself for so long, she found that the words came gushing out like a
fountain. He was so easy to talk to... always had been.
And when she was all done, there were only his eyes.
“Is that everything?” asked Harry.
“Well, not exactly... I’m also hearing voices, Harry. Always at night.
Strange dreams too. Some are nightmares, and some are rather...” here she
blushed, “pleasant. It’s strange. Usually I don’t remember my dreams in
such vivid detail. And then the bloodstains in the garden – I can’t shake the
feeling that something is badly wrong, but I haven’t been able to
investigate.”
“Have you shared any of this with Malfoy?”
“No, not much at all. I sent him a very cryptic Incredimail while still
in Atlanta after that blip in time frightened me so. Other than that, I’ve
been keeping it to myself.” She rested her chin in her cupped hands. “I hate
not being able to figure this out.”
“Well, now you don’t have to figure it out all alone. Tomorrow we can
go to Ayr and alert our network. If this Heath character shows up again,
this time you’ll have your wand and a lot of support.” He laughed. “You
may even need a bodyguard.”
“Whatever for?” she scoffed. “I’m armed now. A couple of simple
hexes are bound to put him in his place.”
“You said the man is playing with time, Hermione, and without the
benefit of a Time-Turner. I’ve never heard the like of it, have you?” She
shook her head. “No matter how benign he seems, he is dangerous.
Changing time is almost always disastrous... look at all the anxiety attacks
you had when we were kids and you were taking all those classes with the
Time-Turner, and then again when you were using it to attend two medical
schools at the same time. And that was just traveling a few hours at a
time...”
“Harry, there’s something else too.” She told him about the mysterious
epidemics that were covered up by the time blip. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but
I think all of the victims were witches and wizards living in the Muggle
world, either Muggleborns too young to be trained or the elderly who
retreated away from magic for one reason or the other. There were so many
signs of a magiparticular infection... and everyone knows those don’t affect
Muggles, just us.”
Hermione told Harry all about the green orbs, strange objects she
believed were the disease-carrying agent. She also recounted the fact that
Heath was carrying one without seeming to be any worse for wear,
although she’d already determined that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t
magical... perhaps the disease only affected the very old or the very young,
or the orb had to be charm-activated.
“He could very well be a Cabalistica agent,” said Harry, jaw
tightening. “In fact, that’s exactly what the bastard sounds like... isn’t it
obvious?”
“Well, if he was Cabalistica, why didn’t he kill me? He could have
done so very easily on two different occasions. I would have been unable
to defend myself...”
“Why didn’t Lucius Malfoy kill you when he had the chance in
Tartarus?”
“Well, he would have if he hadn’t taken the time to stop and try to
rape me. I never understood that about dark wizards or villains in general...
it isn’t enough to decapitate your female victim, before that you have to
stop and degrade her in the most humiliating and vile manner imaginable...
wait a minute,” Hermione frowned. “That still doesn’t make sense, Harry.
Just as he could have killed me, Heath could have taken advantage of me
and yet he didn’t.”
“Well, why did Lucius try to rape you?”
“Can we please not talk about that? It’s certainly not a memory I care
to re-live...”
“No, it’s important. These dreams that you’re having... the fact that
you’re obviously drawn to this slimy piss-ant despite your knowing that
something is amiss... don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Amoricum Mortis, the
Kiss of Death spell?”
Hermione had not forgotten. The Dark Lord had wanted her
hyperempathy, had lusted after her ability to kill or heal with a mere touch.
Voldemort had also wanted to violate Harry in what he’d thought was the
worst way possible. Although she was dating Ron, everyone on the Dark
Side still assumed that she was the Accursed One’s true love. She supposed
that being a villain meant that you automatically thought in clichés... that
there was no way that the sidekick was allowed to have a girl while the
hero stood alone.
So when she was found and captured, she had been secured in
Voldemort’s chambers in the deepest and most secure part of Crystalline
Pedale, his Tartarus stronghold on a foggy rock in the midst of the dark Sea
of Lethe. She’d been bound and prepared, wrists and ankles suspended
from the posts of the bed via enchanted rope, a filthy shroud crawling with
roaches and bedbugs and flies underneath her...
She’d thought she was going to die on that night, and she remembered
thinking that seventeen was far too young to die. She thought of her
Muggle parents, who had no idea where she was or what sort of danger
she’d put herself in... but then she thought of Caroline, and knew that her
mother would get no sleep that night. Hermione was sure that at the
moment of her death, her mother would someone know that her daughter
slipped into the next world.
What is that next world like? Hermione had wondered, allowing her
mind to slip away into daydreams so that she would not lose her slippery
grip on sanity. Will I see my Nana, my dearest Grandmother Helen? Will
she tell me that she or my grandfather were magic after all? How about
Dumbledore? Snape... oh, how I wish for old times, that I were in his
dungeons sweating over Potions... what I wouldn’t give to see him again!
Katie Bell’s there too, she can show me the ropes... and there are so many
others...
Maybe I’ll even get to meet Harry’s mum and dad. Oh, that would be
just wild! I’ll get to tell Lily and James Potter all about the man he’s
become... they’ll be so proud. For one thing I am sure of is the last thing
we told Harry before we made the preparations for the Covenant. Ron may
die, and I may die, but nothing can happen to Harry until he defeats
Voldemort.
And if I die helping him defeat evil, my death will not be in vain.
At that moment, Lucius entered the chambers of his lord and master.
The sickening scent of death and pestilence filled Hermione’s nostrils as
she struggled with her bonds...
“Hermione?” Harry’s hand was on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
She snapped out of it. No, they weren’t seventeen anymore. They were
thirty-two... not in Tartarus, but sitting in the Leaky Cauldron’s beer
garden. They had overcome that hellish place. They were alive.
“Sorry,” she replied. “Old memories.”
He nodded in understanding. “You still have nightmares, too?”
“I think,” Hermione sighed, “that we might always have them. If even
living a decade’s worth of time in a fairy world couldn’t rid you of
yours...”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Of course you should have!” protested Hermione. “It makes sense
now that you mention it... if Heath were trying to cast the Kiss of Death on
me, then he’d get more of my power if I wasn’t resistant. Seduce... rape...
kill... absorb. What a vampiric curse... and indeed, if I recall correctly, it
was first conjured up by a bitter wizard who was bitten by some female
vampire.”
“You need a bodyguard,” repeated Harry. “Until we or the Confeds
can capture this Heath bastard. Even I can’t rearrange or reorder time...”
“And just who do you think would be qualified to be a bodyguard,
then?” asked Hermione. “If I can’t protect myself against him, who in the
world do you think would be able to? There aren’t too many magical folks
walking about who are a match for me, witch or wizard...”
“You don’t need many, you just need one.”
Their eyes met.
“After all, there’s only one wizard who’s ever bested you in every
single duel.”
A smile played about her lips. “Not every single one. I’ve utterly
trounced you before...”
“You didn’t exactly ‘trounce’ me, Hermione. And anyway, all those
times it was best two out of three anyway.”
“Only because I wasn’t trying hard enough.” Then she sobered up.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Harry. You’ve got your own life. I’ve
done all right on my own up until this point.”
“Perhaps you’re not concerned about your safety, Hermione, but...”
She stood up abruptly. “Can we discuss this another time? I need to
get back to my father’s house.”
Harry hesitated, then relented. Hermione instinctively knew that the
discussion was merely tabled until later, but far from over.
It was a simple matter to get back to Headington from the Leaky
Cauldron, and the weather on the journey back was a bit warmer. The sky
was still overcast, but every now and then the sun glowed through the
fluffy grey blanketing of clouds like a platinum platter.
There was a Cargo Charm that could be used to transport packages via
broomstick, and both Harry and Hermione had aided in attaching her
parcels so that they levitated alongside the broom. Of course, they let
Duskchaser out of his cage so that he could stretch his wings and fly ahead.
This time, Hermione found it a bit more uncomfortable to fly with
him. Certainly there was the feeling of exhilaration from before, but added
to this was a strange sort of unease that she really didn’t want to examine...
a funny knot that seemed to have settled somewhere in the lower region of
her stomach, accompanied by a generalized tingling.
It’s because it’s nearly my time of the month, thought Hermione loftily.
Yes... odd things always occur to hyperempaths then.
Secure with this rationalization, she held on tight and enjoyed the ride
for what it was worth.
They arrived in Caroline’s rose garden at a quarter to noon. While
Harry detached the packages from the hovering broom, Hermione ran over
to the spot in the garden... and gasped.
“Something’s changed.”
Leaving the parcels behind, Harry walked over to her, Duskchaser
perched on his shoulder.
“There was a bloodstain here earlier,” said Hermione. “And the grass
was matted in the shape of a man... Harry, tell me I’m not going insane.”
“Well, I’m sure that whoever was responsible wanted to get rid of the
evidence. You know what you saw, and I believe you.”
She picked up the folds of her cloak and ran towards the house.
“I want to make sure my father’s all right,” she called over her shoulder.
The front door was unlocked, but that wasn’t so unusual. Hermione
stepped inside, wand drawn, ready to cast at a moment’s notice.
“Dad?” she called. “Dad, are you all right?” There was an answering
noise from the vicinity of the kitchen. “Dad, say something...”
That’s when she saw the dark shape glide across the hall from the
kitchen to the dining room. Her immediate first reaction was to call out for
Harry, but she restrained herself... she wasn’t sure if the intruder was aware
of her presence, so it was possible that the element of surprise was on her
side.
“Silencio,” she mouthed, rotating the wand in a careful circle around
her head. A silent shower of glittering black dust descended all around her.
Without a sound, she took a few steps down the hall, stopping just before
she came to the doorway of the dining room... then she pounced into the
room, wand ahead of her, ready to cast.
“Freeze!” she shouted.
And a frightened Clara Lancaster dropped the manicure tray that was
in her hands.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” spat Clara. “You almost
made me piss my pants... what is that?” She pointed at Hermione’s wand.
“Oh, this?” Hermione stared at it, just as much at a loss. “It’s a... ah...
um... a stick I found outside on the ground.”
Clara began to snicker. “What were you going to do with it, put my
eyes out? Suppose I was a real intruder with a blade or a hunting rifle... oh,
my God, that’s the funniest thing I’ve seen all day...”
Hermione was debating on whether or not she should put Clara’s eyes
out, as this would have certainly been an improvement, when she felt
Harry’s presence beside her.
Clara’s entire face changed. Her nice-nasty smirk was instantly
replaced by a coquette’s eyelash batting.
“And just who is this, Hermione? The ex-husband or the ex-
boyfriend?”
“The best friend,” said Harry. “Emphatically not an ex of any kind.”
“Of course you are, dear,” said Clara, brushing Hermione aside to size
Harry up from a closer vantage point. “Excellent... exquisite... and I’d
wager exciting to boot.”
Before Hermione could kill her, Harry said, “Oh, there’s nothing
exciting about me, rest assured. I’m a teacher.”
“Professor,” Hermione corrected. “Clara, this is Harry Potter, one of
my oldest and dearest friends. We’ve known each other since we were
children...”
“Oh, an Oxford don? And at such a young age... I must say that I’m
impressed.”
“Not Oxford,” said Harry. “I teach at a private secondary school in
Scotland.”
“Oh, which one? Gordonstoun? Fettes?”
“None of the above,” said Hermione. “Knowing you as I do, Clara,
I’m certain that you’ve never heard of it, and I don’t have time to explain.
Socializing amongst the educated doesn’t make you a member of the club
by any means.” Clara was so dumb she didn’t even realize she was being
insulted. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to shield my friend from your
passes. I wanted to speak with my father. Where is he?”
“He’s working, you know that.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain, I just spoke with him a few moments ago. He said
nothing about you, however...”
Hermione could tell from the fleeting look on Harry’s face that he
cared very little for this woman. “And you’re currently employed with...”
he asked harshly.
Clara reddened a bit. “Well, I was with an interior decorating firm
until last year. Since then, I’ve been concentrating on Ted and things
around here. I’m thinking about starting up a catering business soon...”
“Really? Nothing looks any different than the last time I was here, and
that was well over three years ago. And Hermione says that you don’t
cook. Funny.”
It was satisfying, seeing Clara’s embarrassment. Obviously her malice
was reserved for women only, because she quickly muttered her excuses
and went into another part of the house.
Hermione stifled her giggles. “And that is supposed to be my mother’s
replacement.”
“No one could replace your mum, especially not that bat. I can tell
that she’s been making your stay here miserable, and I give you full
permission to hex her toes off the next time she treats you nastily.”
“How about a nice Ton-Tongue Toffee?” Hermione winked. Although
she hadn’t been present on the long-ago day the Weasley twins turned
Dudley Dursley’s tongue into something resembling a pink eel, she’d seen
the toffee’s effect on other helpless victims.
Harry shook his head. “Too bad 3W’s folded at the beginning of the
year. No more wizard wheezes... and during a time when we need them at
that.”
Hermione sighed. “What a shame. They opened during the worst
wizarding war since the Middle Ages, only to get trounced by the
downturn in the economy. How are the twins taking it?”
“With the sense of humor that all of that lot have,” said Harry. “Both
of them have excellent wives... Angelina and Anya are still working, and
Fred and George have been peddling their wares from Zonko’s in
Hogsmeade. They’re trying to open up some sort of comedy club... the
Golden Snitch’s been shut down for over a year and a half, so it’s left a
void in the nightlife. Both Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade have gotten as
dour as a Victorian parlor.”
“I’m sure,” said Hermione. “Happens when you make a substantial
segment of the population out to be scapegoats.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “Something will be done about it,
Hermione. I promise you that we’ll...” She started to say something, but he
stopped her by placing two fingers upon her lips. “Promise.”
“I ought to change into one of the robes Ginny bought me,” she said
abruptly, turning away swiftly and racing in the direction of the stairs. “Go
into the fridge and make whatever you find into a lunch for yourself... and
steer clear of Clara’s claws.”
Safely back in her bedroom, Hermione undressed, washed, and began
to redress. Suddenly, she stopped and stood for a few moments in her slip,
holding her cloak closely to her. Inhaling, engaged in a futile battle with
herself. She couldn’t understand why she wasn’t as angry at Harry as she
had every right to be... why she’d just spent half of her birthday with him...
why that fact made her extremely happy instead of very upset.
It also made no sense that she still felt the fleeting pressure of his
fingers upon her lips...
No, Hermione. Don’t even think about it.
I’m not thinking!
Yes, dear. That’s the problem.
She picked up the tracking amulet that they’d hastily purchased from
the Diagon Alley owlery, where you could get many official Ministry
documents and implements. Suspended from a leather cord was a dark
brown stone, the size and shape of a robin’s egg yet shot through with
liquid gold. It seemed to swirl around like a cloud of dust. It also made her
heart feel oddly heavy when she placed it around her neck.
Knocking, insistent and firm, upon the door. She knew who it was
before she heard the voice.
“Hermione, have you buried yourself in there? Come downstairs, I’ve
made you a birthday lunch.”
“Oh, really, you shouldn’t have...”
“Too late, damage’s already been done. You’ve been up there twenty
minutes, how long does it take to change a robe? Women...”
Afterward, she could never figure out why she padded over to her
bedroom door and flung it wide open. All she could do was add it to the
registry of Strange Things I Did On My Thirty-Second Birthday.
“I am not going to Tamburlane looking like something the cat dragged
in,” she snapped. “Ginny’s evidently planned some sort of tea for the
ladies, and I’d like to look my very best, all right? That is, if you don’t
mind.”
“Mind?” he said. “I should say not. Of course, if you ask my
opinion...”
“I didn’t.”
“... there’s nothing wrong with the way you look right now.”
Hermione’s blush this time extended a bit beyond her neckline. She
honestly hadn’t been thinking about what she was wearing when she
opened the door... or perhaps more accurately, what she wasn’t wearing.
She was now paying for her forgetfulness by feeling rather as if she
would burn to a crisp. And to think she’d been grateful to see the other side
of the long and sweltering Atlanta summer... Georgia’s heat had nothing on
this.
Instead of muttering apologies on her behalf, excusing himself, and
retreating, Harry stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, and
stood a few inches away from her. Hermione felt her heart and her breath
stop... the air between them seemed to crackle with electric intensity...
He reached out and picked up the amulet from where it rested, nestled
in the valley between her breasts, and examined it.
“Don’t wear this.”
“Don’t? I thought you said I had to.”
“The law says you’re supposed to have it on your person. You can put
it in your handbag or in your cloak’s pocket. If you wear it, it’ll only make
you depressed... I’m sure the charming has something to do with that.” He
hooked his finger underneath the leather thong and slid downward,
grasping the amulet again.
She covered his hand with her own.
“All right, then, I’ll take it off...”
Before she could reach around her neck to untie the knot, Harry lifted
the entire device away from her chest, over her head and hair, and then off.
Hermione had to admit she felt much lighter.
“Better?”
She looked up at him and nodded, eyes filled with appreciation in
spite of herself.
He crossed the room and was sitting on the covered alabaster chest
before she knew it. “Your room certainly looks different since the last time
I was up here,” he remarked casually. “Not half as lavender and frilly.”
“Yes, the two of you always liked to make fun of my preferences.
I suppose you were really secretly disappointed that I wasn’t some rough-
and-tumble Quidditch playing tomboy. But having that sleepover just
before the thick of the war was so much fun... do you remember?”
“Fifth year, Easter holidays? Of course I remember... your father
wanted to know why you were having a bunch of boys overnight... the only
girl was Ginny.”
“Well, it was just for those in our year – I’d arranged that intensive
study session for our O.W.L.s, remember – Lavender and Parvati were
spending the holidays with Padma and the rest of the Patils in Spain.
I invited Ginny so Dad wouldn’t burst a blood vessel.”
“He still watched us all like a hawk,” said Harry. “Your father’s
always made me slightly nervous... I got the impression he never liked me
much.”
“You’re being ridiculous. If he didn’t like you he’d never let you into
the house, trust me,” she said. “Of course, he took to Ron like a Bundimun
takes to dirt, which may be why you felt that way. Mum loved you,
though... always wanted to know why... oh, never mind.” She went to her
closet and extracted one of the new robes, a rust-colored one. “You know
how parents are.”
“Nope,” he said absently.
She turned to face him again. “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry.”
“What for? Not over something that happened over three decades ago,
I hope.” He shrugged. “You can’t miss what you’ve never experienced as
much as something that you once had and you let just... slip away.”
Hermione lifted her arms and let the robe slide over her. “Yes,
I certainly miss my mother. She was the only one who understood me
completely and accepted me just as I am. I confess to feeling a bit lost
without her.”
“She was an amazing woman,” he replied. “One in a million...
something like what I think my mother would have grown to become in
maturity, although yours was a Muggle and mine was a witch. I hope
they’ve met, wherever they are.”
“They’re in heaven, I’m sure of it,” said Hermione, reaching for a
brush and sitting down at her dressing table. “And just before she died,
I told Mum that after she finished her reunion with Grandmother Helen, to
look for a pretty redhead with green eyes just like yours...” Her voice
broke, and she dropped the brush on the table, burying her face in her
hands.
Soon she felt him lift her up from the chair, and then there was only
the bed beneath her as he cradled her against his chest and she cried her
eyes out.
“I feel so selfish,” she sniffed at last. “Mum was in such pain when
she died... the look on her face as she passed away was one of sheer
peace... and yet all I can think about is that it’s my birthday and she isn’t
here with me.”
“I understand.”
She looked up at him, wiping her eyes. “You do, don’t you?”
“I’ve been alone for so long that I don’t even know what anything else
would be like.” He sighed. “Hermione, there’s something I’ve got to tell
you...”
“Oh no, not another deep dark Harry-secret. Should I be afraid?”
“Ha, ha. It’s not such a huge secret anymore... practically everyone
knows...”
Just then, there was more knocking. “Hermione? Open up... Clara said
you were looking for me earlier...”
Hermione sat up and stood from her bed regretfully. Wishing like
everything that there was a way to capture the warmth that she felt
whenever she was cocooned within his arms, to carry it with her always. If
I could bottle that sort of comfort, she thought, I’d never have to work
another day in my life. Everyone in the wizarding world would empty their
Gringotts vaults to have it...
She walked over to the door, twice glancing back at the man sitting on
her bed. The first time he seemed to be staring out of the window. The
second time their eyes met and she came to a sad realization. She’d made
the wrong decision three years before.
Well, maturity is learning to live with the choices we make. I’ve made
a laundry list of mistakes, starting and ending with him...
Because Nephthys was right. Hyperempaths know all the joy and
sorrow, the pain and glory of all of humanity, yet rarely take time to look at
what’s in their own hearts.
And I think that I just may have been in love before.
Hermione opened the door and smiled her daughter-grin, face
revealing nothing of the consternation she felt.
“Here I am, Dad... and guess what? Harry’s here.”
4:10 p.m.
Tamburlane – the Malfoy estate.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Hermione as she and Harry walked
up the drawbridge to the front door of Draco and Ginny Malfoy’s country
manor later that afternoon, “but didn’t they use to live somewhere else?
I mean, I feel like I’ve been here before, but the house looks different.”
“It is different. These are the ancestral Malfoy family lands, and there
was actually another mansion on the grounds... about an acre or two in that
direction,” he pointed.
Hermione looked and saw only an elaborate and well-trimmed garden
of vast expanse. There was a wood directly opposite the gardens, through
which a stream flowed and curved around to circle the house much like a
castle’s mere from days of old. There were several punts tied just under the
drawbridge.
“Imagine having to clean a home this big,” Hermione idly said,
appreciating and yet not coveting the picturesque surroundings of
Shropshire.
“They don’t, of course. They have a very capable house-elf who runs
their staff of mostly Squib servants. All are well-paid, trustworthy, and
ensure that Ginny doesn’t have to lift a finger.”
“Lucky her.”
After only three quick poundings of the elaborate brass knocker, the
front door opened and a liveried house-elf opened the door and bowed.
“Afternoon, Mr. Potter,” he said, in the careful English that house-
elves now acquired in special trade union sponsored charm schools. Draco
had sent all of his house-elves off to be educated long ago, professing to
hate their natural undereducated inflection.
“Hello, Nod. I don’t think you’ve met my best friend, Hermione
Granger, who’s also a friend of your employer.”
Nod bowed again to her, this time more deeply. “I have heard great
things about you, miss... I assure you that I did not expect them to be
attached to one with such a lovely face.”
Hermione looked at Harry and laughed. “Oh, come now,” she said to
the butler. “The flattery is totally unnecessary... we’re here to see the
Malfoys. Where are they?”
Nod looked over his shoulder, then withdrew a well-worn
memorandum book and studied it. “That depends on which invitation
you’ve received. Today we have a number of events going on here at
Tamburlane... high tea with Mistress Malfoy in the Red Drawing Room at
4 p.m... children’s birthday party in Little Miss Malfoy’s playroom at
4:45... dinner in the main dining room at 7... and cocktails and dancing at 9
p.m. in the Grand Ballroom.”
Hermione frowned. “They have an event calendar?”
Harry shrugged. “I suppose they have to have one. I’m sure they still
have noontime tours of the house and grounds for the public during the
summer. Am I correct, Nod?”
“Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” supplied Nod helpfully.
“Oh, that’s horrible. A lot like living in a fishbowl by choice,”
Hermione said.
“No, no, Master and Mistress Malfoy aren’t here during the summer,
miss. Either they’re on holiday or they are in residence at one of their other
homes.”
After this exchange, Hermione and Harry followed Nod down the
varnished wood floors of the entrance hall, up a dark green carpeted
staircase, and down a long hall to a few feet from a wide doorway.
“Here is where I leave you,” said Nod, turning to leave and resume his
duties. “Enjoy your stay at Tamburlane.”
Harry turned to Hermione. “I’ve got to help set up for the kids’
birthday party...”
“Whose birthday party?” queried Hermione.
“Oh, I forgot you don’t know! Angelina’s twins were born on your
birthday in 2009, and George and Anya’s oldest, Katarina, was born a year
later on the eighteenth. So all the kids of our set are invited to this huge
event... we’ve even got Martin the Mad Muggle to perform.”
Hermione shook her head. “How hilarious. Well, I’ll pop my head in
later, kiss the children, and grab myself a piece of birthday cake... thanks
for spending the day with me.”
With a soft smile, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek as in days
of old. He returned the favor, pressing his lips to her temple, then her
forehead.
“Don’t forget, I want you to come to Ayr and brief Sirius tomorrow.
I still think you ought to take what’s been happening to you more
seriously.”
“I do, Harry, I really do.” She lowered her eyes. “Perhaps after the
children’s party, I could come there tonight...”
Once again she was caught up in his presence. “Ah, but I told your
father this afternoon that I’d bring you home safely and at a decent hour...”
Hermione shot him a knowing glance. “Let me handle my father.”
“If you insist,” said Harry. “But tell me, beautiful, who’s going to
handle you?”
The answer was in her eyes as he pulled her close. Finally,
Hermione’s brain whispered as her senses applauded and her hands went to
his hair and his hands settled low on her waist and everything within her
rose in anticipation in the instant before their lips met...
... and yet never met because there was Ginny, who’d stepped into the
hallway and spotted them.
“Hermione! There you are!” said Ginny, face shining with glee.
They embraced quickly and stepped apart. Guiltily, but Ginny didn’t
seem to notice this much. She hugged and kissed Hermione warmly, then
punched Harry on the arm, seeming more like the carefree, sweet girl she’d
been once upon a time than the trend-setting and elegant woman she’d
become.
“I see you took your time collecting her and bringing her here, Harry
Potter,” she said with mock disapproval.
“That’s because we had a lot of catching up to do,” Harry said lightly.
“I’m sure. Come, Hermione, the girls are all here... and Harry, don’t
you have something or the other to do?”
“Whoa, dismissed like a stray Kneazle,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’ll see you later, Hermione... Ginny, where’s Hazel’s playroom again?
I have no desire to get lost in this museum again... last time I had to battle a
dozen suits of armor at once, and I’m not sure that I’m up to it today...”
As Harry and Ginny walked down the hall, Hermione watched them.
She had a sudden, irrational urge to stop him... to have Ginny tell the other
women that she would meet up with them later... to do what she should
have done this afternoon instead of watch her father interrogate Harry for
the better part of the two hours after lunch... to grab him and Apparate
together to his cottage on Ayr and snog him for the better part of an hour,
but now she’d have to wait...
Oh, please. Only snog? You might be a liar, Hermione, but you’re not
pathological yet. You know very well that you won’t be satisfied with just
kisses.
Yes, I would. What part of “celibate” don’t you understand?
The part where I spent the whole of today restraining you from
jumping the poor man’s bones...
You give yourself far too much credit, damn it.
And you overestimate your willpower. Celibate, my fat arse. Bet you’ll
be polishing that broomstick within the next twenty-four hours...
Merlin, you are crude!
Well, so are you. Remember, I’m not only your reality check, but your
imagination too... and really, love, you ought to be locked up away from
decent society... some of those fantasies of yours are really quite
frightening...
“Hermione? Snap out of it, dear!” And here Ginny was indeed
snapping her fingers in front of her old friend’s face.
“Oh! I’m sorry...” Hermione laughed. “It’s been quite strange, trying
to get readjusted to all this, you know.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve had Harry to help you find the ropes again.
He’s told you everything, hasn’t he?”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m fully updated.”
“Good, I’m glad. Well, then... shall we rejoin the girls? I think so.”
Hermione followed Ginny into a parlour that vaguely resembled the
Gryffindor common room from Hogwarts days. Everything was rich
scarlet and gleaming gold and polished ivory. As a redhead, Ginny perhaps
could have chosen a more flattering color scheme for her wing but she
couldn’t have looked more regal in her rich purple robes.
“Everyone, I’d like to introduce to some and re-introduce to others our
own dear Hermione Granger, who’s recently come back to us from her
research in the Muggle world. Make her feel welcome.”
There was applause, and excited talk, and she was immediately
surrounded by faces familiar and strange.
“Oh! Hermione!” Parvati Patil had been standing near the door with a
crumpet and hugged her warmly... as closely as her extended stomach
would allow.
“It’s great to see you too, Parvati...”
“Seven months,” said Parvati, answering the question in Hermione’s
eyes. “I married the Indonesian Minister of Magic a year and a half ago...
I’m due in November.”
Before she could fully express her congratulations, they were
surrounded. Parvati’s best friend Lavender Finnegan came over with
Eleanor Branstone Thomas and Lisa Turpin Baddock. They loved what
she’d done with her hair... they envied her slight tan... they wanted to know
what American Muggles were like... did she hear about this or that... and
she’d been missed by everyone.
She felt rather caught in a whirlwind on the inside. Overwhelmed. She
showed none of this on her face, though. Hermione Granger had long ago
become the past mistress of maintaining composure under pressure...
letting her emotions get in the way of rational thought had been one of her
few weaknesses as a young witch, and that innate tendency had surfaced
just before the time of her divorce. Even as intelligent and rational as she
could be, Hermione by nature could be extremely impulsive when it came
to those things, causes, and persons she was passionate about. Indeed, this
passionate nature of hers sometimes in the past had made her choke when
she needed to act... to become paralyzed and frozen with fear.
This was why Nephthys had taught her to shield, to throw up a barrier
between ration and emotion. It was how she’d learned to function as an
adult. Rarely did anyone see her unmasked.
She was shielding now, greeting each woman with the cordial and
cool grace that had become her signature. Embracing each one with only a
tinge of warmth, asking after husbands and children and work and parents
without any trace of passion in her voice. For she knew if she let the shield
slip, she would dissolve into stormy tears. Especially when her Weasley
sisters-in-law came to hug and kiss her... Liz and Madeleine and Penelope,
saying that Angelina and Anya were setting up the party and were wild to
see her as well... and that all of the children had missed their Aunt
Hermione terribly.
She hadn’t realized how incredibly lonely she’d been while living in
Georgia, how much she yearned for female companionship... her? The
woman with a legion of male friends and not a single female amongst their
ranks?
Maybe it was because she no longer had her mother. Caroline had
been more than a mother to her, she had been a dear friend. Maybe it was
because Ginny was now married and Hermione wasn’t, and they no longer
had Ron in common, so there wasn’t the same emotional meeting place for
them. Maybe it was because she’d made the terrible mistake of marrying
one of her best friends and now there was this unmistakable tension
between her and the other...
I do need a good girl friend, thought Hermione. The problem is that
I have so little in common with these witches, great and wonderful people
though they are. They’re so into their men and their babies, even the ones
with careers... I can’t imagine that being the center of my world.
Diana Oliveira
Over the shoulder of one of the women who was hugging her,
Hermione saw a young witch of no more than twenty-five standing near
the tea table. She was staring back at Hermione pointedly, face unreadable,
tea cup in hand.
The girl was easily the most striking woman in the room, and if there
had been men about she would have certainly drawn every eye. She was
blonde, and every strand of her pale golden hair seemed alive thanks to the
autumn afternoon sun that was filtering in through the open window. Her
face was exquisite, and although she was quite tall, her figure was as
proportioned as a Greek statue. The strange thing was her skin was not pale
– she had the golden complexion of the southern European countries – but
her eyes were as bright as her hair. Hermione couldn’t tell the exact color,
but they looked like twin stars shining from her face.
She looks like a goddess, thought Hermione wildly. Diana of the
Ephesians, indeed.
Hermione muttered a few pleasantries, saying that she wanted a cup of
tea, and made her way over the table.
“Coffee or tea?” asked the Squib before she could say anything to the
girl.
“Tea, please. With milk and one of those sprigs of mint... thanks.”
“I have a fondness for mint as well. It’s one of my favorite tastes.”
Hermione turned to the girl, who was standing right next to her. “I can
take it only in small doses, usually when I’m under the weather. I was
flying earlier today and have a tickle in my throat. I’m Hermione Granger,
by the way...”
“Yes, I know. Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Granger. I’m Diana
Oliveira, a new teacher at the Dumbledore School. So I know all about you
already.”
“Oh, excellent! You have a great staff there... so you’re working with
the Linsenmayers and Carole Stanford Black, Jocelyn, Janet, and of
course...”
“Harry,” finished Diana. “You could say that. I’m a visting lecturer in
telesthetics, so I’ve been working rather closely with the Professor for the
past two years. He’s a wonderful man. The best I’ve ever met, in fact.”
Hermione’s smile was indulgent. Obviously the girl was the latest in
Harry’s long line of conquests. Poor thing.
But now a gleam caught Hermione’s eye, and it was coming from the
direction of Diana’s teacup. The saucer was in her right hand, but the hand
that held the cup sported a showy diamond solitaire on her ring finger.
“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Hermione. “Are you engaged, then?”
“Yes, I am,” said the girl. “Have been since Valentine’s Day this year.
We’re getting married in December. Christmas, to be exact.”
“How exciting. You know, I was around your age when I was married
for the first time. I remember how anxious I felt, and yet how elated I was
when the day finally came. If I may be so presumptuous as to offer
advice...”
“Please do,” Diana said.
“Make sure you savor each moment, and treasure the good times...
store up the good memories so that when the storms come, you can draw
back on them. I wish you all the happiness in the world, dear.”
Diana looked like she wanted to cry. “They were right. Everything
I’ve ever read or heard or imagined... you’re exactly as they say,” she
whispered incredulously. “Thank you.”
Hermione hugged her. “You can thank me after you tell me all about
the lucky man. Chances are I know him... does he work on Ayr by any
chance?”
“Yes, he does. I’m sure you already know him very well. In fact, I’d
be so honored if you would come to our wedding... and I know he would
be too.”
“I’ll be back at work in Brazil by then,” Hermione said, “but I’m sure
I’d love an excuse to travel to Scotland for the holidays.” Especially if
Harry’s there, she thought in spite of herself. “You’ll make a lovely bride,
and if there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”
Diana nodded. Hermione was going to ask for more details, but at that
moment, Ginny came over and retrieved her.
“Hi, Diana, glad you two have met... guess who’s here, Hermione?”
Hermione turned. There stood Angelina and Anya Weasley, Alicia
Jordan, and Cassandra Branford waving her over.
“We’ve got to get back to arranging things for the children’s birthday
party,” Angelina called in her usual loud and boisterous voice, “but we just
couldn’t wait to see you!”
She grinned, said good-bye to Diana, and went over to greet her old
friends.
5:30 p.m.
It had been a long time since Hermione had attended a wizarding kid’s
party. Yet even she couldn’t have ever forgotten how loud and colorful and
messy and fun these things were for the sproglets.
She sat on a divan, watching the action, recovering slowly from being
attacked by a plethora of nieces and nephews of all ages and young family
friends. As she watched them all, laughing at the antics of Martin the Mad
Muggle, occasionally using her wand to animate one of the colorful sand-
art creations, she marveled at how ridiculously fast children grew up.
A case in point was little Maggie, Percy and Penelope’s oldest
daughter. She was no longer the tiny, quiet and bookish girl that Hermione
remembered from the long-ago days of her engagement to Ron. Margaret
Weasley was now a young woman of twenty, watching over her younger
brothers and sisters, blushing whenever a certain young Gringotts curse-
breaker was mentioned.
Then there was Mary, who Hermione had left behind as a giggling
eleven year old, now a moody, brooding girl of fourteen. Robes, fingernail
polish, and lipstick were all black... as was her hair dye and her multiple
stud piercings.
“Mum nearly died when Mary came home from school this summer,”
P.J. had said. “Dad knew, of course, and he almost had a heart attack.” Of
the children, he was much the same as he had been, save that he’d
stretched out considerably. He was in his last year at Hogwarts and was
very interested in becoming a mediwizard, so he regaled her with
questions... and also hinted that he wouldn’t say no to an owl of
recommendation from her.
Fred and Angelina’s Malinda was being extremely helpful along with
her cousins Gryff and Rave in the decorating. Hermione thought it strange
to see that they were no longer little babies, but older kids on the verge of
Hogwarts... big sisters and brother to the current baby boom.
“Uncle Harry says I can almost fly better than he,” said Malinda
happily, taking time out for a moment to chat with her beloved aunt.
“Which makes lots of sense, because I have wings like Mummy now.”
Hermione laughed. “That’s right, you do. Are they strong enough for
flight yet?”
“No, and I can’t use them in Quidditch anyway.” She giggled. “It
would be cheating, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Have you thought about what position you’re best suited
for?”
Malinda shrugged. “I can’t decide, and they all want me to be
something different. Daddy and Uncle George want me to be a Beater...
Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron think I’d make a good Seeker... but Mummy
and Aunt Alicia want me to be a Chaser.”
“And you, Linda?” asked Hermione. “What do you want to be?”
Malinda got a strange sparkle in her eye. “I want to be all of them.
I want to be the best Quidditch player ever.”
Hermione was floored by the child’s determination. “I’m sure you will
be. Never lose sight of your dream. And learn from our mistakes.”
To this Malinda laughed, and the laugh was just like her father’s.
“Don’t be silly, Aunt Hermione. You guys are perfect. Everybody at school
knows we’re the best family in all England... I’m lucky.”
In the midst of the fray was Diana. Evidently she was in her element
around young people, and since she taught them for a living Hermione
wasn’t surprised. She flitted from game to game, danced with Martin the
Mad Muggle, and helped Angelina and Anya arrange the presents. It made
Hermione dizzy just to look at her.
“Storytime!” she called after a while. And the kids came racing over
to hear of deeds of valor, fairies and elves, witches and wizards, epic
quests, dragons and the dark arts, courage and perseverance and friendship
and true love.
I used to be the storyteller, thought Hermione. Perhaps I don’t have
Diana’s gift for children, but they always loved my stories... the difference
was that I lived most of mine...
And the tiniest frisson of jealousy snaked into her heart.
Soon the room was enchanted by the sound of Diana’s lovely voice.
The children were all sitting around her, listening to the spellbinding tale.
Even the adults who were monitoring the children and arranging the party
slowed down to listen.
“Thereupon the Prince seated himself against the curtain which
divided the outer from the inner chamber and wrote the following
prescription: ‘He whom estrangement hath afflicted is cured when the vow
of the beloved is accomplished; and the heart of exile findeth restoration in
union with that which was lost. Love alone can heal those whom love hath
persecuted’...
“Then, having enclosed the ring which at their first meeting he had
exchanged for his own, he sealed the missive, and putting it into the hands
of the servant bade him carry it to his mistress.
“No sooner had the Princess received the missive and the ring than
she knew at once from whom it came. Whereupon joy overthrew her
reason, and leaping up in a transport of exultation she pressed her feet
against the wall, and breaking the chains which bound her ran forth and
threw herself into the arms of the Prince.
“The servant ran in swift haste to the King, bringing tidings of the
event. ‘What?’ cried the King, ‘can such news be true?’
“‘O my lord,’ answered the servant, “let thine own eyes look upon her
and be blest; for she hath broken her chains of iron, and coming forth she
falleth upon him and kisseth him, and never will she let him go...”
Hermione had stood up and was moving slowly towards the doorway.
She was beginning to wonder where Harry was... surely he was still
somewhere in the house, even if she hadn’t yet seen him at the party...
She stepped quietly out of the playroom.
A very familiar, absurdly tall redhead was walking down the hall,
walking towards her, bouncing a little boy of about four with auburn curls,
freckles, and snapping blue eyes about his shoulders as he squealed and
laughed.
When she saw him, Hermione froze. Mask off. Shield cast aside.
And when he saw her at last, he stopped in his tracks as well.
The little boy looked down at Hermione, curiosity written all over his
tiny face. “Daddy,” he asked, “who’s that lady?”
Ron couldn’t speak. Neither could Hermione at first. But unlike her
ex-husband, she could see the growing alarm on the child’s face and
snapped herself out of it. What could she say? “A friend of your father’s”
wasn’t quite right, and certainly not “a friend of your parents” considering
who his mother was. Neither was “Dr. Granger” or “Hermione Granger”
appropriate. “Hermione” was too casual, especially for an adult he’d never
met before...
“I’m your Aunt Hermione,” she said, reaching up to shake his tiny
hand. “You must be Maury.”
He nodded. “Nice to meet you.” Then he giggled.
“What’s so funny, son?” asked Ron, looking up.
“She’s... she’s pretty,” chortled Maury.
“That she is,” said Ron slowly. “That she is... here,” he kneeled so that
Maury could climb down, “go and join the fun.” Maury hugged his dad’s
neck, then Hermione’s waist, and ran down the hall and into the playroom.
Hermione couldn’t even look him in the eye. Why isn’t there a book
somewhere for this... 14 Easy Steps Towards Dealing With Your Ex? She
felt awkward and empty and angry and a trifle annoyed... and strangely
sad.
“How have you been, Hermione?” asked Ron, voice calm and even.
She’d never heard his voice sound like that. Ever.
“Well, thanks.” She finally summoned the courage to look up at him.
And surprise – she didn’t melt into a puddle of any kind. Neither did she
feel very angry anymore... Ron’s deep blue eyes were strangely disarming.
Her misery increased a hundredfold. And of course, it wouldn’t do if
she went flailing on the floor, bawling.
“That’s good to hear,” Ron said slowly. Where was the wit, where
were the jokes and teasing, where was the laughter? Where was the sparkle
in his eyes, mirrored in her own? If they were all gone, why did they ever
have to grow up? What was the damned point?
Long, uncomfortable awkward silence. It wasn’t that there was
nothing for them to say to each other. No. There was far too much.
Time, please be my friend for a change... please let me somehow go
back and make things different...
Or at least, show me where we can begin again.
“Hey, there you are, Ron,” called Harry from down the hall. “Fred and
George and I have got all the balloons animated on the grounds for the
kids... give us a hand, will you...”
Harry stopped when she saw Hermione and Ron standing there,
staring at each other. Now instead of two people frozen in place in that
hallway, there were three. And indeed, it was the first time the three of
them had been alone in the same vicinity together in ages... since long
before she ever left.
That’s when something larger than Hermione snatched her up and
made her take charge of the situation. This was because while she was ever
Caroline’s daughter, she was also very much Ted Granger’s progeny.
“Oh, this is just absolutely damned ridiculous,” Hermione said,
grabbing Ron’s upper arm and pulling him down the hall towards Harry.
“There are balloons to prepare for those kids, there’s a Fizzing Whizzbee
ice cream cake to cut, and if I don’t get a corner slice with lots of frosting
I will hold you two personally responsible.” She grabbed Harry’s hand and
pulled him along too. “This is not As The Wizarding World Turns, it’s my
birthday and I’ll be buggered if I am going to rehash the bloody past again
after living three years without the unnecessary melodrama and angst. Let’s
go.”
“Sounds as if we don’t have much choice in the matter, Harry,” Ron
remarked after she let them go and sped ahead to lead them downstairs and
out.
Harry shook his head. “Right. Not sure we ever did.”
And with those words, the famous Trio emerged onto the grounds at
Tamburlane to gather balloons.
6:45 p.m.
Everything might have ended up quite differently if Hermione hadn’t
enjoyed herself so much outside before dinner. She’d planned to get the
balloons together, sit on the sidelines, and control the charming so that
none of the littlest children were hurt. But Fred and George had pulled her
from her perch on the chaise and set her on the back of an inflated, purple-
and-pink spotted elephant. So she’d spent the better part of an hour playing
with the children and many of the adults, enjoying the great balloons that
had come to life on the grounds... she hadn’t done anything of the sort
since the snowball fights at Hogwarts.
By the time they were called back inside for the cake, Hermione was
flushed and her hair was all over the place. She was in no state to sit down
in the elegant Malfoy dining room and have dinner. But Ginny wouldn’t
hear of her leaving.
“Here, I have just the thing,” said Ginny, pulling her into a vast
upstairs room that was obviously used solely for her wardrobe. “I love
those robes I bought for you, but they’re really for everyday. Not nice
enough for the sort of dinner we’ve got coming. Try this on...”
The fabric glided down over Hermione’s head. It was a lovely pink
color, shot through with silver.
Ginny cocked her head critically back and forth. “Hmm... no, I don’t
think that’s the best I can do. Here...”
With her wand, she lifted the garment away from Hermione and put an
apple-green frock in her hands. Evidently that wasn’t satisfactory, because
Ginny quickly divested her of that and gave her robes of flame-red.
They went through at least two dozen garments. All of them ended up
in a growing pile that Ginny said the house-elves would take care of
later...”after all, that’s what they’re paid for, isn’t it?”
As Ginny went deeper and deeper into the racks of clothing. Hermione
sat down on the dressing stool in her slip, looking at herself in the three-
way mirror.
“You look better than you have in years, birthday girl,” said her
reflection.
Hermione winked. Yes, I know.
“Aha!” called Ginny. “Hermione, try this on for size... I think this is
it!”
She helped Hermione into robes of peacock blue that shimmered
under the lamps. Unlike the square neckline of the everyday robes Ginny
had gifted her with, this one had a plunging v-neckline (“you’ll have to get
rid of the slip and that frightful granny bra... don’t worry, I’ll charm you so
you won’t be uncomfortable”), plunging waist, and a skirt that flounced
like the petals of a morning-glory.
“I should have known, you’ve always looked great in blue, although
jewel tones and metallics usually don’t do half as much for you as pastels
and neutral colors can... they tend to overwhelm you a bit, if you know
what I mean. But the undershimmer softens up the blue, so it works. And
I’d give just about anything to have your stomach again,” said Ginny
wistfully. “Although I love my daughter, I miss my figure at times. There’s
not a charm in the world that can tuck you fully back in after you’ve had a
child, and neither can exercise.”
Hermione kissed her. “You’re still gorgeous and you know it.”
“Yes, of course. I have a certain Galleonaire who reassures me about
that all the time, so I’m not envious. Anyway, you’re lovely, I’m sure... and
will be even lovelier with the appropriate accessories.”
With that, Ginny fastened a chain of sapphires around her neck, gave
her sapphire earrings for her ears... and a plunging sapphire belt for her
waist. The stones that hung from necklace and belt rested on her chest and
on her lap, accentuating both strategically.
“You can keep those fab boots,” Ginny said, flicking her wand quickly
here and there, “I’ll only make them match the dress,” flicking, “and you
need heels, never flats for dress,” and flicking again. “Hair... hmm... here’s
some pins, let’s put it all up like this... there you are... and did you bring
any facial potions?”
“No, only some Muggle stuff for my lips and a basic mascara...”
“Oh, heavens no,” said Ginny. “What have I always told you,
Hermione? That Muggle make-up is terrible for your skin, I don’t care how
expensive or hypoallergenic they claim it is. You are a witch, darling,
which means you’ve got to remain in your skin about twice as long as they
do... you have got to take care of it.”
Twice as long as my mother did, at least, she thought, watching in the
mirror as Ginny fixed her up.
Once Hermione was together, Ginny told her she had to change herself
and get Hazel ready for the children’s entertainment and dinner. So she left
Hermione alone with the mirror, reminding her that dinner was in just a
few minutes.
Hermione allowed herself a good twirl or two. She liked pretty clothes
just as much as any other redblooded witch, and she knew she looked
lovely. Smiling to herself, she anticipated the look on Harry’s face when he
saw her like this...
In the mirror, she could see the door open. A redheaded toddler ran
into the room to play hide-and-go-seek amongst the clothing racks,
followed by a very pretty, very pregnant brunette.
Maureen, also known as Mo.
“Artie, come back here this instant... you little imp, just wait until
Mummy catches up with you!” It took her a moment to notice Hermione,
but notice her she did. “Hello, hon, I heard you were back in town. What’s
shaking?”
“Maureen, what a surprise,” Hermione said flatly. “Don’t you look...
healthy.”
Her inflection and choice of words were not lost on Maureen. “Yeah,
and you look like a blueberry... if I were you, I’d take those gloves off.
Don’t want to overdo it.”
Hermione looked pointedly at Maureen’s yellow maternity robes.
They were nice enough, but she sure wasn’t wearing DasGupta originals
any longer. Instead of jewels, her hair was topped off with a yellow rose
pinned behind one ear... and there was a wide wedding band added to the
engagement ring Hermione remembered from all those years before.
Then she looked down at Maureen’s hands and remembered
something.
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Hermione, removing her gloves and
examining her clear-polished, even nails pointedly.
It was Mo’s turn to narrow her eyes. As pretty as she was, Maureen
Ludlam had always been a nail-biter and her hands had never been her best
feature. Like all born hyperempaths, Hermione had glorious hands.
“So exactly what else are you flaunting tonight?” asked Mo pointedly.
“Or should I say, who are you flaunting?”
“Absolutely no one,” returned Hermione. “Unlike you, I don’t need to
be on some man’s arm or in his bed to feel absolutely fabulous about
myself. It’s called high self-esteem... you ought to try it sometime.”
“That’s interesting. Seems to me like all the esteem you’ve ever had
came from your close association with a couple of men... and if I recall
correctly, you were married to one while you were sleeping with the other.”
Hermione clucked her tongue. “No indeed, my dear. Your memory is
obviously playing tricks on you... remember, I was married to one while
you were sleeping with him.”
Mo looked extremely angry. “And you’re back because...”
“I’m back because evidently people wanted me here. I didn’t seek
anyone out, they sought me out, which I’m sure is a totally alien
experience for you. And the ‘couple of men’ you speak of happen to be my
best friends. Even if you don’t think I should be around, they and lots of
others seem to.”
“Well, one of those ‘best friends’ is a married man, and the other
shortly will be. Therefore, there shouldn’t be any confusion on your part...”
Hermione’s challenging look slowly faded away. In spite of her best
efforts, she couldn’t keep the shock from her face.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Come on, hon, you mean to tell me you didn’t know? Oh, this is rich,
just rich.” She threw back her head and laughed.
“I don’t see what’s so bloody funny. Yes, I know that Ron’s married to
you, and I must say that even after all was said and done I felt sorry for
him, because no man deserves that kind of punishment. But Harry isn’t
married, he told me so himself.”
Mo continued to laugh so hard that her son emerged from the clothing.
“Mummy laugh?” he asked, obviously puzzled.
“I know, sweetie. It’s just that this lady is hilarious.” She sobered up
quickly, and two pairs of dark brown eyes stared at Hermione. “Hermione,
Harry’s not married yet, but he’s going to be before the year is out. Haven’t
you bothered to meet his fiancée at all? Ron says she’s been here all day.”
“No, I didn’t meet his damned fiancée, because you’re obviously
making all this up...”
“I can’t believe this,” Mo said, shaking her head. “You’re still in love
with him. Oh, great wizards, what a tangled web we weave... because you
can’t seem to keep yourself out of those triangles, can you...”
Hermione’s wand was now at Maureen’s throat. The little boy
screamed in fright.
“Tell the truth,” Hermione said, “or you won’t be saying another word
tonight.”
“I am telling the truth,” said Mo, pushing Hermione’s hand and wand
aside to comfort her child. “Think about it, Hermione, why would I lie
about something like that? He’s been engaged for over six months now,
and he’s getting married to her in December. Ron’s going to be in the
wedding, and I must say that I’m pleased...”
“What gives you the right to be so nasty?” said Hermione slowly.
“You started all this. I did nothing to you. Nothing.”
“No, Hermione, you didn’t. And I know that I wronged you, blah blah
blah, and you plan to make me pay for what I did for the rest of my life.
You did an excellent job in gaining public sympathy before you left, so
excellent that I may never be able to play this tough crowd or fit into his
family. But what you fail to see is that you’re not an innocent victim here.
If you hadn’t alienated Ron so much, he would have never looked twice at
me and you know it. Well, perhaps he would have... some things are simply
meant to be.
“But you had your chance with Harry... I know exactly what happened
the night of Draco and Ginny’s wedding, and what that man went through
for years over a selfish, spoiled witch who seems only to love herself. So
yes, forgive me if I am glad the man has found a slice of real happiness
with a woman who loves him desperately and would never do anything to
intentionally hurt him. Which is much more than I can say for you...”
“Knock, knock,” said a male voice from the doorway. “What’s going
on here? Dinner’s started.”
As little Artie bolted towards his father, Hermione looked daggers at
Mo before sweeping out of the room and brushing past Ron down the
hallway. She was so furious that she was shaking. How dare Maureen? She
was a liar and a whore and evidently had Ron completely fooled. Most
likely she had Enthralled him after all, and was leading him about by the
nose. She felt a little sorry for Ron for being such a horrible judge of
character.
Hermione calmed down a bit with every step she took. Why had she
let Maureen get underneath her skin? That witch was several notches
beneath her notice and she would do well to remember it in the future.
As she approached the dining hall, she noticed that it was dark. She
turned back and looked at Nod, who was giving instructions to another
servant.
“Are you certain the party is in there?” she asked.
“Yes, miss, fully certain. Go on, you’re late.”
Hermione shook her head to herself and turned back towards the
double doors of the hall. She opened the door... and stepped into pitch
black.
“What on earth...”
Then there was a firm “Lumos”, and a great shout...
“SURPRISE!”
The candlelight and torches came up with a swoosh... there was
dancing confetti and sparks shooting out of wands and the collective pop
from a dozen champagne bottles and quite a few of the old Weasley’s
Wizard Wheezes special effects...
“Happy birthday, Hermione!” shouted Bill and Madeleine, and the
chorus seemed to emanate and echo from the walls. Happy birthday,
Hermione! Happy birthday, Hermione!
She was completely floored. Certainly she hadn’t been expecting
anything special... she’d only been back a day!
Ginny, ever the gracious hostess, came up to her and kissed her cheek.
Idly, Hermione thought that only her former sister-in-law and dearest
female friend of yore could have pulled off something of this scale in the
mere twenty-four hours that had passed since Hermione’s return.
Draco came on the other side of her and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Welcome home, Granger,” he said, and together husband and wife led her
to the place of honor at the table.
Yet despite her broad smile and the general good cheer of the guests,
the apparent sunshine in her eyes hid the unshed tears she was keeping
bottled up.
For there in the midst of the confetti and sparkle and glow stood
Harry. Avoiding her eyes.
Clinging to him easily, one be-ringed hand glittering from his shoulder
was the goddess-girl Diana.
10:05 p.m.
The roof garden was lovely this time of the evening. Hermione walked
to the very edge of it, sitting down on one of the stone benches. The clouds
blotted out many of the stars but the crescent moon still hung like a silver
Sickle overhead. The last of summer’s flowers lent their heady perfume to
the air from the pots and plots amongst the benches.
Yet Hermione was oblivious to the beauty that surrounded her,
oblivious to the fact that it was her birthday and she looked like a veritable
queen. Even royalty crowned have their unhappiest hours. Hermione had
just suffered through three of them.
It wasn’t enough that the dinner had been delicious and dessert
afterward had been divine. She’d missed the pre-dinner cocktail hour due
to her dressing, but afterwards there was dancing and more drinks. She
hadn’t lacked for partners, either... many of her friends insisted on dancing
with her and there were a few single strangers from Malfosoft that
Hermione knew had been invited for her benefit, as just about everyone in
their set was now married or otherwise partnered off.
Colin Creevey and Presh Patil were only one of the couples who’d
found each other during her hiatus. They’d taken her for a delightful spin
around the dance floor... after the Weasley twins decided that it would be
hilarious to dance with her all at once, other pairs followed their example.
“You two are such lovebirds,” Hermione remarked as they kissed over
her head. “Perfect for one another.”
“Oh, you’re a sweetheart, Hermione,” said Colin. “Always have been,
no matter what anyone says. If you’d been a guy, I would have married
you.”
“Over my dead body,” replied Presh with a wink.
Then madcap Angelina and Alicia announced loudly that they were
jealous that their husbands had got to dance with her, and they hadn’t. So
then there was a great and unforgettable all-girl whirl on the dance floor
that all the other women joined in and wasn’t soon forgotten.
The party was still going on without her, and she was glad. For in spite
of all the fun that was in the ballroom behind her, in spite of all the cheer
and well wishes she’d received from those who wanted to celebrate her day
and her return with her, in the end she only saw four faces.
Ron, who was watching her like a hawk.
Maureen, who couldn’t stop smirking.
Diana, who kept looking at her quizzically.
And Harry, who wouldn’t look at her at all.
“Who,” she whispered to the moon, “has been the biggest fool in this
matter? I’m sure that my intelligence is far less than it is purported to be. If
I was so damned smart I would have figured this out on my own. Well,
then, I shouldn’t care at all about what that liar Maureen says... and
I should be happy that Harry’s finally followed the advice I’d been giving
him for the better part of a decade.
“And yet... and yet... I do care. And I’m not happy about this, either.
Oh, dear.”
Hermione sighed, leaning against the railing. The roof garden of the
Grand Ballroom was really a balcony, forming the roof of Draco and
Ginny’s glass-walled greenhouse. Fine, translucent mesh curtains that
could be charmed opaque offered some privacy. Hermione was glad that no
one would think to look for her out here. She had come sans drink, sans
plate, sans everything save herself. To keep counsel with the moon and the
stars, for suddenly life seemed colorless, flat... and dull.
The door opened, then closed again with a click. She knew who it was
without turning around. Indeed, she would have known if she were deaf
and blind. Her heart did something strange... was it possible for it to sink
and turn a great flip-flop at the same time? If not, a miracle...
“What a beautiful night for your birthday,” he said, coming to stand at
the railing next to her.
She didn’t say a word.
Harry turned to lean against the railing, not staring at the night
anymore as she continued to do so.
“Listen, Hermione, about Diana...”
“She’s a lovely young woman, Harry. Rest assured that I am nothing
but happy for you.”
“Hermione...”
“You both have similar work interests and she seems to have a great
personality. If that weren’t enough, she looks like a moonbeam... like some
sort of Veela, dipped in gold. I can see exactly what you love about her,
and I think she’s perfect for you.”
“Hermione, would you stop this and just listen for one minute?”
“What else is there to say? Go away, Harry. I came out here to be
alone. If I had really wanted to speak with you I would have sought you
out.”
He let out a huge breath of exasperation. “So you don’t even want to
hear me out?”
She turned away from the view to face him, a trifle violently. “I don’t
see why you have to explain yourself to me. That’s not how these things
work. You certainly didn’t ask my permission before you asked her to
marry you.” Then she turned back. “No explanation needed, it’s all obvious
enough...”
“She was pregnant.”
Hermione stopped.
“Or at least that’s what she thought. We began dating a year ago, right
after the Muggle crisis ended... we took the kids on a school trip to Venice,
and one thing led to another and...”
She held up a hand, still not bothering to look at him. “Spare me.”
“Anyway, on one of our dates this past winter she told me she thought
she was pregnant. We were engaged a few days later, and we set the date
for December, after the baby came.”
“Baby? That’s odd... if I recall correctly, you told me you didn’t have
any children yet.”
“That’s because one never came. It was evidently a false alarm.
Nevertheless, I’d given Diana my word and I saw no reason to break it...”
“Are you in love with her?”
Silence.
“I take that as a yes. Go away, Harry, and leave me alone.”
“Why are you being so bloody ridiculous?”
“Because you’re a good-for-nothing, two-faced bastard!” she said,
whirling around to face him. “You had all day to tell me about her, and yet
I had to find out from Maureen Ludlam of all people. You came to me at
dawn, you led me on all day long, and all the time you knew that she was
here waiting on you. What, was this your disgusting idea of a private joke?
Or was this just payback for the way that I supposedly wronged you three
years ago?”
“Oh, excellent. A change of subject,” he said, obviously trying to keep
his voice calm. “So tell me. Why did you leave the way you did?”
“Well, none of that matters now, does it? I would think you’d be
grateful that I had the foresight to proceed as planned, since I wasn’t in the
way when your true love came along...”
He grabbed her shoulders firmly and turned her to face him.
“No, Hermione, you’re wrong. Let me tell you about the woman
whom I’ve been in love with for half my life, who brightens my life and
torments my dreams. She could have been mine long ago, had it not been
for my own foolishness and preoccupation. By the time I realized that she
was the one, she belonged to my brother.
“For twelve long years I had to pretend that she was nothing more
than a sister to me, and I thought I’d have to endure that sort of exquisite
torture for the rest of my life. Then after I waited for what seemed like
forever for her to be free to love me – and Hermione, I had every reason to
think that she truly did return my love – she came to me one night and
I thought that it was the first hour of paradise. We made love until we were
exhausted and fell asleep. I woke up late that morning and she was long
gone.” He reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled something out.
“Leaving behind only this.”
He placed it into Hermione’s hands. “My wand,” she whispered.
“I nearly went insane after you left and everyone in that room back
there knows it, Diana included. I spent a full year and more doing nothing
but searching for you. I couldn’t teach, I didn’t half-eat or half-sleep or do
much of anything at all. All I could think about was you being all by
yourself in the Muggle world without a wand, and all the legions of those
in our world who hate us and could have harmed you. I didn’t turn my full
attention to the Muggle crisis until Sirius sat me down, told me who your
Secret-Keeper was, and that I needed to realize that you were safe and
didn’t want to be found. That’s when I started doing all I could in the
crisis... but privately I was at one of the lowest points of my life.
“That’s where Diana found me, Hermione. She’s little more than a
girl, of course... younger than we were when you married Ron, but with a
quiet strength and determination and sweetness that drew me to her. No
matter how our engagement came about, I was convinced that she’d make
a fine wife.” He sighed. “I’ve never had a family, never had that sort of
constant in my life. That’s what I thought I’d found with her.”
“I’m glad that you’ve found someone special, someone who’s good
for you,” whispered Hermione, setting her wand down on a nearby bench.
“Don’t look back to yesterday, Harry... you can’t.”
“Right. Because yesterday, you weren’t here.” He stared at her as if he
wanted to memorize the contours of her face for all time. “Yesterday my
life was ordered and predictable, and I could see the years stretching out in
front of me, one much like the other. Yesterday I could see in my future a
wife, children, a home... peace. And then I saw you at dawn and all my
plans were shattered.”
Hermione’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her head and turned
away... only to feel the distinct pressure of his hand on her shoulder.
“Do you realize that when I first saw you, I forgot about Diana’s very
existence for hours ? The witch who’s wearing my ring... the one who I am
supposed to spend the rest of my life with. And if you think me the worst
sort of wizard because of that simple fact, you’re probably right. In life we
are unfortunate enough to have moments of sudden clarity... I’ve been
having a full day of it, and let me tell you, it hasn’t been the most pleasant
experience. And at the close of it, I’m still not sure of much, but there’s one
certain thing.”
Slowly, she turned around.
“It’s you I want always, Hermione. No matter how far away from me
you run, you’ll forever be my lady love... and I will always be your
knight.”
And with those words, she shattered.
Hermione’s mind had a will of its own as her arms wound around his
neck and she felt the full length of him flush against her body and his
hands on her waist, hands on her hips, crushing her to him. And when their
lips met, she felt as if she’d been electrocuted... ah, dear Merlin, could one
die from a mere kiss? His lips tasted like port, a drink she’d never cared
much for but one that was an utterly intoxicating sip from this particular
vessel.
She felt a jolt of liquid fire shoot down her spine as he drew her lower
lip between his teeth, nibbling with far gentler bites than her own nervous
habit ever afforded. In response, she traced his upper lip with the tip of her
tongue until he allowed her inside. There he tasted different... the port-taste
was still there, but there also was Fizzing Whizzbee ice cream cake and
steak and potatoes and after-dinner mints and spiced pumpkin pie and
Harry and she thought she’d go utterly and completely mad from the
delicious delightful taste of him.
Harry must have felt much the same, because he broke away with a
breathless moan. Hermione whimpered softly at her loss, until she felt his
mouth at her temple, after that teeth nipping at her ear, then down the side
of her jaw to her neck. Her head fell back and all she saw was the star-
studded canopy of the night sky above, suddenly cleared of clouds.
Somehow, she was now against the railing of the roof garden, half sitting,
half leaning. Supported only by his body and his arms.
We can’t do this with his fiancée in the other room, thought Hermione.
It’s wrong... I’ve got to stop this.
What’s wrong with it? It’s just... kissing.
Kissing was a rather loosely applied term at that point, as loose as the
bodice of her peacock robe was becoming as he lifted away the sapphire
and began to kiss the bare curves that had supported the gem. She felt her
insides begin to curl into a familiar tight knot, fingers twirling and twisting
in his soft black hair.
He pulled her closer to him, saving her momentarily from her
precarious perch, placing his hands where his mouth had been and
returning his lips to whisper against her own.
“Stay with me, beautiful. Stay with me forever... for always...”
“But you’re... you’re getting married,” Hermione said helplessly,
feeling like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice. “Haven’t we been
immoral enough for a lifetime? This is wrong...”
His answer was another kiss, longer and deeper. Despite the moonlight
and the cool air, Hermione was flushed and warm. She felt sure that she’d
ruined all of her undergarments shamefully by now, and Merlin help her,
her robe was next.
“It would be more wrong if I went back to her and pretended that
nothing happened... damn, I’ve really messed up, haven’t I?”
She looked up at him indulgently. His glasses were askew and slightly
steamed up, so she removed them and tucked them carefully into the top of
her boot.
“Ah. Happens to the best of us.”
“What if she really had been pregnant? What then?”
“But she wasn’t, was she?” she replied, surprising herself with the
confidence in her voice.
“No, but... truthfully, I do care about her. She is a wonderful woman
and has been a great friend. I can’t hurt her...” He drew back a bit. “Would
be a lot easier if I’d just been able to feel for her what I feel for you.”
“Life isn’t always easy,” Hermione remarked idly, hand stroking the
side of his face. He’d finally shaved, but the texture of his cheek and chin
was still a tiny bit abrasive and she loved it. “Shame that men always want
what they can’t have.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “What, does this mean I can’t have
you?”
“Not me and her at the same time. According to your best friend’s
wife, I’m one of the most selfish witches who ever drew breath... do you
really think I plan on sharing you?”
“Won’t have to,” he growled, pushing her against the railing again,
voice breaking as he slid Ginny’s emerald pins from her hair. “And Merlin
only knows how tired I am of waiting in the queue for you...”
The pins clattered to the floor of the roof balcony, and soon Hermione
found herself wondering where this would all end. Five minutes after his
last comment she vaguely realized through the mush her brain had become
that she was becoming extremely disheveled... and somehow she had to
stop this no matter how much she didn’t want to, because although he was
keeping his kisses and caresses deliberately tender, there was certainly no
sign of stopping from his end.
Oh, this is bad, Hermione. Really bad for you.
You know, so are chocolate éclairs. But let me tell you something.
Both sure in hell taste good.
No, dear, I’m talking about your integrity. What you are doing right
now is no better than what your ex-husband did to you. Worse, it makes
you seem like a hypocrite of the worst sort...
Damn it, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve felt like this?
Hello, can’t hear you... no response? Didn’t think so, and you know why?
Because I’ve never in my life felt like this before!
Sigh. Yes, you have. If you dust out the corners of your memory, you’ll
find that you have. Much as you don’t want to acknowledge it, something
obviously did happen between the two of you in Avalon. And only
remember what came of it...
How can I remember? It was so many years ago, and thanks to a
certain memory charm, I don’t remember anything clearly about it all!
How do I know it ever really happened or what it was like? I don’t even
remember ever visiting Avalon... all I have is right here, right now...
And whose fault is that, Hermione? Did you memory-charm yourself?
Don’t be a fool! This wizard is full of empty promises and broken dreams.
He can’t offer the sort of love you’re searching for, not really. Love for
mankind in the abstract, certainly. Love for his friends? Sure, he’d lay
down his life for any number of people. But love for a woman? Don’t think
so. Do you really want to do this when you know what the outcome will
be?
Why can’t you just go away and leave me alone?
I thought we’d gone over this. Because I am you. Tell him he has to
break his engagement before you can be alone together again.
Well, he says he’s going to do it...
Right now all he’s thinking about doing is you, dear. You know exactly
what he’s feeling like right now. You’ve got to be the voice of reason here.
Now, push him away...
Hermione did so, breaking their kisses and caresses and ending up a
good four feet away from the railing. Feeling utterly dizzy and
lightheaded... she wasn’t going to faint, was she? When she got her
bearings and her wits about her she found it impossible to speak.
“What is it?” Harry asked, voice still rough around the edges.
Tell him, Hermione, and tell him now.
She finally gave up her brave attempt to stand up straight and sat
down on the bench where her wand was resting. “This is all wrong, Harry.
You have to go back to her... it’s just not fair, and you know it isn’t.”
He sat down on the bench too, facing the opposite direction, leaving a
few feet of much-needed distance between them.
“You’re right, it isn’t fair. I’ll go and tell her now...”
But now it was Hermione’s turn to lean in for another long kiss. Even
though she fancied she could hear her conscience groan, she felt herself
being lifted from the bench and settled upon his lap. She clutched at the
collar of his shirt, finding that her fingers had a life of their own as they
tugged at the buttons there. One of his hands seemed to sear through the
fabric at her hip, and the other lifted the hem of her robes, slipped a hand
into her boot-top to retrieve his glasses, then caressed the soft skin that his
fingertips found there, slowly sliding upwards...
You have absolutely no willpower; I’m embarrassed.
I do have willpower. Remember, I had enough willpower to ignore my
feelings and leave three years ago. And I’ll leave again if necessary.
Ah, good point. You are leaving. Have you even told him about Brazil?
Instantly, Hermione broke their kiss and opened her eyes fully.
“Harry, I think you ought to go back to Diana.” She moved to sit back
down on the bench, startled by how chilly it was in comparison to his
warmth. “Don’t change the plans you’ve been making for nearly a year
because of a single day. Remember, I certainly didn’t change my plans to
go away because of you.” No matter how heartwrenching it was to leave
that morning, she thought but did not say.
“Do you really think it’s that simple?”
“Yes, but it seems that you’d rather make it harder than it has to be.
I had no intentions of coming back to the wizarding world when Dean and
Seamus’ dads ran into me... I’m home on sabbatical, but I’m off to South
America soon. You have your life you’re building here and on Ayr, and
I’ve got mine too.”
“Yeah, so I hear. Older bloke by the name of Jack... I saw him when
I was searching, but of course due to Fidelius I couldn’t find you.”
Hermione couldn’t bear to look at him. “Harry, I am not in love with
Jack. Jack was a colleague and a friend and someone who I am not even
really seeing anymore.” She sighed. “I don’t think I ought to be involved
with anyone right now. I’ve got a lot of things I need to deal with, and
I can’t deal with them properly if my head isn’t clear. On the other hand,
you have Diana...”
“It’s not Diana that I want,” he said. “I thought we’d established this.”
“Yes, and had Seamus and Dean’s fathers not seen me yesterday, you
would still want her. Don’t do that to the poor girl, Harry. She deserves
someone like you. I don’t.”
“Hermione...”
“Harry, think about what you really want. You want marriage and
babies and a settled life. I see all that as a trap. I don’t want to marry ever
again, I can’t have children anymore and don’t think I’d ever want any, and
my research interests are taking me around the globe. We’ve grown to want
different things, and that’s quite all right. We’ll always have our friendship,
and we’ll always care about one another...”
“‘Grown to want different things?’” repeated Harry incredulously.
“Hermione, I don’t think you know what the hell you want. You say you
don’t want to marry again, but I see the way you look whenever one of the
other witches is showing off her ring to the others. You say you dislike
children and would make a poor mother and yet you’re a child magnet.
Whenever I see you with them I remember the girl you once were. You
claim that you want to globetrot, and yet you’re in your element when
you’re here in your place amongst us...”
“Nice try, but you can’t convince me of that,” she replied. “I can just
see us together, Harry, and you know what? In the beginning, it’d be
exciting... first flush of passion and all that. But after a while, we would
grow apart just like Ron and I did. I’d feel like I was trapped in the cage
I’d just escaped, I know I would. You’d grow to resent me and I’d end up
hating you and I’ll be damned if I ever go through that again!” She buried
her face in her hands.
“Don’t you believe in soulmates?”
“I used to,” she murmured, wiping her eyes. “I was young and foolish.
But I see now that I can’t let us repeat the same mistakes over and over
again.”
She stood up.
“I’m leaving, Harry. You won’t have to worry about Fidelius, because
obviously it wasn’t enough. Please don’t bother searching for me this time
because if and when you find me I will leave you again. You don’t need
someone like me... not after what you’ve endured your whole life long.
You need Diana.”
“Hermione, wait...”
She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek one last time. “Good
luck, my dear friend. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
He covered her hand with his. “You are my happiness, Hermione.
Why can’t you understand that? Please don’t leave me.”
“I have to,” she said sadly. “Before things get messed up again. Good-
bye, Harry.”
With that, she walked back into the ballroom. And she knew that he
wouldn’t make a spectacle by attempting to stop her from going, knew that
it wasn’t his way or her way. They’d always automatically done things for
the greater good, personal wishes notwithstanding. Long ago such had
been expected of them, and in the flower of their youth they had indeed
lived up to the expectations of the world.
Now they were no longer quite as young, and certainly not quite as
innocent and naïve about the way things had to be. And though their world
was not in the habit of readily forgiving the shortcomings of their heroes
and heroines, perhaps somewhere someone human can understand that
perfection expected day in and day out from the first breath the chosen take
at birth until they close their eyes in that last great sleep always takes its
toll on those who live their lives in the spotlight.
There were not many mighty who walked amongst the men and
women of that wizarding world, and those who were unfortunate enough to
be designated as such died a tiny bit each day, chiseled by the impossible
expectations that were heaped upon their shoulders by those whom they
were meant to save.
Yet one thing survived that September night, the only thing that can
save heroes from being crushed under the weight of the world on their
shoulders, indeed, the only thing that can save anyone at all...
Love, unconditional and pure.
Love, ageless and evergreen.
A/N: Shipmates, I hope you’re satisfied. Sheesh. ;-) BTW,
Merry Christmas.
Next time, a new point of view... as Hermione travels to her
new life in Brazil, we’ll spend a chapter or so walking about in
Harry’s shoes. We’ll find out what he’s been up to over the past
three years, get updated on the changes at Black & Potter, the
Dumbledore School, and learn more about the goddess-girl Diana.
You’ll find what’s been going on in Mr. Potter’s head and in his
heart. We’ll also find more out about Ron and Maureen, and how
they’re faring. You’re in for quite a few surprises... and then after
that, we’re off to Brazil at long last. ;-)
SOURCES: Only one bit in the entire chapter is borrowed:
when I asked for a story for Diana to tell the children, the awesome
Pippin selected this excerpt from the Princess Badoura A tale of the
Arabian Nights retold by Laurence Housman...”abridged and
slightly bowdlerised”. Everything else is either the fault of the
author or due to my fab beta team’s suggestions. And thanks is also
due to my mother, who when I asked what color silence was took
the question seriously, cocked her head, thought a moment and said
“black”.
Author’s soundtrack for this section includes: “Emotion”
(Destiny’s Child – original by the fab Bee Gees), “I’ll Never Fall In
Love Again” (Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello – original by
Bacharach and Dionne Warwick), “Soon As I Get Home”
(Stephanie Mills, from The Wiz soundtrack), “As” (Stevie Wonder),
“Sun and Moon” (Miss Saigon London cast soundtrack), “All My
Life” (K-Ci and Jo-Jo), “Hero” (Enrique Iglesias), and “A Whole
New World” (Motion Picture Soundtrack, Aladdin – I’m just on a
Lea Salonga kick lately!).
Special thanks to Chapter 3 beta readers: Pippin (huggles for
the Memory Charm save and everything!), John (I am fluent in
Elvish, thank you very much! :-D), Carole (not an emerald in sight,
dear!), Jana (no, that little voice in Hermione’s head is not Inner
Shipper! LOL!), Heidi (we’ll have Snape send you a potion to
make you feel better, hon), Ashley (“Crystalline Pedale”? Inside
joke...”it’s a pumpkin pie thing, no one else would understand”!),
Michelle (glad you liked the ending, dear), and Catherine (thanks
for the Britpicking! Nice to have a Londoner on board... I miss it
there so much!).
And thanks to all of you for your support, whether via e-mail,
IM, FictionAlley Schnoogle review, or HP_Paradise Yahoogroup
post. Special thanks to Schnoogle reviewers of Chapter 2,
“Disappearing Acts”: John, Keith Fraser, daytripper, Ashley,
Athene, Unholy Deity, Code Name Leigh, Tess, Caitlin Allyana,
METMA Mandy, Thieving Magpie, The Elder Wyrm, Mim,
houxrouge, Dixie Malfoy, Leyo, Love Gordon, The Real
Undercover Angel, QuidditchQueen8, Tiffany, Danie, MisakoAkki,
FirenzieFrenzy, Sarah, ParvatiB, Gemini C, DracoDomina, Britz,
pilar55, Angel of Music, halo and wings, Quill AKA Charlie,
EllenV, Al, Lucky, Becca the Evil, bcwizard, Jocetta, Angela
Burgess, saturne, Ayla, Jen, Kat, Honeyduke, and Nafessa.
I appreciate your continued support... it means a lot to me.
... this is the wonder that’s keeping the

stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my
heart)
– e.e. cummings
Thursday, September 20, 2012.
T
Morning, Ayr Island.
he man known as Harry Potter awoke slowly, feeling more than a
bit disoriented. This might have been due to the fact that his initial
fumblings revealed that his glasses were no longer on his
nightstand. It also might have been due to the fact that he had a splitting
headache...
I can’t be hung over, I have to teach a ten o’clock class today. How
much did I have to drink last night, anyhow?
Too much, his head seemed to tell him. He sat up slowly. Diana had
opened up the shutters as per usual, and the early morning sunlight hit his
near-sighted eyes, rendering him momentarily blind.
“Ow!” he mumbled. His mouth felt as if he’d swallowed a lot of
cotton. He tried to wet his mouth and lips until he realized that he was
nearly all dried out. A glass of water was what he needed.
With a snap of his fingers, a bit of pointing, and then a sharp beckon,
the glass pitcher on Diana’s dresser at the far side of the bedroom poured a
bit of water into one of the glasses. But as he Summoned it back to him, his
concentration slipped and the glass shattered into a million tiny pieces on
the hardwood floor.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he said, annoyed. The noise was the last thing he
needed.
Diana came racing into the room, silk robe fluttering behind her, wand
drawn with its tip dripping with something that looked a little like
uncooked egg. “Oh no, honey, what’s wrong?”
Harry groaned at his clumsiness and her shrill, panicky tone, then
moved his outstretched hand upwards. The shards hovered in midair. When
he curled his fingers inward and mouthed Reparo, the shards came together
in the shape of the glass.
“Honey?” Diana asked again.
“I seem to have missed a spot... do you see that chink near the
bottom?”
“Yes... there it is, I think it’s rolled under the bed. I can see it glinting
at the edge of the spread... hold on...”
Diana used her wand to move the chip of glass back into position,
where it welded back into place. She plucked it from midair and returned it
to the pitcher tray, then moved to sit beside him on the bed.
“You look a bit out of it,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. “I told
you to quit while you were ahead last night... you had a bit too much of
that port, didn’t you?”
“It was a fine bottle,” Harry replied, pecking her cheek and then
drawing back. “Malfoy’s always got great vintages. Only the best.”
“I like him,” said Diana decidedly. “He’s quite a wizard... handsome
and rich and confident. I would say that Virginia’s one lucky witch...”
“Should I be jealous?”
She giggled airily and threw her arms around him. “You’ve got
nothing to be jealous of, Harry. Let me finish... I would say that Virginia’s
one lucky witch if I didn’t have someone better.”
“Ah, I see...” He drew her closer. “I suppose you’ve begun to make up
for preaching the gospel of Malfoy to me...”
“I made it up to you last night, silly, or are you still so hung over that
you don’t remember?” Diana smiled knowingly. “Mmm. You were
absolutely incredible... you haven’t been like that in ages.”
Harry yawned, even though the very muscles in his face protested.
“Must have been the magic port, you think?”
“Must have been. Perhaps the Malfoys will give us another bottle as a
wedding present?” She leaned up to kiss him again. “Then again, I daresay
it won’t be needed. Speaking of which, we really need to sit down together
one day soon and finalize our guest list. I invited your old friend Hermione
yesterday, so along with whatever guest she brings there’s another two
I haven’t counted...”
Harry froze for a moment. “You two got a chance to meet, then?”
“Oh, yes. I wish we could have had more of a chat, but there were so
many witches there and the tea really was for her. We took to each other
right away. I have no idea why some say she can be a little frosty at times,
because I didn’t see that at all. She seems like such a nice, kindhearted
witch... one who genuinely cares about people.”
“She is.”
“Strange how birthdays are... she seemed so happy at tea and at the
Weasley kids’ birthday bash, and yet by dinnertime she appeared to be...
I don’t know... melancholy. And then she became ill and feverish and had
to leave early. Did you get to speak with her before she left?”
Suddenly Harry felt very, very uncomfortable. “For a bit, yes.”
Diana leaned her golden head against his collarbone and swung her
feet up to the bed, spooning her slender frame against his only slightly
larger one. “Harry, is there something more about her that you want to tell
me?”
“Sorry, what did you have in mind?”
“Well, you were gone from the party for quite a while last night.
Hermione was missing during the same stretch of time. I assumed that the
two of you were talking, but no one seemed to know where you were. And
then when you finally showed back up, you wanted to come home
immediately. I confess that I did find it all a bit... unlike you, although
I trust you far more than I trust what idle tongues have to say.” The last bit
came out in a breathless rush.
“What was said?” asked Harry abruptly.
“Harry, don’t worry about it. Some people don’t understand the
meaning of platonic friendship...”
“What was said?”
“Well...”
“Go on.”
“Apparently many people think that you and Hermione have had a bit
of a history. They say it’s common knowledge that she’s the reason why
you never married and were not very serious about anyone before me.”
“Diana, you can’t believe everything you hear.” He sighed. “If you
have questions about me and Hermione, I’m the person to ask if you want
the truth.”
She laughed a little to herself. “Are you sure? I mean, I feel so silly
asking when at this point in our relationship I should be secure enough
to...”
“Ask away.”
“Oh. Well, all right.” She paused. “Were the two of you ever... well,
more than friends?”
“No...” Harry paused. He knew he was telling a half-truth at best, so
he corrected himself. “Not technically.”
Diana stiffened in his arms. “Technically? What is that supposed to
mean? Or do I really want to know? Actually, I think that I just might.
Please explain what you mean.”
“To tell you that we’ve only ever been just friends would be
misleading, Diana. But so would telling you that we were ever more than
that.”
“Ah, I see. You’ve slept with her.”
Silence.
“So you have. While she was married to Ron?”
“No, no! Never then.”
“Then when? Ten years ago? Three years ago? Night before last, when
you left the Thomases’ house without a word to me?”
Pause. “Immediately before her engagement, and right after they filed
for divorce. Never when I was dating someone seriously. And not since
I met you.”
“Twice. That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“Any particular reason why you haven’t mentioned her in this light
before? I thought we were way beyond the ‘talk about your past lovers’
phase, Harry.’”
“Well, Hermione never really fit into that category. Both times that we
were together she was recovering from something Ron-related, and she
turned to me. One thing led to another and... I suppose you could call it
friendship with side benefits. It’s not like we went from there headfirst into
some mad passionate love affair. Both times it was something we both
needed and wanted, and afterwards we went on with our lives...”
“No, Harry. Don’t lie to me or yourself. You did not go on with your
life. She left right after the last time you were together, didn’t she? And
you nearly went mad. I remember what you were like when I first came to
work at DSG. Oh, heavens, that’s it, everything makes perfect sense
now...” Diana sat bolt upright. “You were in love with that woman, Harry,
and now she’s back and...”
“She isn’t back,” said Harry flatly. “She’s off to South America.
Apparently she’s got some hotshot job down there. Nothing left in England
for her.”
“And just how does that make you feel?”
“It doesn’t make me feel like anything, Diana! Why should what she
does matter to me? Why did you have to bring this up in the first place?”
“Because you’re supposed to be my husband in a few short months!
I can’t believe I could have been so stupid... so blind...” She buried her
face in her hands and began to cry. “Maureen was right, so right... she told
me not to trust Hermione, not to believe everything everyone always said
about her...”
“Maureen? Is that whom you’ve been listening to?” Harry pushed the
bedclothes from his waist, swung his legs over the bed, and pulled her
close. “Diana, Ron’s wife has her own reasons for disliking Hermione. I’m
sure you can figure that out for yourself. Don’t let her issues become
yours... certainly I will not allow them to become ours.”
He let her cry her eyes out, making a mental note to send a strongly
worded owl to a certain house in the Liverpool area before the day was
done. They sat there for long moments; she with her tears and newborn
doubts, he with his headache and gnawing sense of guilt.
And then a pungent smell assaulted their nostrils.
Diana sprang to her feet and raced out of the bedroom. “Oh, Harry,
I’m so sorry! I was making breakfast, and then I heard the crash... and
I forgot the eggs...”
Guilt has made many a man do strange things. That morning before he
was off to work Harry ate burnt eggs and ham without protest. The draught
Diana had prepared to alleviate the affects of his hangover was mixed into
his coffee... she was far better at Potions than he had ever been, and both of
them knew it. It was far from the worst meal he’d ever eaten.
They both had to get to DSG soon... he had that ten o’clock class, and
there was a lunchtime teachers’ meeting right before their respective noon
classes. Afterwards there was prep for the next day’s lessons and an
evening debriefing down at the Foundation.
“Thanks for being so sweet,” he said, kissing the silky spot behind her
ear as she kneaded dough for pie crust. She usually prepared their evening
meals in the mornings before they headed to the other end of the island,
charming them to cook slowly throughout the day so that by the time they
arrived home hungry and tired, the entire woodcutter’s cottage was filled
with good cooking smells.
Yet as he closed the door and headed away from the cottage on the
edge of the woods, Harry knew one thing.
He would have traded the aroma of a thousand hearty meals for just
the faintest whiff of sweet vanilla and roses once again.
~~~
From beyond the thick foliage just behind the little cottage in the
forest, the shadow-creature watched the Accursed One skulk away towards
the morning light of the midland meadows. It bared spiky teeth in a silent
hiss of hate. To strike a deathblow towards one of Darkness’ greatest
enemies was its uppermost desire.
Nevertheless, the thing knew that it wasn’t yet strong enough. The one
who had Summoned it was not yet Grand Inquisitor... all the powers of hell
were not yet at the creature’s disposal. Then too, the Accursed One was
strong, perhaps one of the most formidable wizards that the Light had ever
seen. He’d been protected since long before his birth, and some residual
bits of that shield remained long into his adulthood. Otherwise, he would
have been dead long ago.
So the shadow-creature could do little more than watch the Accursed
go, go on to his infernal monkey training ground where he taught the filth
of the earth to do magic tricks that were supposed to keep it and its kind at
bay. As if anything devised by the Light could keep the Darkness from
enveloping the earth like a foul fog from the depths of Tartarus.
Tartarus. It was the world of the shadow-creature’s birth, and insofar
as it was able to feel affection, it held that foul land in its putrid heart. Yet
Tartarus hadn’t always been so foul, and neither had its creature.
In the nebulous time before the Golden Age, when immortals walked
all the Thousand Worlds, yet cherished the newborn emerald and sapphire
Earth above all others, when mortals lived for so long that marking Time
was much less important, Tartarus had been the fairest of the worlds. It had
been known by another name then, and so had the shadow-creature.
Back then Tartarus had been a lovely world of mountains and
waterfalls, of babbling brooks and shimmering seas, of talking birch and
linden trees, a place that seemed to be forever in the middle of September...
even as its sibling world of Avalon seemed to recall forever the month of
May. Yet just as Avalon boasted fully laden apple orchards even in the
fragrant perfume of spring, in the Tartarus-that-was blossoms floated down
from some of the trees and roses bloomed in what seemed to be autumn.
In time, the fairest and most powerful of the Old Ones – magic folk
who’d tasted the nectar of the gods via one means or the other and had won
immortality – had grown discontented with her sisters and brothers. She no
longer wished to be their equal. She wanted to rule both them and the
Source from which all magic and everything that was good and just and
true came forth. And thus evil came into the world.
With hex and curse and sword and poison, with subterfuge and deceit
and treachery, this immortal witch befouled the innocence of the Golden
Age. It was only through a magical alliance of the other Old Ones led by
the Inanna that she was thwarted at last. The first Alliance enchanted a
stone table carved not by human hands so that it turned into purest gold,
tapped into the wellspring of the Source, and after many great and mighty
battles cast the usurper down and restrained her to her home world... what
became Tartarus.
It had long been known to both the magical and Muggle worlds that
good is contagious. Evil corrupts all that it touches as well. Confined to her
home world, denied her ultimate goal of every creature in all the Thousand
Worlds paying her homage, the Dark One – as she would be known
forevermore, for her original name had been lost among the ages as surely
as any intrinsic goodness and purity she might have had – succeeded in
remaking Tartarus in the image of herself.
Since then, she had worked through the minds of other mages, not
content with the measure of power and the lifework given to every man,
woman and child by the Source, seeking more, wanting more, and then
finally lusting after more. Over impossibly wide dimensions of time and
space she reached, infecting the hearts of men and women with her poison
and making them do unspeakable things...
Until the worm known as Tom Marvolo Riddle – Lord Voldemort, if
such a one from such a weak and unenlightened age could ever be called
“lord” save in jest – descended upon Tartarus and began liberating the Dark
One from her bondage.
If only he had succeeded...
And yet he had not. The Accursed One, strengthened by a new
Covenant, had interrupted Voldemort’s most noble work and killed him. He
and his companions had also frozen all of Tartarus. The shadow-creature
hissed again. Although a decade of Earth years was nothing to it, the fact
that three piss-ants could have wielded such power against the Darkness
was infuriating.
The last Covenant had not been like those before it. Such were the
strange times that Earthlings dwelled in, where men and women were not
true to their word and elders were so foolish as to bind together a girl with
two that loved her. It was a blunder that would cost the Light Tartarus...
and now, the shadow-creature’s world was festering with more infernal
activity than ever. It had been hell fourteen years before. It was far beyond
that now.
So when Sebastian Borgin had flouted his Grand Inquisitor’s authority
to summon the shadow-creature to kill what he called “the Pigeon”, it had
immediately gone to the abyss to seek the advice of the Dark One. Only
she was its lady, and only upon her words would it obey the summons.
“Go, my pet,” the Dark One had said. “Watch until I give you the
signal. Only do not kill her just yet. I have had my eye on this Hermione
for quite some time. She is the daughter of all that I hate... blood of one of
my rivals, apprenticed for a time to another.
“Yet there is darkness in her, bubbling, building... festering. As a child
she belonged fully to the Light. As a woman there is much that has
changed within her. Her time here in my lands changed her as much as it
changed her companions... one can no more taste my Darkness without
being seduced by it than a garment of fine white linen can spare being
soiled by a dip in the mud. She has always been proud, oh yes, quite
proud... and now that resentment has set in, I can twist it for my purposes
as well. Twist it before she realizes that...”
“Realizes what, my lady?” the creature had asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. She shall never realize it before she is fully
in the palm of my hand. Once there I shall make her my puppet until I tire
of her as I have of all the others...” Here she’d trailed off. The shadow-
creature tried not to think the treacherous thoughts that were running
through its head, that all of her other incarnations had been defeated by the
Light. The Dark One had never actually tired of them.
“Perhaps she can liberate you, my lady,” the creature ventured.
“Perhaps you can be free.”
“Silence! I am not bound! I am your High Queen! I rule the Thousand
Worlds from my throne far beneath the Crown World of Tartarus! I am the
authoress of death and destruction! I see all and know all! None in the
Thousand Worlds have escaped my power!” The brimstone made it hard to
see, but a shadow-creature needed no eyes for sight.
“And yet,” continued the Dark One in a calmer tone, “she does know
the way. This Hermione Granger will obey my summons, once I am ready
to call upon her. I shall tempt her with what her heart most desires and she
will not refuse me. Then she shall sit down here upon my throne, and
I shall walk the Thousand Worlds once more.”
The shadow-creature leered a final time at the prospect. Now its duty
was to track the progress of the woman whom it called ‘majesty’ in jest, as
its own lady would soon be looking at it through Hermione Granger’s
nondescript brown eyes.
And yet, there was something more awesome still about the woman
who’d drawn so much Dark attention, something that the shadow-creature
couldn’t help but notice on previous spyings.
She is the daughter of all that I hate... blood of my greatest rival,
apprenticed for a time to another...
Now, the shadow-creature knew that Hermione Granger was a filthy
Mudblood. Why its lady considered a mortal tooth-puller a rival was far
beyond it. But the shadow-creature knew full well whom Hermione had
been apprenticed to, and did not want to tangle with that particular witch
again.
The Accursed One was long gone. The creature could no longer sense
his vile presence. It knew that the one it sought was still in the
woodcutter’s cottage... it knew of the ways of men, and it had been
watching its target with the Accursed One the night before on the roof
garden. It had been Summoned by Sebastian Borgin at that time... and very
well, as it couldn’t spy as easily with the Accursed One about.
So it slipped closer to the cottage windows, staying securely amongst
the darkest of the dappled shadows thrown by the leaves above, fully
expecting to see her asleep when it found the bedroom. It knew her
patterns by now, knew she’d not slept much since she’d been back on
English soil.
Its spyings had also been interrupted the night before, twice. The first
was when it noticed the man with the gun. Before it could react – it did not
want to tell its lady that Hermione Granger was dead – another man
appeared out of nowhere. After a brief struggle, danger seemed to have
been averted.
The shadow-creature had waited around for a bit, and indeed, saw
Hermione as she flew away the next morning after noticing something was
amiss in the garden. Yet morning was fast approaching, and the shadows it
needed to move about in its weakened state were dissipating. It had
retreated.
It had also found her again in the Accursed One’s arms. It would
always find her there...
The shadow-creature froze. For presently there was the slamming of a
door, and a woman’s hum and whistle as she strode into the garden.
Blonde, tall, and very pretty as mortal women went, she was wearing an
apron, carrying a basket and gardening stick, and was barefoot, presumably
searching for tomatoes... among which the shadow-creature stood.
She looked up and straight at it.
Unlike Hermione and the Accursed One, unlike every other mortal it
had ever encountered before...
She saw it.
Its foul appearance did little to frighten her. It should have. It had been
the size of a chicken when it had first been sent on its mission. By the time
Hermione left Georgia, it was the size of a large dog. Now it was larger
than a goat and nearly the size of a small pony.
There was no help for it. She would have to be killed. Pity, though...
with her shimmering golden hair, starry pale eyes, and sun-bronzed skin,
she appeared to be more godlike than many immortals he’d seen.
The shadow-creature reared and hissed. The woman did not even
flinch.
“I know what you are, Engli, demon of Tartarus, and I know why you
came,” said the woman... no, witch. And a powerful one, that was for
certain. One who understood well the Old Ways that so many newfangled
modern magical young folks had either forgotten or never bothered to
learn... one who was powerful enough to draw its very name from the
hexes of protection that surrounded the little cottage and bind it to the spot.
“Begone from this place.”
“Not until I kill you first, mortal,” the shadow-creature replied. The
hex was strong, but even so, it reared against enchantment. “Mayhap I’ll
sport with you beforehand, you’re a comely enough wench.” It bared its
teeth again. “Have you ever had an incubus before?”
The woman stood her ground. The basket dropped from her hand. The
apron disappeared, and in its place she wore a long white robe that shone
as midday. She held what had appeared to be a gardening stick high above
her head.
A sudden wind seemed to catch her clothing. Her hair swirled around
her head. Eyes and skin and teeth appeared to glow as she pointed what
appeared less and less like a gardening stick and more and more as a staff
straight at the creature.
“Come no closer, Engli, demon of Tartarus. For I, Lenore Raven,
golden witch and Sabaean from humanity’s twilight do protect this abode
and the one whom you seek.”
“I do not seek your man, wench,” hissed the creature. “I seek...”
“I know exactly who and what you seek. Hermione Granger is not
here, and those who would harm her will draw my wrath and that of my
companions. Go back to your dwelling place of pestilence and death. Tell
the ones who you serve to turn away from their foolish course of action.
All the powers of the Light oppose you and your foul mistress!”
With that, the witch threw a bolt of golden light from the staff that was
so powerful it knocked the shadow-creature a few feet back. It countered
with a hiss, and the forest filled with foul black smoke that would have
killed any normal mortal.
Yet the golden witch stood her ground. Eyes still glowing. Hair still
swirling in a halo about her head.
“What are you?” screamed the creature.
“Now, I thought I’d properly introduced myself. I suppose not.”
Another bolt of the strange golden light brought the creature to its
knees. A final one made the very earth rumble. It cracked the moist black
soil of the garden, revealing a chasm nearly eight feet wide that the
creature teetered upon.
“You and your mistress wish to interfere with the Chosen of this time
for your own infernal purposes. Give the Dark One this message,” she said
in a voice that echoed throughout the forest, “my companions and I got
here first. Find your own victims.”
And with that, one final lightning bolt sent the creature screaming into
the dark depths below.
Less than five minutes later, all was nearly normal again. The forest
floor had resewn itself, fallen leaves appearing in the selfsame pattern.
Overhead, the birds refused to sing. There was not a breath of wind.
All was still.
The woman known as Diana Oliveira missed neither birdsong nor
breeze. She bent over her garden, barefoot and grubby, apron getting
smudged as she put some of the choicest tomatoes in her basket.
After all, it was just another day.
Saturday, September 22, 2012. Evening.

Ludlam summer cabin near Lake Muskoka, Ontario, Canada.
Ronald Weasley swung his legs over the side of the bed and yawned
again, reaching for a t-shirt on the floor. His fingers caught on material,
and he pulled the shirt on over his head. He stood up on wobbly long legs,
still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and after stepping into yesterday’s
jeans headed into the kitchen.
Hmm... no one. He cocked his head and listened to the eerie silence.
Ron began to think that either something was very wrong or he was still
very sleepy. Most likely the latter. After the children were fast asleep last
night, he and his wife had... well, suffice it to say that they hadn’t got very
much rest. Artie had just passed through his ‘can’t sleep unless I’m in
Mummy and Daddy’s bed cause the Dementors will get me’ phase. Much
as he loved fatherhood, Ron was very glad that his younger son was once
again sleeping in another room.
He heard the squeals as soon as he opened the sliding door on the
back. He stepped onto the deck, shielding his bright blue eyes from the
sun. At the far edge of their clearing, he could see his two small sons just
before they disappeared into the trees.
Ron looked down and saw the back of his wife’s head peeking over
the back of a soft WeathiChair (stands all forms of precipitation, inside and
out, and available at all Dob & Wink’s retail stores worldwide). He smiled
and stepped quietly from the deck to stand behind her. As he bent over to
nip at the side of her neck, she gasped softly, then giggled, raising a hand
to idly tangle in his red hair.
“Ah, Raul, you mustn’t be here! My husband will awaken any second
and catch us,” Mo said in a mock-seductive voice. Ron chuckled against
the sun-warmed skin of her neck.
“Ay, mi querida,” he returned, putting on a fake Spanish accent.
“I shall never be caught by your bumbling husband any more than my wife
will catch me leaving for work early.”
Mo giggled girlishly and Ron circled around the chair to smile down
at her. An outside observer might have thought their little game
inappropriate – especially considering their colorful past together – but
Ron and Mo were amused by their antics. They no longer cared much
about what others thought.
Ron picked up his wife, sat down in the chair and pulled her to sit on
his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder, angling for a view to watch the
kids as they played with their toy broomsticks.
“So what is it that you wanted to talk to me about last night, babe?”
she murmured. In the distance, they could hear the shrieks of their sons
playing hide-and-go-seek amongst the emerald foliage of the fir trees.
Ron hesitated a bit. The parchment was in his jeans pocket, which
made it unavailable at the moment. He knew already how his wife would
react when she read it, and he knew that her reaction would cycle through
three distinct phases.
First, there would be the utter shock that Harry would have the stones
to write what he’d written. Then there would be the firestorm, the
maelstrom of rage over the owl’s content. Finally there would be calm, but
with a lingering resentment. He’d had no idea that Maureen, as nonchalant
as she seemed, could let a grudge eat at her like a chizpurfle snacks on
wand cores...
“I got an owl from Harry last night,” Ron said at last.
“And?”
Ron took a deep breath. “It seems he wants us to stop interfering in his
relationship with Diana.”
Immediately the storm burst forth. “Come again? We’re interfering in
his what with Diana? That’s rich. That really is. And does the great
Mr. Potter say how exactly we’re supposed to be doing that?”
“He says,” Ron stopped and wrinkled his freckled nose. He had half a
mind to dig the letter out from under Mo’s bottom which would doubtless
lead to a lot of activity which would be far more enjoyable than letter
reading. But no, he wasn’t going to start keeping things to himself. Not in
this marriage.
“He says, and I quote, ‘You are to make it clear to your wife that
I won’t tolerate her telling Diana any more lies about Hermione.’”
Maureen’s mouth went into a round ‘o’ of astonishment. That figured.
And then she laughed, throwing her head back, her bright eyes glittering,
which startled Ron no end.
“Lies about Hermione?” she snorted. “He ought to thank his lucky
stars I haven’t told Diana the truth about Hermione! Hmph. Maybe
I should.”
“The truth?” Ron echoed. “What’s that’s supposed to mean? You
haven’t actually been lying about Hermione, have you?”
“Only by omission,” said Mo, sweetly, with a wicked grin.
“I don’t get it,” said Ron. “What are you talking about, gypsy girl?”
“Oh, nothing. Let’s get the kids and go flying or something. Better use
of our time than talking about that stinking cauldron of rotten fish.” She
started to get up. He pulled her back down.
“Don’t change the subject!” He didn’t understand this. There was no
longer any storm in Mo’s eyes, only a silvery glitter, as if she were still
laughing.
“Well, you remember Hermione’s birthday party the other day... the
one that was supposed to be an engagement party for Harry and Diana until
Miss High and Migh-onee showed up?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Well, all that food didn’t agree with this little one,” she said, patting
her rounded abdomen. “I was feeling a little queasy, so I thought I’d slip
off to the roof garden for a moment and get some air. But what I got was an
eyeful!”
“Eye full of what?”
“Your ex and that hypocrite you’ve got for a best friend. They were,
how shall I put it, ‘reliving their past.’”
Ron’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“I’m not.”
It was his turn to be flabbergasted. “Well that... that just takes the
cake, that does.”
“With strawberry icing.”
“And he has the nerve to tell us to stay out of his affairs... he’d better
be thankful I’m not in Liverpool as he thought. I’ve a good mind to look
him up and punch him in his famous nose.”
“Perhaps I should write a letter to Diana?” Now everything made
sense to Ron. His wife wasn’t brooding over how to avenge herself. She’d
already thought of a way.
“No... it’s my fight. Promise me you’ll stay out of it. Diana’s a big
girl. She wouldn’t thank us for interfering. Please?”
“Well, then,” Mo said, placing her tongue in the corner of her mouth.
“Since you’re begging me, Raul...”
“Your honor will not go unavenged, mi querida, I promise you,” Ron
said. He switched back to his normal voice. “As soon as our holiday’s over,
a certain green-eyed bastard’s going to get exactly what he deserves.”
One month later.

Friday, October 19, 2012. Early morning.
Ayr Island.
Harry never Apparated, flew, or Floo’d to work. The way from the
woodcutter’s cottage at the edge of the Farquar Forest to the manor house,
which served as the Dumbledore School, was far too pretty for that no
matter what the season on Ayr.
Like all the Portal Islands, no matter their latitude and longitude, Ayr’s
climate could be controlled by magic. Long ago, right after the end of the
Second Voldemort War and the subsequent Cleansing, the Order had
decided the march of seasons.
The snows began to melt on the highest elevation on the island,
Falcon’s Point to the north, around the first of February. By the end of that
month, after a last sugar snow, buds began to appear on the trees. Ayr
springs were long and glorious, lasting from early March until late June.
Then there were the warm halcyon days of summer, when at times it got
sweltering enough for a swim to be satisfying, but it never quite reached
more than thirty degrees Centigrade.
The air began to cool again around mid-August, and for the next three
months the foliage transformed chameleon-like from green to orange, red,
yellow, and then chocolate brown before falling to carpet the forest during
autumn, the season of bonfires. After that was winter and all of the
holidays associated it with it. They had their coldest season from
November until towards the end of February or so, depending upon when
they decided they were tired of the drifts of snow.
Visiting witches and wizards often remarked that Ayr Island was one
of the prettiest places in the wizarding world, bar none. Harry agreed with
them. Although not quite as lovely as Avalon, the world of apple orchards
and eternal spring, he loved his home of the past twelve years all the better
because of its ever-changing moods.
Originally he’d lived in the dormitories with the students, only coming
to the cottage when he wanted a little peace and quiet or if he was
entertaining company of the witchy kind. Then he began dating – first
Ginny, then Cho, and then the parade of others – and it just seemed to
make sense to have a place of his own and privacy. Enough of the interns
at both DSG and the Foundation lived in the dorms to be given a few extra
Galleons in their weekly sacks for serving as semi-prefects and dorm
parents.
Harry’s cottage was at the edge of the woods, but from his front door
one still had to walk through a mossy clearing and fifty yards of trees
before coming to Ayr’s midlands, the rolling meadows that ran for a few
miles until one reached the low point of the island and the rest of
civilization. This walk was usually very meditative for Harry, and pretty
decent exercise as well. Whatever demons and ghosts tormented him
during the night hours at home, whatever stresses and challenges he faced
at work, every morning and every evening he was the only person in the
world.
Sometimes in the mornings he’d run into one or more of his students
during the second half of his walk, or they’d accompany him all the way to
the Forest in the evenings. Whenever this happened, he’d welcome them.
“Hey there, Professor! I’ve been practicing Projection, and I think I’ve
finally got the hang of it... when we get to school, want to see?”
“Prof, you will never guess what happened last night! It was a little
past midnight, and Angus and I skulked down to the kitchens in search of
cookies and milk, when all of a sudden we saw...”
“Oh, did you know that Emmy and Daffy are an item now? And only a
month after Rhiannon broke things off with him... Rhiannon’s furious, I’m
sure... listen, d’you think I’ve got a chance with her? She’s fit!”
The kids were dreadfully informal with him, something that made the
other staff members frown at times. Since their mutual split of duties in
2009, Sirius had been the executive director of The Foundation and Harry
was Headmaster of the Dumbledore School for the Gifted. Sirius still
retained a seat on the school’s board of governors, and Harry sat on Black
and Potter’s board of directors, but they’d given each other a pretty wide
berth since the events of 2009.
“A headmaster cannot be so casual with his students, Harry,” Sirius
said during one of the very few conversations he’d had with him about the
matter. “You cannot discipline your friends, and yet that’s what you’ve
made these kids out to be.”
“You can’t rule by fear, either,” Harry said. “Dumbledore didn’t do
it... everyone liked and respected him. The only times I ever saw him angry
were during the war, never because of what some kid did. They’re
thousands of miles away from home, some of them. Others have got no
home. We’re all the parents they’ve got... surely you understand that.”
“Yes, but it isn’t appropriate for you to allow study groups to come
down to your cottage unchaperoned, especially when many of those who
ask are female. Harry, half the lasses on this island fancy you, and not all
of them are as honest and forthright as you are. We’ve been able to operate
here as we like, without Ministry or Confed interference. Yet only consider
what might occur if just one of those young witches goes to the press with
an invented tale...”
“I trust my students,” Harry had said. “If one even thought about such
a scheme, the others would hear – there’s no lack of telepathic kids around
here – and either we’d soon know or they’d take care of it.”
“You’re being hopelessly foolish.”
“Well, you see the bad in everyone,” Harry returned harshly. “Not
everyone has got the worst in mind, Sirius. I understand how easy it is to
lose perspective when you’re supervising operations below day in and day
out, but you’re developing full-blown Mad-Eye Moody syndrome. And the
only cure for that I know of is to spend time with these kids. Whenever
I do, for a time I forget all the suffering and evil and death I’ve seen. I’m
reminded of the good in the world, and of hope. You could do with a
reminder as well.”
After that, Sirius had said no more to him about the matter.
Over the next swell, Harry could see the manor and its outbuildings in
the distance, clean stone bathed in dawnlight. Usually at this point of the
walk, he’d stick to the eastern shore of the island, sometimes keeping to
the meadow past the stables, at other times walking on the beach. Today he
did both, walking in the place where grass mingled with sand and stone.
As he made his way past the stable, keeping his own counsel, he heard
a thump followed by a lot of coughing. The door of the stable opened, and
there emerged a youth who appeared to be in his late teens. His bearing
was surprisingly regal and confident for one so young, Harry thought.
“Good morning,” said the young man. Harry couldn’t quite place his
accent. It wasn’t British or Scots or Irish, neither American nor South
African nor Australian. Yet he spoke English with ease, as if it was his
native tongue. “You must be none other than the Professor, the great Harry
Potter.”
The sudden appearance of the youth didn’t startle Harry as much as it
should have. No one could get to the island without proper clearance
beforehand, and usually no one got through the stable passage without
Janet MacCulloch’s guidance. And sure enough, there was Janet’s kindly
face, emerging from the stable just behind the young man.
“Morning, Professor!” she said. “Allow me to introduce Zachary
Raupp, Hogwarts class of ‘12 and our newest DSG intern. He’ll be
working in Telesthetics with you and Professor Oliveira, as per the memo
from last week’s staff meeting. And Zachary, I’m sure you must recognize
our Headmaster, Professor Harry Potter.”
Harry shook Zachary’s extended hand firmly. The lad had a good grip
and a steady eye, and Harry instantly liked him.
“The pleasure is all mine,” said Zachary politely. “Please call me
Zach, everyone does. You know, I was tickled when I got the owl... I knew
Professor Weasley said he’d put in a good word for me, but I never really
expected to get in, as I was not selected to attend DSG myself.”
“We’re no privileged elite here,” Harry said. “You transferred into
Hogwarts from Hatrack River at the end of your sixth year, right? Well,
Percy Weasley’s told me all about your budding gift for Empathy. As I’m
teaching the Telepathy courses and Di’s doing Telekinetics, you’ll have
your own niche here. We also expect to have a special guest here to help
during your internship.”
“Oh!” Zach’s bright, large blue eyes lit up with excitement. “You
don’t mean to say that Dr. Granger... the Dr. Granger herself...”
Harry cut him off abruptly. “Most fortunately, Dr. Granger isn’t the
only hyperempath in our world. We’ve got a few board members who are
just as gifted. Dot Lightfoot will be coming later on in the term, and then
there’s another who if she can be persuaded to come, she’ll also be
welcome.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting Diana Oliveira,” said Zach.
“I’ve downloaded all of her articles in telesthetics to my Spider, and I have
quite a few questions I’d like to ask regarding Professor Oliveira’s work
in...”
Janet’s face was still pleasant. “I’m sure you’ll find all of the staff here
more than willing to aid your research and teaching, Zach, and your
training more than adequate,” she said. “Now, it’s only half past, and I’m
sure breakfast isn’t quite finished... shall we go up to the Hall and have a
bite?”
They did so, the sun bright and warm on the right sides of their faces,
the slightly chill breeze from the sea swirling about them. Zach peppered
the rest of the walk to the school with his curious questions about DSG and
environs, and Janet was the obliging hostess as always.
Harry remained quiet, however. Zach’s questions about Hermione and
Diana were like twin pinpricks. Knife gouges, rather. Over the past month
he’d managed to salve the wound that Hermione had caused by her abrupt
leavetaking by just ignoring it. Voicing her name only caused the ghosts to
return.
At first, he’d entertained wild thoughts of going after her. She’d
admitted to him that she wasn’t going to bother with Fidelius. As far as her
assertion that she’d leave if he found her again went... well, he knew he
could be very convincing when he put his mind to it. Her avid response to
his kisses on the balcony told him that she still had feelings for him. He
heard her thoughts, heard her internal war... and at one point, he’d thought
that he’d won... that he’d have her in his bed that very night, heartache and
history and engagements be damned.
Moments later, she was gone.
Harry knew that the only reason Hermione had left him this time was
because of Diana. He knew that in the moment of decision, she’d thought
of Ron and Mo, and how betrayed she’d felt by their affair. She had far too
much pride to ever become a Maureen Ludlam. Hermione would never
play second fiddle. Even his promise that he’d leave Diana and make
things right wasn’t enough.
Just as she turned away to leave him for the third time, he saw the
anguish in her eyes, and heard her last wistful thought:
I know I deserve this, but Harry, why couldn’t you have waited for
me?
One thing was for certain. When their paths crossed again, he
wouldn’t let her get away from him so easily.
Where that left his relationship with Diana is what had troubled him
for weeks. The second he saw Hermione in that Oxford dawn, he learned
how much he didn’t know about himself. He’d thought that if he ever saw
his old friend and flame again, he would angrily confront her about the
way she’d left. He thought that he would feel absolutely nothing... indeed,
would be relieved to be finally free of their unnatural bond.
Instead, on Hermione’s birthday he’d learned that what existed
between them was the most natural binding that could ever exist between
two people... secured with ties that could not be severed without causing
both of them pain.
Whenever he was with Diana, he felt as if he’d come alive again after
twelve long years of enchantment. Loving Diana Oliveira had been
relatively easy. Where Hermione was spirit and fire and dew, Diana for two
years had been spring water to quench those embers and sea breeze to dry
the rain. Hermione had known all of his vulnerabilities and had purposely
hurt him by disappearing. Diana had provided balm for that injury in her
own quiet way while only knowing the surface of who he really was.
Diana was almost too good to be true. Speaking in a strictly aesthetic
sense, she was perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
She was also patient, domestic, issue-free, and constant. Except for the
minor tiff after Hermione’s birthday party, they never argued, either. Diana
was sweet and fragrant and soft and had a great sense of humor...
And for all that, Diana still wasn’t his Hermione.
As they entered the courtyard of the manor house that served as both
classroom building and dormitory, Harry didn’t think twice about attaching
the possessive to her name. She was indeed his Hermione and always had
been. She’d been his Hermione at Hogwarts, even though both of them had
been oblivious to it.
She’d been his Hermione through a decade of Avalon dreams, and for
three glorious weeks on that blessed isle. She’d even been his Hermione
through two years of engagement and six years of marriage to their best
friend.
The time that they’d spent together last month had let him know that
she still was his Hermione. His. All his. His alone. Three years in the arms
of some old Muggle man hadn’t changed that.
She always would be his Hermione. The heart wanted what the heart
wanted, and her heart longed for him no matter what her head said to the
contrary. When next they met, he’d...
A small hand curved upon his shoulder. He looked down into Janet’s
face, still smiling yet concerned.
“Professor? Are you quite all right?”
Harry wondered how much Janet had heard. She was one of the most
gifted telepaths in all of Ayr. Then he inwardly shrugged. There was no
changing what had already been done. Besides, he trusted Janet. Even if
she had not been so gifted, she would have certainly known that something
was amiss.
He nodded. “Zach’s gone in?”
“Yeah, I tempted him with the breakfast menu. Good fare, just as
Nigel prepares whenever we have guests... fried eggs, bacon, sausages,
potatoes, fried bread, beans, sliced tomatoes, fried mushrooms... you get
the picture.”
In spite of himself, Harry’s stomach grumbled. Having a plate of what
sounded like very good food would perhaps fill the emptiness there... and
also help him avoid Diana, who’d left the cottage at the crack of dawn to
‘set up’ for the classes of the day. No more morning kisses or lovemaking
before work or breakfast in bed for a couple who were growing more and
more withdrawn by the day.
The fact that Harry hadn’t missed their time together that much made
him feel worst of all.
Same day, same hour.
Location and time zone indeterminate.
“Check the coordinates yet?”
“In a minute, in a minute.” Silence, then a melodic humming, much
like the vibrations of a tuning fork. “These things take time.”
“While we wait, any updates?” There was a slight pause. “Any news
from Logan and her team in South America?”
“None so far. Last we heard, they were scheduled to give a report once
they’d completed their operation and spirited the doctor away to Belem...”
“Did you relay my last orders? No drugs, no restraints...”
“Certainly. And in the last ansible transmission we received back
before they teleported into Manaus, Logan answered back in the
affirmative. They will rescue, yet not restrain. She’s bound to be frightened
out of her wits, Heath, by the Cabalistica tests alone. If she escapes...”
“Then it is of no concern to us just yet, as long as we continue to be
vigilant. Already we have effected much change... it is better for us if she is
alone when he finds her anyway. What of our young German friend who’s
flown the coop? Has he come into contact with the rogue bird yet?” The
last question was accompanied by a dangerous curling of the lips.
“Not so far as we can tell. There’s been no news out of Scotland. That
phase of the operation required much careful forgery, much of it via the
very primitive means available these days. How people can live this way is
far beyond me...”
“Enough of the comparative history lesson,” Heath replied. “It’s
certainly got a lot more going for it than where we came from. I mean,
when’s the last time you breathed without a respirator, or walked around
without covering less than ninety percent of your body mass? I don’t know
about you, but I’m having the time of my life here. Nothing like the last
few times around.”
“Agreed,” said Seal, who’d been quiet before. “This is the zenith of
human development. Might as well enjoy it... and if the coordinate run is
successful, we can celebrate with a dip at the beach of our choice before
riding off into the sunset.”
“Coordinate run complete,” said the woman who’d spoken earlier.
“Let me bring it up. Just a few seconds more.”
“So, Heath,” said the man who’d critiqued the living conditions
before. “Have I won my bet yet?”
The wide grin spread across Heath’s face. “That’s for me to know and
you not to find out, Dale,” he replied. “Since when have I broadcast my
conquests and the details of them for the world to know?”
“Since you fell head over heels for the target of our mission,” replied
the man called Dale. “Seriously, it’s great to see you all ga-ga over a babe
again. We thought you’d never recover after we got here and found out
what our rogue scout had pulled.”
“I don’t see the attraction,” said Seal. “I mean, she’s okay, but if you
took her with us, she wouldn’t be much to ansible to your mother about.
Most of the women here aren’t.”
“That’s because most of the women here aren’t made the way our
women are, just as most of the men aren’t made the way we were. If I had
my way, they’d never be made our way again. Are we any happier or better
off because of what we look like or what we can do?”
“Certainly not,” said the sole woman in their party, finalizing the
coordinate lock. “I find the men here oddly attractive as well... so
vulnerable, somehow. So I think I understand Heath, in a way.”
Seal shook his head. “No, I think what Heath sees in the doctor isn’t
just the novelty of a woman who’s different not only from ours, or from
most of the ones here. I think he sees someone else in her... someone who
hurt him badly... someone who betrayed us all. Therefore, I say that he just
may not be as infatuated with her as he wants us to believe.”
Heath’s iron gaze locked on Seal. He did not seem amused.
“Captain,” said the woman, “I’ve got it.”
They all raced over and stared at the numbers hanging in the air, little
pinpricks of light.
“Vick, that can’t be,” said Dale, as if his lower lip were numb.
Vick turned to the one in charge. “Heath, Captain, shall I run the
coordinates again?”
“No.”
“There could be something wrong with our instruments...”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“Something has to be wrong, Heath,” insisted Seal. “After everything
we’ve done... after all we’ve changed? Perhaps Logan failed...”
“Even if she did,” said Heath, “enough has been changed by all the
other agents put together to have changed this. And yet, this hasn’t. The
last coordinate set has been steadily pushed back until this month. Now
we’ve run them three times and they haven’t budged.”
He turned to Vick.
“Pull up the full report,” he said. “Yes, I know it’ll take the better part
of an hour. Even if the coordinates haven’t changed, perhaps other details
have. They must have.
“Seal, pick a light team – no more than three – and get to South
America. Try to contact Logan before you go, but if you can’t, make sure
to transmit to me every fifteen minutes until you’re back here.
“Dale, you come with me.”
Dale, like everyone else in the crew, was stunningly handsome. Where
Heath was dark and his younger brother who was just sent to Scotland was
fair, Dale had brunette good looks. Brown eyes and hair, windburned skin,
in the same superb physical condition as his boss.
“What are we going to do?”
“Until Vick brings up the report? Do some comparative history. I’ve
got to come up with another plan, fast, and you are going to help me.”
Dale nodded and walked ahead. Heath followed him, the numbers and
letters that he’d just seen slowly burning into his brain.
Lifeline Target: Hermione Granger
Birth Coordinates: 19-09-1980
Death Coordinates: 15-03-2013
Later that afternoon, back on Ayr.

The bell sounded loudly, jarring Harry out of silence. Normally his
students worked outside on the grounds or in his plushy classroom. Since
today he’d administered a rare written essay exam, he’d borrowed Penny
Linsenmayer’s Foundations classroom for the purpose.
His students shuffled for their parchment rolls and began to disperse
from the classroom, giggling and talking loudly. A boy with sandy hair
tripped over his too-long robes and would have gone sprawling across the
classroom floor, had it not been for a red haired lass who broke his fall
with a quickly conjured feather pillow. Instead, the boy’s books landed
with a small puff and feathers filled the air.
Harry stood from where he’d been sitting behind Penny’s desk,
containing a smile, and went to help the boy up.
“All right, Matthew?” Harry asked, brushing feathers off of Matthew’s
robes. Matthew sneezed and nearly dropped all of his books again.
“Yes, Professor. Ear infection’s got my balance off, s’all,” Matthew
said. He was from the States, somewhere in the South, and his accent was
very pronounced. A few of the other students had made fun of him at the
beginning of term, but those same students soon learned that it would be
impossible to poke fun at someone who was different: they were all so
diverse that it was futile. “Thank you, sir.” With that, Matthew quickly
scampered out of the classroom.
After a quick clean up of the feather incident, Harry walked back
down the corridor, leafing through the parchments he carried. It had been a
challenging test, and the students were beginning to show signs of struggle.
Some reteaching would have to be done before he could move forward...
“Professor?” a voice said quietly beside him. DSG Head Girl Celeste
Vasilova, a seventeen-year-old Muggleborn student and perennial staff
favorite, appeared next to him. Pyrokinesis, Antipathies, and Advanced
Offence Against the Dark Arts texts were clutched tightly to her chest.
She had dishwater blonde hair that fell to her shoulders in lovely curls
and light hazel eyes that seemed always to be sparkling with a warm smile.
Harry remembered a time when it hadn’t been so... when first year Celeste
had been deemed by her peers as the worst witch that DSG had ever seen.
That was before Lupin had taken her in hand over four years ago,
learned she wanted to study the magical sciences, and set up an internship
with Hermione. Celeste had spent the summer of her thirteenth birthday
living and working at the Paracelsus Institute. She’d had some minor
troubles since then, but after summer work at wizarding companies such as
Malfosoft and Higginbotham’s, she’d grown more confident and bore little
resemblance to the trembling, anxious little girl she’d once been.
“Yes, Celeste. Is there something I can help you with?” Harry said
pleasantly.
“Actually, it’s not me that needs the help. Just wanted to let you know
that there’s someone here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Professor Weasley, actually,” Celeste replied. “It was great to see
him, it’s been ages... he said he’d wait in your classroom.”
Harry inwardly groaned. He hadn’t talked to Ron in a month. The last
he heard, Ron was still in Canada with his family. Whatever he had to say
couldn’t be work-related, as Ron worked under Sirius at the Foundation.
After thanking Celeste, he walked into the classroom, invisible
haunches up, on guard. A part of his brain told him that this was Ron, that
he shouldn’t feel this way about the man who was the closest thing he had
to a brother.
Then again, brothers weren’t supposed to do to each other what he,
Harry, had done to Ron long ago. It had stood between them ever since his
bitter divorce from Hermione, perhaps even before then.
Harry wondered if the past would always stand between them.
“Hey there,” he said uncertainly, walking over to the window seat by
which Ron stood and dumping his parchments onto it. “I see you’ve made
it back from your holiday.”
“I see you haven’t taken one yet,” Ron returned. “How have things
been around here?”
“The same. How are Maureen and the boys?”
“Good, thanks. Perhaps even better if you wouldn’t send owls like the
one from last month. What was that all about?”
“You know very well what it was about,” Harry said sharply. “Or can’t
you read? Wife or not, I’m not going to have her filling Diana’s ears with
all sorts of tales...”
“‘Tales’? So nothing she said was true, was it? Or was Mo attempting
to save the poor girl from the fate of all the other women who have boldly
gone before her? Not Diana’s fault that she isn’t Hermione, is it?”
Harry glared at Ron, then walked away, calling over his shoulder,
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s wrong, Harry? Can’t handle the truth?”
He stopped in midstride and turned around. “Truth? From you and
Maureen Ludlam? Please, don’t make me laugh.”
“You can insult me all you want, Harry. But I stand behind my wife.
Despite what you might have thought, she did not tell Diana what she saw
the night of that party.”
Harry was furious. “And just what was that?”
When Ron told him, Harry reddened.
“So now that we’ve established that my wife really isn’t a liar, I’d like
to know what’s going on between you and Hermione.”
As if he had any right to ask! “Absolutely nothing,” said Harry a great
deal more calmly than he felt towards Ron at the moment.
“Now who’s the liar?”
Harry fought the urge to punch Ron. Fortunately, he was very
practiced at fighting that particular feeling. “Why, disappointed that we
finally haven’t succumbed to temptation and proven that you were right all
along about us... that we were shagging while you two were still married?
Is that what’s still bothering you? Well, we weren’t!”
“You might as well have done,” said Ron quietly. “I never had a
fighting chance with her because of you, Harry, and you know it. Don’t
you even feel the slightest bit sorry about what you did to me?”
Harry folded his arms. “I think that I’ve done more than enough
penance for it over the years, and I don’t expect you to ever understand.
Actions speak louder than words.”
“Yeah, you ought to know. What about when you asked Diana to
marry you? And every time you tell that girl you love her?”
“What can I say, old friend? I learned from the best liar I know,”
Harry shot back.
To Harry’s great surprise, Ron let out a deep breath and took the high
road.
“This is absolutely ridiculous and getting us positively nowhere,
Harry. I came here to make sure you weren’t going to mess up like I did
and end up hurting Hermione,” Ron said, crossing his arms and leaning
back against the window. “That’s all I care about.”
Harry opened his mouth to shoot back that Ron had beaten him to the
punch on that one, but realized that Ron had already humbled himself.
Humble... Ron? Harry’s eyebrows narrowed. What the hell did Ron think
he was playing at?
“I’ve messed up too many times and gotten her hurt too often to watch
you do it again! You’re not going to propose to one girl, snog another and
then get off telling me how to keep my own wife in line.”
Harry could not believe the hypocrisy coming out of what he thought
was once his best friend’s mouth. Ron must have anticipated this, because
he quickly added, “Do as I say, Harry, not as I do. Never as I do.”
Harry studied Ron for a moment before saying, “You know, it’s easier
to be infuriated with you when you’re not being philosophical and
humble.”
A broad, familiar grin broke out on Ron’s face. “Easier to hold a
grudge when you’re not being a daft git as usual. You know, I thought
you’d grow out of the clueless phase someday, Harry, but somehow I hold
less and less hope of that.”
Harry shook his head, frustrated. This was impossible. How could a
man hold a rational conversation with someone with emotions more varied
than a Gringotts’ cart ride?
“Any other advice?”
“Certainly. Make a choice, Harry, and stick with it. It’s not fair to have
both of them. I know I’m the last person who should probably be telling
you this, but it’s the truth and well you know it. Choose the woman you
want to spend the rest of your life with and just do it. Stop being so
indecisive, it doesn’t suit you.”
Ron raised his eyebrows, waiting for Harry’s reaction before he
continued.
“Actually, I’m fairly certain that you made your choice a long time
ago... you just don’t want to have to deal with the consequences, that’s all.”
He nodded, as if his own assessment of the situation pleased him a great
deal.
With this, Ron brushed past Harry and towards the door. At the last
moment, Ron turned around.
“Oh, and Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Can’t fault your taste, mate. When she kisses, does she still do that
little thing with her nose after she pulls away?” Harry took one look at
Ron, then turned towards the one piece of furniture in the classroom – a
built-in bookcase – to Summon his gigantic stone Ashwinder paperweight.
Before he could chuck it at Ron, there was a dry chortle, and a pop!...
and the doorway was empty.
Harry walked slowly towards the spot where his best friend had been
standing a moment earlier. The gulf that remained between them was still
wide, yet with each conversation over the past three years it had narrowed
a tiny bit. It had helped that neither of them ever mentioned Hermione
while she was gone, although her presence always lingered somehow...
He realized that it was perhaps the healthiest conversation he’d had
with Ron in years.
Voices, coming from the next classroom. Two of them. Male and
female, both rather young-sounding to be faculty, and yet only faculty
would be around the classroom corridor around now, as it was nearly time
for dinner.
“... seek me out after all this time?”
“You know why, Lenore. Heath is furious with you. He let you go,
only to arrive here and find that you had directly defied his orders. Now it
seems as if the coordinate shifter is jammed, and Seal says...”
Harry moved closer, eyes narrowing. He’d not forgotten one iota of
the September day he’d spent with Hermione. He remembered the names
Heath and Seal. Why his new telesthetics intern Zach would use those two
names in particular was a matter that interested Harry a great deal.
“Oh, snarks to whatever Seal has to say! He’s got no idea what it was
like when I arrived here year before last. The situation was nothing like we
anticipated... my very arrival changed things irreparably. Sirius Black
found me, and...”
“Spare me your lies, Lenore,” said Zach. “My brother won’t be so
kind when he gets his hands on you and learns what you haven’t done
here.”
Harry’s eyes were slits now. A glance through the cracked classroom
door confirmed the truth that his ears had heard.
“What I have been doing is carrying out the orders given me,” said
Diana (or was it really Lenore? Harry thought). “I have done just as much
for her as any of you have, Zach.”
“Excuse me, Lenore, but enlighten me. What have you done to help?
By wheedling your way into Black and Potter when you were told to
infiltrate the other organization? By somehow getting the twice-blessed
man to propose to you? How exactly did any of that help our cause?”
“Well, in all the reports, it seems that she is with him when she is
killed. And everyone at Black and Potter isn’t necessarily as virtuous as
their founders. So far I have only aided...”
“You have aided us in nothing. Yet you have caused much damage.
I left before the last coordinate run... I certainly hope that everything we’ve
sacrificed and wished for and hoped hasn’t been undone because of your
treachery.” He brushed past her. “And I wish my brother had never laid
eyes on you.”
Harry had already doubled back into his classroom, and now
pretended as if he was just coming out of it just in time to run into Zach.
“All right, Zachary?” he asked, keeping his voice light.
“Excellent. Just speaking with Professor Oliveira about her research,”
Zach replied. “I’ll have some dinner now and unpack... of course, your
lovely fiancée has invited me down to your cottage to discuss some matters
of grave importance tomorrow morning.” He cocked his golden head back
towards the next classroom. “Isn’t that right, Miss... Oliveira?”
Diana came out of the classroom. She glared at Zach, then affixed her
magnificent starry eyes upon her fiancé.
“Oh yes, for certain,” said Diana smilelessly. “Come down in the late
morning and we’ll have lunch when we’re done.”
Harry watched Zachary head to the kitchens without comment. Time
enough to expose the boy as the mole that he was and find out who sent
him. Zach couldn’t be granted Black and Potter access without clearance
from either Harry or Sirius, and Sirius wouldn’t until he’d cleared it with
Harry. Clearances were only done on weekdays, at Stacy’s insistence, and
it was a bit after four o’clock, which meant she was already speeding home
via the honeycomb portal at the Narcissus Tower and the ABFN...
Thank heavens it was Friday.
Diana heard his last thought and smiled.
“We haven’t had much time alone to enjoy each other lately, have
we?” she asked, attempting to lace her fingers through his.
“Oh, we’ll have some time alone this evening,” said Harry flatly,
drawing his hand away as if her touch was venomous. “Not sure how
enjoyable it will be for either of us. I’ll see you there.”
With that, he Apparated away, leaving her staring after him.
Later that same evening, night, and the next morning.
Ayr, woodcutter’s cottage.
Diana didn’t arrive home until much later that evening. Harry was
waiting for her in front of the fire, refurbishing an antique broomstick he’d
bought off a Danish dealer when last he’d had occasion to stop in Jutland.
Although the polish was a brand-new bottle, he’d had the twig clippers,
other instruments, and case since his thirteenth birthday. Thanks to his
leaving it at the Weasleys the summer after sixth year, it was one of the few
items he’d owned as a teen that hadn’t been destroyed during the first
storming of Hogwarts.
No, Harry corrected himself. The 1998 Death Eater raids were not the
first time in history that Hogwarts had been seized by unfriendly magic.
There had been several other invasions in the past, one a mere three-
quarters of a century before their time. Of incidentals and dates, he
couldn’t be certain without looking them up... thanks to Professor Binns,
History of Magic had never been his favorite subject.
The latest invasion in 2011 had been different from all the others,
Harry thought for the millionth time. He hadn’t told Hermione
everything... hadn’t had time to recount the sudden, strange occurrences of
that last winter.
Harry had been one of the few in the wizarding world who’d felt that
the Victoria Jenkins scandals were ridiculous. Plenty of Muggles already
knew of the existence of the wizarding world, and as the number of
Muggleborns increased, so would the number of those with MagiCards.
Harry had been raised in the Muggle world. He knew that those who
believed in magic didn’t need any proof to confirm it for them, and those
who didn’t believe would scoff and search for another explanation even
when the truth was staring them right in the face.
Yet matters had escalated fast, almost as if they were being
orchestrated. When he brought this up to Sirius, he was rebuffed and told
that he was being paranoid.
“Harry,” his godfather had said, “defenseless children are in danger. It
stands to reason that the security and stability of our world is at stake.
Orchestrated or not, what does it matter?”
It mattered a great deal, Harry thought, if the wizarding world was
rising to the bait. Walking into a trap set by... who? Already they’d been
caught up in a wave of anti-Muggleborn sentiment that seemed not to be
abating as most of the other witches and wizards of the Order thought it
might.
Something had to be done. Harry knew who could help him make his
case to the Order most effectively. And yet an ocean and many regrettable
memories stood between him and her.
He wished, for the thousandth time, that Hermione was there.
The bolt on the cottage door sprang upright. Diana, swathed in her
dark blue cloak, stepped inside, drawing her wraps off and using her wand
to levitate them over to the coat rack.
Harry watched silently from the armchair, not moving but not taking
his eyes off her. She crossed the room towards the kitchen when she finally
seemed to see him, and she gave a little startled gasp.
“Oh! Harry, I didn’t see you there,” she said, pulling her hand away
from her mouth.
“Which is why Professor Capulet is teaching Stealth and Field Tactics,
not you,” Harry returned without a beat of pause. Diana’s face crumpled in
hurt.
“That wasn’t very nice.” Diana looked away from him and started for
the kitchen again, but in a flash, Harry was on his feet and grabbing her
arm.
“We need to talk,” Harry said flatly. Diana looked up at him with the
wide blue eyes she usually used to weaken his knees. Judging from his
unrelenting stare, they weren’t functioning correctly today.
“Then let’s talk, honey,” Diana said.
Harry’s hand dropped from her upper arm, and Diana’s fingers went
for his hand. He pulled away before she got a chance to try.
“All right then,” Diana said, crossing her arms defensively and
pursing her lips.
“Sit down,” Harry said, nodding his head toward the couch. Diana
opened her mouth to protest, but Harry cut her off with a loud and firm,
“Sit. Down.” She looked miffed for a moment before stalking to the couch,
sitting and crossing her arms over her chest again.
Harry faced away from her for a moment. He’d had his end in mind –
finding out what the hell was going on – without bothering to devise the
means. He rubbed his hands roughly over his face, wishing he’d
remembered to shave that morning, and finally turned.
“How did Zachary gain access to Black and Potter?” Harry began.
Best to start off with questions rather than accusations.
Diana cocked her head slightly and studied him carefully. Harry had
the impression she was trying to get into his thoughts, trying to see what he
knew, before giving up any information. He steeled his mind and put up a
wall. Diana licked her lips nervously.
“Honey, Zach doesn’t have access to Black and Potter as far as
I know. He’s just an intern. An intern with an overinflated opinion of
himself, but an intern nonetheless...”
“All right, then. Next question. How did you gain access to Black and
Potter, Diana? Or should I call you Lenore?”
Diana’s pale golden skin turned snow white. Her eyes widened.
“Who is Lenore?” said Harry in an iron tone. “And while we’re at it,
who the hell are you?”
“Harry...” Her voice was soft, pleading.
“Just answer the question.”
“Lenore is... Lenore’s my middle name. It is what I used to be called
all the time.” She must have known Harry was searching her thoughts, for
her mind was quite blank.
“How exactly did Zach know that when I didn’t?”
Sigh. “Zach knows quite a lot about me.”
“Interesting. You’ve never mentioned him.”
“You never asked. I’ve told you all about my ex, Jerry, the one I left
just before coming to work at Black and Potter. Zachary is his younger
brother.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed much as they had at the school. “What, do you
all have code names? Your ex’s name wouldn’t happen to be Heath, would
it? Do you all have secret decoder rings too?”
Diana’s features were masklike. “I don’t think that’s any of your
business.”
“What do you mean, it isn’t any of my business? You could be a
bloody Cabalistica agent for all I know!”
“Cabalistica?” Diana gasped. “Is that what you think of me, Harry?”
“I’ll tell you what I think, Diana. I think you have reasons for being
here that have got nothing to do with teaching or research or me. I think
you do know exactly who this mysterious Heath character is, and why he’s
stalking Hermione. I think that there is much, much more to my darling
Diana than meets the eye, and I am ready for some answers!”
Her starry eyes sparked furiously.
“Answers? How audacious of you, Harry! After all that talk of
answers, you’re the one who was snogging another woman – that
Hermione creature – only a month ago!” Diana spoke so quickly that Harry
didn’t have a chance to prepare a reaction and immediately drew in a sharp
intake of breath. “Harry, I wasn’t born yesterday. Between Maureen’s
advice and the way Hermione looked after your ‘chat’ with her, I knew.”
“You don’t know anything...”
“I do! Don’t even try to lie to me! You think about her all the time...
don’t forget, I can hear you. Lately you’ve even talked in your sleep...
you’ve said her name. All you really care about is her, Harry, and you’re
either too stubborn or too stupid to admit it. I’ve tried my hardest to make
you love me, but I’ve learned my lesson. No matter how hard you try, you
can’t make anyone want you...” With these words, Diana’s face crumpled,
and she sobbed openly.
Harry was caught so off-guard by her revelation and change in tone
that he stood stiff for a few moments. Even after the shock had passed, he
remained frozen. What if this was some sort of trick to soften his anger?
Feeling extremely guilty, Harry sat beside Diana and placed a hand on
her shoulder as she wept into her palms. She showed no indication that she
felt him touch her. He began to pull his arms around her but she jumped
away from him as though his touch was iron hot.
“Don’t you dare touch me, Harry Potter! And don’t you ever ask me to
expose all my private business after you’ve spent years keeping yourself
hidden from me!” The tear tracks and red eyes made her look both
dangerous and desperate. “Until you’re ready to share and share alike,
I will not share a bed with you!”
Harry watched, slack-jawed, as Diana crossed furiously to the
bedroom and slammed the door shut. A moment later, the door reopened
and a pillow soared at him. With his Seeker reflexes, he snatched it out of
the air and started towards the bedroom door. He reached out and touched
the doorknob, but it sent an impulse through him so strong that it knocked
him to the floor.
“Damn!” he said, standing up and dusting himself off. He glared at the
closed door for a moment before balling his hands into fists. This was his
bloody house, and he’d be damned if he’d be shut out of his own bed by
some melodramatic, lying little treacherous...
No, no. Someone had always told him to temper his anger at least one
good night’s sleep before exploding... to think through the consequences of
his actions... someone named Hermione.
Harry swore again and headed for the bathroom. Perhaps a cold
shower would cool his temper.
He made his way to the bathroom and swung open the door with less-
than-gentle care. He was relieved to find a pair of dry towels and his
pajamas from the night before. After taking a glance in the mirror (which
whistled at him in a very rude manner), he pulled aside the shower curtain
and turned on the water. He tested it for a moment with his hand before
straightening again.
He undressed quickly, his body swiftly becoming chilled in the cool
air. With a little yelp, he leapt into the shower and then yelped even louder
and leapt back out, burned by the hot water. The mirror’s whistles and
comments grew increasingly lewd, and Harry pulled his wand from his
robes on the ground and brandished it angrily at the mirror.
“One more comment...” he threatened. The mirror fell silent with a
little snicker. Harry dropped the wand and grumbled. “Man can’t even take
a shower in his own house...”
Harry stepped back into the shower, this time a little more cautiously,
and slowly let himself get used to the warm flow of water. He ran his
fingers through his hair, and then reached for the soap. As he showered, he
hummed to himself, a desperate last attempt at distraction from the
evening’s blow-up. Finally, he tilted his head forward and rested his
forehead against the shower nozzle, letting the spray run all over his face.
Hermione. The one word, the one sweet name, pounded through his
head. What was he going to do about her? He remembered hearing about
the time that Fred had asked George what he was going to do about Anya.
George had replied, “I’m going to take care of her, protect her, love her,
marry her if she’ll have me... and then perhaps I’ll see what this fatherhood
business is all about.” Excellent idea.
In theory.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Part of him had spent his entire adult
life aching for Hermione’s company: her touch, her words, her laugh, her
thoughts. Still another part wished that he’d never fallen for her... or at
least, wished she had never come back and reopened old wounds only to
leave again.
Come back to me, Hermione...
Through the water, he felt something brush his unshaven cheek.
Lightly, tentatively... but undeniably nonetheless. A ghost of a kiss.
Harry opened his eyes and looked around abruptly. He stuck his head
out of the shower. No, Diana hadn’t joined him. He was alone.
He let the water run over his eyes once more. It was no longer warm
but tepid, but he welcomed the feel of it. The creepy cheek-touch had
caused his shoulderblades to prickle. His forearms were covered with
gooseflesh, too, causing the smooth black hair there to stand on end.
It’s nothing, he told himself. Just your overactive imagination.
Harry quickly rationalized it away. He’d been thinking of Hermione.
Hermione’s signature greeting and parting for him since they were in their
teens had always been a simple cheek kiss... a peck.
Unbidden, an obscure old nursery rhyme that his Aunt Petunia used to
sing to his cousin Dudley raced about rent-free in his head.
I love you... a bushel and a peck...
A bushel and a peck... and a hug around the neck...
It was a gesture that spoke far less of desire than it did of their abiding
friendship. It was also something that only Hermione did. He didn’t have
any memory of his parents or any other relatives pecking his cheek that
way, and there was no one else in his life who ever would kiss him so
casually.
Touch is a basic human need, yet it is essential. Harry had heard
somewhere that babies who were never held in orphanages died of it...
most likely it was something Hermione had told him long ago. He had no
childhood memories of hugs, hair ruffles, or cheek pecks until Hogwarts...
ten long years without any human contact.
Then all of a sudden there were pats on the back from Hagrid and
Quidditch teammates, and hugs from Hagrid and Mrs. Weasley. Cub-like
wrestling and punches from Ron and his dorm mates. Hair ruffling from
Sirius and on one memorable occasion, Dumbledore.
Although Ron, Sirius, Hagrid, Dumbledore, the Weasleys, and others
had served as surrogate family, although the whole of Hogwarts was the
closest thing he ever had to a childhood home, no one ever offered as many
unconditional, sustaining touches as Hermione had. As a hyperempath,
even one who was a bit afraid of her abilities, proximity and touch was a
natural way for her to communicate. With hugs that said “You’re the
greatest, Harry, and I’m so proud of what you’ve done.” And shoulder pats
that said “It’s going to be all right.” And cheek pecks that said “I’m here
for you always.”
She’d done it so many times, he realized, that he associated that
particular touch with her. Nothing from their stolen, heated moments of
passion could compare.
Now, Harry treasured the memories of other kinds of Hermione-
kisses, accompanied by corresponding caresses... crescendoing and
decrescendoing, his body her instrument to play a symphony upon. He
could at any given moment close his eyes and recall exactly the way it felt
every time her limbs would wrap about him, enveloping him in a chrysalis
of her... recall echoing shudders and sighs... even taste the tears that would
form at the corners of her eyes.
Yes. Even knowing, ever remembering every moment of being with
her in that way...
... the thing he missed most about her was a simple peck on the cheek.
Strange, what the body remembers.
There was now a funny pressure at the back of his eyes and another to
match it at the back of his throat. Willing his eyes not to smart, he shut off
the tap. The droplets of water that clung to his skin made him shiver as he
stepped out of the shower and into an oversized, thirsty towel. After getting
most of the water off his body, he wrapped it about his narrow hips,
gathered his clothes and (ignoring the mirror) padded down the hall
towards the bedroom.
The door was still shut. Harry, if he had really wanted to, could have
gained access to his bedroom by force. He almost did... at least he could
have put his dirty clothing into the hamper and grabbed another pair of
pajamas. Yet he had no wish to confront Diana any more tonight. Perhaps
letting their tempers cool would be the best solution, he thought. The
darklings and fears of the evening and the night never seemed quite so
insurmountable in the morning.
So he made do with last night’s pajama bottoms, and with a swish of
his wand, stoked the fire in the living room until it had banished the slight
chill in the air and felt toasty warm against the bare skin of his arms and
chest. Harry stood before the fireplace for a moment, mesmerized by the
flicker and crackle of the flames, trying to clear his mind.
And then he felt it again... another strange touch. This time an unseen
finger, softly tracing his spine from the nape of his neck all the way down
to his...
Harry spun around, wand clutched in his hand, ready to cast at a
second’s notice.
No one. Absolutely no one was there.
Placing his wand on the mantel, his brows furrowed in a frown, Harry
ran a hand through his hair. Completely frustrated, not to mention
flustered. Realizing that the anger that had coursed through his veins just a
short time before had been almost entirely replaced by another kind of
madness entirely.
But I just took a cold shower, he thought to himself. Perhaps I need
some other distraction.
So he kept busy. He finished refurbishing the old Danish broomstick,
settling it in one corner so that the varnish could dry overnight. He checked
the remainder of his students’ compositions, glad that the class average
wasn’t as horrible as he’d initially thought it would be.
Harry then spread the latest edition of Quidditch Digest out on the rug
and read it. It provided the distraction he needed as he exercised a bit. He
did so many push-ups that he lost count of them. He’d learned long ago
that he flew a lot better when he was in halfway decent physical condition
and didn’t eat a diet that consisted wholly of salt, sugar and fat... only
house-elves knew how to prepare that kind of food calorie free.
He also quite liked the increased energy and sense of well-being that
being in good shape afforded... as he spent most of his days with kids half
his age, he needed it.
Mind and body now sufficiently distracted, Harry was tired and ready
to rest. His living room couch was actually a futon that had been a twenty-
first birthday gift from Sirius, procured during a Black and Potter mission
in Japan. The futon had a cherry wood frame and a ridiculously thick black
mattress that Harry had charmed to conform to the sitter or recliner’s body
in the long-ago days when it had served as both sofa and bed for him.
After blowing out all the candles and torches, he, the pillow Diana had
thrown out for his use, and a warm afghan bedded down upon the pulled-
down futon for the night.
The crackling fire threw patterns of shadows on the walls and ceiling.
Outside, the autumn night winds blew against the windowpanes and
around the door, stopped by the braided, rolled-up rug Diana had stuffed at
the threshold to stop the drafts. Harry’s eyelids dropped slowly... first one,
then the other...
He was not yet asleep when he felt the afghan lift. His reactions were
sluggish with fatigue, but he was able to get his eyes to open after a few
moments. He could see no intruder, but there was a large lump beside him
beneath the covers.
Perhaps it was because he was so tired. Perhaps it was because he
welcomed the mystery. But he waited until he felt soft breath on the side of
his neck before he opened his mouth to protest.
Before a single sound could escape from his throat, lips – invisible
ones – covered his in a kiss so sensual that it stole his breath away. He fell
back against his pillow out of sheer surprise and made a strangled noise.
He found himself powerless to push away the soft weight pressing against
his side, spooning closer to him.
“Who are you?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. A heady shush in
his ear relaxed his muscles, but sped up his heart rate. “I demand to know
who...”
Another shush sounded in his ear, and he fell silent. This... this had to
be some sort of sinister magic, but it was seductive. Intoxicating. He’d
always thought little of those seduced by the Dark side, thinking they were
nothing but fools with no willpower. And now he found himself powerless
against this quiet temptation, wicked though it was. Wicked though it had
to be.
All of his senses save his sight attested to the stark reality of this
event. This was no dream. This was pure waking fantasy, spiraling into
something else...
Soft fingertips stole up his spine again, tracing arcane patterns upon
the skin of his back. Here and there, he fancied he felt the blunt, smooth
wedge of a fingernail. Then those unseen fingers made their way to his
hair, twisting, smoothing, teasing.
The selfsame sweet lips found his again and again. At first, their kisses
were like fireflies lighting at dusk – touch and go. Then they drank deeply
of each other. He reached out and made contact with petal-soft skin,
smooth and warm under the backs of his hands. Soft, petal-like skin that
quivered beneath his. Smooth, warm skin through which he could feel a
living pulse that quickened at his touch.
If I could touch you one place, Harry Potter, it would be here... that
way, I could feel the warmth of you... I could feel the breath of you...
I could feel the lifeblood of you...
Harry’s heartbeat quickened in his ears. He could not shrink away or
rise from this makeshift bed. He could only open his arms and close them
again, enfolding this bewitching, invisible creature against his heart.
Whether woman or angel or demon he did not know. All of his training,
every instinct that he had was shrieking at him, admonishing that he stop
this now, demanding that he investigate this strange occurrence.
Yet now was not the time to place mind over matter. Now was the
time to touch and kiss and feel. In his heart, Harry decided that there was
nothing evil or sinister in his arms. He’d mucked about too much in the
bosom of Hades not to know all the guises of hell... both incubus and
succubus had attempted to attack him once long ago, many years before in
Tartarus, but not like this. Never like this.
Darkness knows only of lust. It knows nothing of love, and certainly
less about the making of it.
So that night, a very lonely, very sad Harry Potter allowed himself to
be loved... and indeed, he was loved in return.
When he awoke late the next morning, there was not a single trace of
the events of that long night. No lingering warmth, no other telltale signs.
It was almost as if it... no, she... had never been.
There was, however, a note tacked to the mantlepiece. The sole
window of the living room was open, and the parchment fluttered in the
breeze. After shrugging off the afghan, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and
reaching for his glasses, he crossed the room in a few strides and snatched
it up.
Harry –
We’ve been through a lot together. Two years of one’s life is a nice
chunk of time to dedicate to someone. We had good times and bad, but all in
all, I thank you for the ride, sir. It’s been more than wonderful.
There were times, Harry, when I thought you really were the one who
I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Everything would be so wonderful
between us for a while. And then... something would happen to make me
doubt it all, doubt the credibility of us.
Last night I didn’t sleep. I realized that everything in the cauldron of
what we had together had suddenly boiled down to a single issue – either
you loved me unconditionally or you didn’t. But you never let me be
completely sure of how you felt about me. I need that assurance, Harry, an
assurance that I don’t think you can give me.
I refuse to ask what I must. This is because I am afraid of your answer.
I’ve gone away, Harry. I have things to do, things that you couldn’t even
begin to understand. Don’t look for me. Don’t worry about Sirius, either... I’ve
owled him as well. Zach will be more than competent in my place. You’ll find
that he needs little training, and may provide some of the answers that you
wanted last night from me.
I’ll miss you. Take care of yourself. Be safe.
All my heart,
Di
(P.S. No matter what happens, know that I did love you... love you still.)
Harry crumpled the parchment in a sweaty palm. Which was strange –

his hands rarely were anything but dry.
His eyes were moist too.
Blindly, he cast the letter into the fireplace. The edges caught fire,
blackened and curled. He watched until the blue inked words were
completely obscured, until the parchment was reduced to cinder and ashes
and dust. Then he put the fire out and leaned against the mantelpiece,
glasses tilting askew.
There, a bright glitter caught Harry’s eye. He squinted, readjusted his
glasses, and saw it.
It was Diana’s ring.
He picked up the diamond and gold band, holding it between
forefinger and thumb. Staring at it until his vision blurred.
Who were you really, Diana Oliveira?
Harry waited for answers, but none came. So he reached for his wand
and lit the fire again. After only a moment’s hesitation, he dropped the ring
he’d given to his golden girl back on the mantel and stared into the flames.
Feeling a thousand times lonelier and more empty than he had ever felt
before.
Time indeterminate, deep below Tartarus.

Engli, the shadow-creature, spun into the abyss that the golden witch
had cast him into. It was not afraid as a mortal in the same circumstances
would have been. It had thus far lived forever and there was very little that
could maim it. Besides, the Darkness was its companion... why should it be
afraid?
And so it spun, down, down, down... until it landed with a thump! in
the midst of the throne room of the Dark One.
The manacles which bound her were of a magical substance that no
longer existed in any of the Thousand Worlds. The incantations and hexes
that kept her imprisoned were such that if a mortal sorcerer of the more
recent ages could have attempted to replicate them, he would have perished
before the second word was out of his mouth.
For someone who’d been chained to her throne for nearly ten
thousand years, the Dark One was remarkably unaccustomed to her
bondage. She paced about as far as her chains would allow her, blood-red
robes swooping around her, red and black wings flapping impatiently
behind her.
It would have come as no surprise to her contemporaries, but many in
the Age of Partition would have been stunned by her imposing appearance.
The mistress of Darkness was beautiful to behold. Her skin was the light
olive-brown of her father, who’d emigrated from the Fertile Crescent of
Earth to settle in his new wife’s homeworld.
Her eyes were the deep, swirling amethyst-purple of her mother’s
people, and she had the bendy-curvy mouth that was the signature of all
humans and human-like creatures of the Tartarus-that-was. At nearly seven
feet tall she had been merely average height for a woman of her time...
after all, her life had begun when none but giants walked the earth.
Her hair had once been reddish brown, but long it had been black,
black as a raven’s wing, swirled and piled into an elaborate coif that rested
on the top of her head. Both nostrils, both earlobes, her lower lip, and
several other spots on her body had been pierced long ago. Each now held
a different enchanted jewel through which she could draw and channel
power.
If its mistress had been disrobed, Engli could have seen what it knew
was there – intricate runes and curses tattooed and hennaed on the curves
and planes of her immortal body, every inch of which was dedicated to
perdition.
Curses to match those raining out of the Dark One’s mouth.
“So she wishes to defy me! A mere stripling of a mortal... far too
young to be considered a babe in any of the Thousand Worlds? Well, she
shall soon see what happens to those who step unbidden into the path of
Darkness.”
“What of these Sabaeans, my lady?” asked Engli timidly. “The taste of
her aura bespoke the youth of her years. She seemed younger than the
youngest of babes, and yet scarce I have met a witch or wizard who could
cast me out for a thousand Earth years or more. Those of this day cannot
even see me until it is too late for them.”
The Dark One glared at her minion, then continued to pace.
“I know not of these Sabaeans. They are not of the Thousand Worlds.”
She quickened her step. “And you say she is living with the Accursed One,
my pet?”
“Yes, my lady. Again, from the taste of her aura,” Engli licked his lips,
remembering, “I would say that she holds his heart...”
“There is more to this Sabaean, as she calls herself, than meets the
eye,” said the Dark One. “It is the habit of witches who adhere to the Old
Ways to bind mortal men – knight and wizard and king – to themselves for
their own purposes. Spare me your sniveling talk of heart. The whole
notion of chivalry was a silly invention of the Receding Ages, and its home
is Avalon with doddering old fools like Morgan and Merlin and Vivienne...
fools who are upstarts compared with the likes of me.”
Her sharply arched eyebrows drew together for a moment... but only
for a moment. Almost instantly her face was an emotionless mask once
more.
“When I hold all of the Thousand Worlds in my palm, I shall crush the
Old Ones one by one. I shall make their homeworlds over in my own
image as surely as I have rebirthed my own.
“Even now, my good servant Sebastian has made plans to stir up
discord among the ranks of my worshippers on Earth in this age, this...
this...”
“Cabalistica?”
The Dark One glared at Engli, who shrank.
“Yes, yes. The names change with each generation... their filthy,
despicable souls and lust for power do not. It seems that this Sebastian has
done much while you were tangling with the Sabaean, my pet.” The Dark
One leered.
“What is it, my lady?”
“Apparently the pull of the Darkness is succeeding. The one whom
you were trailing and tormenting, Engli, has come to us.”
The shadow-creature made a gesture of surprise.
The Dark One simply cackled.
“Yes, yes... it seems that she slipped out of England right under your
nose, my pet...” here Engli cringed, “but as she has been found, I shall
postpone your punishment for a later date.”
“Found, lady?”
“Yes, found... and will soon be in my servant’s clutches, unbeknownst
to the traitorous Grand Inquisitor of this Cab... Caba... Cababa...”
“Cabalistica.”
“Caba... silence!” When the Dark One punished it, it felt that every
particle of its disembodiment would be separated from the others. A
soundless scream raged through it. “Do not deem yourself worthy to
correct me! Else you shall find yourself in the same position as the rogue
Inquisitor!”
Once her rage had cooled somewhat, the Dark One beckoned to her
pet. In the very center of the throne room was a dark, lagoon-like pool that
was her mirror to the outside world. It had not been there when the prison
had been created untold eons ago, but then, neither had the elaborate
throne.
“Come, redeem yourself with a glance,” the Dark One said to Engli.
“Already Sebastian is making the preparations. Once this Hermione
Granger is safely in my servant’s clutches and she has been made ready,
I shall pay Earth a little visit... with you by my side.”
Engli looked. And as it looked, its guffaws disturbed the glass-like
surface of the waters.
The Dark One laughed as well, laughter like the off-key clanging of
brass cymbals, a discordant prelude to the drums of war.
“Yes, all is nearly ready. My reign on Earth shall begin with a plague,
the like of which mortals have scarce seen since the First Age.”
Almost eagerly she touched the surface of the water with a bloodless
hand, bringing up the face that Engli had learned in recent days to call
“majesty.”
“Look upon the face of pestilence and death, my pet, and marvel at the
transfigurative power of the Darkness. For she whom her world called
Healer shall soon be known as its Destroyer.”
The Dark One smiled.
So did her pet.
Saturday, October 20, 2012. Noon.

Ayr Island.
Zach was late. That in itself was enough to annoy Harry, who wasn’t
in the best of moods anyway. He’d just finished shaving and dressing and
was attempting to scarf down a slice of dry toast when the knock sounded
on the door.
“Come in,” Harry said, voice coming out in a croak. It was the first
time he’d spoken aloud in well over sixteen hours.
Zach walked into the little house. He was nearly a half head taller than
Harry, who at an inch shy of six feet was no longer the shrimp he’d been in
childhood. Zach Raupp was broad-shouldered and strong-armed, with
looks that instantly reminded Harry of Draco Malfoy’s cousin Dante
Rosetti. Yet where Dante’s blue eyes were mischievous, those set in the
lightly tanned face of this youth looked tranquil as the Ayr shore on a
windless summer day.
Well, he could be a Cabalistica spy, thought Harry to himself. Yet
somehow, I don’t think it’s as simple as that.
Those eyes flickered about very briefly before he stated the obvious.
“Professor Oliveira isn’t here, is she?”
“No, she stepped out early this morning.”
Zach didn’t seem unduly surprised. “Stepped out? I told her to expect
me...”
“She’s gone, Zachary.”
Zach nodded as if this was only confirmation for what he’d suspected
all along. “She should have been woman enough to face you, Professor.
I don’t understand why she’s changed so much since when I last knew
her.”
“You and Heath, you mean?”
Zach’s eyes remained steady. “Yes, Heath and I have known Lenore
all our lives. Her parents and ours are very good friends.”
“Why is Heath trailing Hermione?” Harry asked. Arms folded. Jaw
set.
“My brother has his own reasons for what he does, Professor, reasons
that often he shares with no one but himself. Just know that Heath is
attempting to protect the doctor...”
“By frightening her witless? She claims he’s been playing with time
all around her.” Harry’s eyes darkened. “If he’s trying to protect her, he’s
surely got her convinced otherwise.”
“Well, if he wasn’t attempting to save her, certainly she’d be dead by
now...”
Harry whipped out his wand, green eyes flashing. The sixteen hours of
pent-up frustration, hurt and anger were about to be taken out on Zach...
who being a probable Cabalistica spy deserved no less.
“One of my very first and very best friends is being stalked and
manipulated by your brother,” he said, pointing his wand at Zachary
Raupp. “And you will tell me everything you know. Now.”
Zach opened his mouth to say something and turned his palms
outward in a gesture of conciliation, but the sound of the door slamming
loudly behind him cut off anything he would have said. Zach whirled
around to see the door lock itself.
“Professor, you’re going about this all wrong. If I knew anything...”
Zach began to plead.
“You expect me to believe you know nothing of your brother’s actions
and how he’s endangering my friend’s life?” Harry nearly laughed. He’d
heard some pathetic excuses before in his counter-magiterrorism work, but
sheer ignorance was so simple that it was almost never used... and if it was,
coercion usually made it crumble.
“I never said that I didn’t know anything. I was about to say that
I don’t know anything that I can tell you without endangering the lives of
both you and Hermione. You’re telling me you’ve never kept secrets out of
necessity?”
Harry lowered his wand.
“This is not about me,” Harry bristled. “It’s about what Heath’s
intentions are towards Hermione...”
Dauntless, Zach pressed on. “You know, Professor, you worry so
much about Dr. Granger that it’s no wonder Diana left you. She’s a good
person at heart. You just can’t stand that she has the exact same flaws you
do. Do you really detest your own personality that much?”
Harry was shocked. He’d had a speech prepared about how keeping
vital information from a Black and Potter superior was worthy of an
insubordination hearing, but this was fast turning into an analysis of
Harry’s very character.
Zach sighed deeply, knowing he’d overstepped his bounds.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it needed to be said. You wish for others to respect
your privacy, and yet you don’t choose to do the same. Now, both
Professor Oliveira and I passed all the security tests for the Portal Island of
Ayr. If we had ill intent, we wouldn’t have been allowed to enter.
“Neither of us have any contact with Heath at this time. So please, can
you not believe we’re not evil? I’ve heard about the great Harry Potter
since I was a child, and I want to enjoy my internship with you. Watch me
like a hawk if you must, stir Veritaserum into all my meals, but don’t judge
me before you get the chance to know who I am and what I stand for.”
Zach’s tone was steady and serious. “Sir, I am Heath’s brother, but I am
not my brother.”
Harry sighed. “Well, I must notify Sirius and the other board members
of your relationship to Heath, whose description has been entered to our
database. You may be interrogated, and we can’t grant you disk access to
the Foundation below until the board is satisfied that you’re not a mole.”
For the first time, Zach’s eyes seemed hesitant and unsure, almost as if
he was debating on whether or not to say something. Then the truth won
out.
“Professor, I’ll undergo interrogation willingly. Today, if you like.
However, before I do, there is something that I must share with you and no
one else. May I?”
Harry studied the youth’s face. “Go on.”
“The Cabalistica has already infiltrated Black and Potter. Please don’t
ask me how I know this, and I don’t know the spy’s identity. I have
learned, however, that the mole is one of the higher-ups on your board...
someone who has turned... someone who’s got Mr. Black’s ear.”
“Who?” Harry’s mind was racing, forming a list of all their European
and North American operatives.
“I’m not sure, sir,” said Zach. “But I’ll do everything I can to help you
find out.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “And just why should I trust you?”
“Let’s just say that if you do, you’ll be glad you did. As soon as I can,
I’ll reveal more about how I know what I know, and how Diana’s and my
family are connected. But we don’t have that kind of time right now...”
At that moment, there was a loud swoosh! in the fireplace behind
them. The head of Stacy Apostolides, Black and Potter’s special assistant
to the executive director, had appeared in the middle of the flames.
“Hey, teach?” she asked. “You there?”
Shooting a “stay put” glance at Zach, Harry walked out into the living
room. “Right here. Anything wrong?”
“Well, just get down here as soon as you can. Sirius wants you right
away. Seems that there’s a guest waiting for you at the school... a
MagiCarded Muggle.” Stacy paused. “He contacted Sirius early this
morning and Janet and I arranged his transport here.”
“A Muggle, wanting access to Ayr? Who is it?”
“Hmm, let me check... here it is. A Mr. Theodore Granger...”
Harry turned extremely pale. “Theodore Granger? That’s Hermione’s
dad... what, is there something wrong with Hermione?”
Stacy’s eyes widened. “Now that you mention it, that’s who he
reminded me of. And as for Hermione, I haven’t heard anything yet, but
I’m sure Mr. Granger could tell you more about that...”
“I’ll be there right away,” said Harry quickly. Turning around, looking
for Zach...
But the younger man had already Disapparated. Where, Harry didn’t
know.
~~~
Ted Granger was waiting for Harry in the plush circular classroom.
Sitting on a window seat. Staring out of the window at the unfamiliar
surroundings. October on Ayr was a bit warmer than latitude and longitude
should have dictated, and to a Muggle, the Indian summer day must have
seemed uncanny.
Hermione’s father was in shirt sleeves and trousers, a bit more dressed
down than Harry ever remembered seeing him before. His brown curls,
salted liberally with gray, were slightly unruly. He had not shaved, either.
There were dark circles beneath his dark brown eyes... eyes almost exactly
like his daughter’s.
For the first time in a long time, Harry didn’t feel intimidated in the
slightest by him. This was an accomplishment for him. The selfsame man
who had faced down the most formidable Dark wizards and witches of his
time was usually completely unnerved by this rather pompous Muggle
man.
Harry was sure that there had been a time when he wasn’t nervous
around by Ted Granger. As a kid, he hadn’t known much or cared much
about Hermione’s parents. He didn’t really notice them until she had the
O.W.L.s revision weekend at her home during fifth year, and then only to
note where his best friend had got the various bits of her personality from –
her sweetness and caring from Caroline, her drive and bossiness from her
dad.
It wasn’t until he began to want more from Hermione than friendship
that her parents began to matter to him. After they’d come back from
Tartarus, he found himself wanting to know all about where she’d come
from, what her relatives were like. Did she have anyone other than her
parents? he asked Hermione, during their time together in Avalon, and
she’d told him as they walked hand in hand through one of that island
world’s many orchards.
He’d learned that three of her grandparents had died before she was
born, that her maternal grandmother had been dear to her, that Nana Helen
had died when she was five. She shared that her father did have one living
first cousin whom his parents helped raise after his mother’s sister died
long ago. That cousin, Dorothy, was a solicitor who had met and married
an American lawyer while working in Durban, South Africa. The couple
lived in Boston and had a daughter around Hermione’s age.
“Darice is really very nice, but I’ve not seen her very often since
childhood.” Hermione had shrugged nonchalantly. “That’s all the family
I’ve got, I think. Not much.”
“More than me,” he’d laughed. “Your mum is the best, though... for a
dentist, she certainly makes excellent treacle tart.”
“Sugar-free treacle tart, that is,” Hermione had groaned, pulling a
face. “You can’t know how much I miss gorging on all those sweets at
Hogwarts, Harry. I swear to never feed my children saccharine.”
“Our children,” he’d corrected her. And on Avalon, she’d smiled and
whispered “of course” against his lips just before she kissed him in
earnest...
One small mercy in the entire Avalon situation was that Harry didn’t
have to ask Ted Granger’s blessing for anything regarding his daughter. He
who invariably greeted Ron with uncharacteristic warmth, clasping the
youngest Weasley son’s upper arm, shaking his hand as if he were a long-
lost son, always treated Harry rather coolly. When he had occasion to visit
the Granger home during youth and young adulthood, he noticed Ted’s
eyes following him.
Invariably, the look in them was hostile.
Caroline Granger wasn’t like that. Where Molly Weasley was
nurturing, fussing over her children’s friends just as if they were more of
her own, Caroline was more like a friend. She was the kind of woman
whom a bloke could ask for honest and clear advice if he needed it, who
could put the feminine perspective into terms any man could understand.
With the husband and daughter she had, Caroline had to be the diplomat.
Harry had liked helping her clear away after a dinner party just to have a
chat...
But that was all a long time ago. Caroline was sleeping beneath the
soil of an Oxfordshire graveyard, and Ted was here now. Wanting to have a
chat. Presumably about his daughter.
“Good afternoon, Harry,” Ted said. “Got anything to drink?”
Harry was taken aback. “Er, well I... none in the classroom. But
I could send word down to the kitchens and ask the steward for...”
“No, if you don’t have it here right now then never mind. Have a seat,
please.”
Still caught off guard, Harry sat.
“You might be wondering why I called and asked to come today. Well,
I think you should know that you were my last resort.” Ted paused and
cocked an eyebrow, obviously waiting for a response.
“Well, that’s good to know,” said Harry, biting back several sharp
retorts.
“Whatever is so good about it? Don’t you want to know why I’m
here?”
Harry cleared his throat. “I assume it’s got something to do with
Hermione.”
“Yes, it does. You know, I was against her going to that wizard school
from the start. I often regret letting my wife talk me into it. Caroline’s own
mother believed in magic and all that, believed that our daughter was
something special, and my Carol always could talk me into anything. My
daughter could have done well for herself, Harry, without all the hocus-
pocus and wand-waving and muttering spells and other mumbo-jumbo
nonsense.” The eyebrow raised again. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I think,” Harry said slowly, “that Hermione is one of the most
talented witches the world has ever seen. You’ve got a lot to be proud of.”
“I’m proud of her Oxford education and her work in pathology.
Hermione was bound to do well in everything she set her mind to... she’s
got my tendency to see things through. I loved her mother, love her still,
but my daughter’s made of tougher substance than my wife. Which is why
I’ve come.” His confident pose seemed to wilt a bit. “Harry, Hermione has
gone missing.”
Harry’s first instinct was to Disapparate and begin a search. I should
never have let her out of my sight... why the hell did I let her go when
I knew this would happen?
Stay calm, Harry. This has happened before. And the most recent time
it happened, Hermione went missing on purpose.
“How long since she was last seen?”
“I last saw her on the twenty-second of last month. It was a Saturday.
I drove her to Heathrow and saw her off to Brazil. She was to fly from
London to Miami, from Miami to Rio de Janeiro, and from Rio to
Manaus... do you even know where that is?”
Harry was going to explain where Manaus was located until he
realized that Ted was not wanting information, he was being
condescending. He didn’t tell the man that he not only had been all over
this world, but had trekked over several others in half Ted’s lifespan. He
didn’t say anything, though... this was still Hermione’s dad, and he needed
to figure out what was going on.
“Right, then,” Ted continued when Harry fell silent. “She was
supposed to either Spider or phone me at each airport. Caroline and
I traveled to Brazil long ago on a dentistry mission to the Amazon when we
were first out of Oxford. Beautiful country, but it can be dangerous in
spots. I distinctly ordered her to phone me in both Rio and Manaus.”
“I got a call in the middle of the night from Miami. She told me
everything was fine, that her flight was lovely, that her friend Jack had
come down from Georgia to meet her,” here he studied Harry’s face for a
reaction, and finding none, continued, “and said she’d be phoning me from
Rio the same time next day. The call never came.” He shook his head. “She
never called.”
“Did she call this Jack from Brazil?” asked Harry calmly, inwardly
hating that particular CDC director beyond all reason.
“No, she didn’t. He drove her from the airport, put her on the plane,
and that’s the last anyone’s seen of her...”
“Was she really on that plane, or do you only have Jack’s word for it?”
Trying to stay calm. Objective. After all, this was his workspace, where he
taught dozens of students on a daily basis to separate their will from their
emotions. No sense in being angry at a Muggle who was half a world away
when there were more pressing matters at stake.
“She appears on the passenger manifest of all three flights. Even the
Rio to Manaus one... when she hadn’t phoned when she was supposed to,
I didn’t worry. My Hermione has always been independent. Yet when Jack
phoned the next day – he told her to check in with him as well – I began to
grow concerned.
“She didn’t answer her cell phone. She didn’t return Spidered
messages. I phoned Hugh Turner, but his answering machine picked up at
home and his secretary claimed he was still on holiday.
“Hugh arrived back in England on the twenty-sixth. He came to my
office straightaway. He was alarmed that Hermione had gone on to Brazil...
not only had he not authorized the trip, he hadn’t any idea that the World
Health Organization was planning a project there. Yet Hermione told me
that Hugh offered her this job in person.” Ted shook his head. “I reported
her missing that same day.”
You should have contacted us that same day, Harry thought, trying not
to be angry. Muggles always wanted to come up with a rational explanation
for everything. The fact that Hermione had spoken with a not-Hugh should
have flagged magical involvement. Ted should have known that... in order
to receive a MagiCard, Muggles received a full seminar conducted by the
Ministry of Magic within the privacy of their homes.
Harry was willing to bet that it was Caroline who’d been attentive
during their seminar, and Ted had been there in body only.
“Have you contacted the Ministry of Magic already?”
“Not until she’d been missing for three weeks. I didn’t think of it,
really... she’s not been active in your world for years now. Once I did,
I used Hermione’s owl – she left him behind – and sent a letter directly to
the Minister himself. Hermione told me long ago that was the thing to do,
and I remembered it.” He sat back, folding his arms.
This was getting worse and worse. So Brian Riordan, or one of his
staff members, had known that Hermione was missing before he had. And
what Brian knew, somehow the Cabalistica always ended up finding out...
although the man was supposedly estranged from his wife, it was common
knowledge that she influenced him still.
“Did Brian respond?”
“Yes, he did, and right away. He came to my home the very next day,
accompanied by a few foreign blokes. Confeds, he called them. They took
a lot of notes, said they’d contact their counterparts in America and Brazil,
and they’d get back with me. That was a week ago.
“It’s been the longest week of my life. Last night I had a nightmare.
Made me wish I had never used that owl after all. I awoke and went to
Hermione’s bedroom, searching for something, for that owl of hers never
returned after I sent it to the Ministry... and I turned up a card for Black and
Potter. Funny how there’s no address on it. Yet I turned it over on the back,
and found your name and Spider information.”
“Well, we’re a private organization,” Harry said. “We do keep one
phone on the island, because there are a few MagiCarded Muggle
government officials who like to stay in touch. Our friends who go
between the worlds have the number as well.”
“I’m grateful that you did,” said Ted Granger, frankly. “I spoke with
Mr. Black, who arranged for me to come here without delay. When I got
here, I wanted to speak to only you. So here I am.”
Harry studied Ted Granger’s lined face for a couple of moments. Then
he stood up, walked a few feet away, and stared out of the window.
She’s not dead. She can’t be. If she were dead, I’d know it the same
way I knew when Dumbledore and Hagrid died. There is no way she could
pass out of this world without me knowing.
But she’s in trouble. In the back of my mind I’ve known it all month.
This isn’t something she’s doing on purpose. The Brazil job was a set-up...
but why Brazil? Why do they want her there, of all places?
She overestimates herself... always has. She’s one heck of a witch, but
in the end, she is only one witch.
I hope she didn’t leave her wand like last time. At least she’s got two
of them now, one for each hand...
As if that will help. I doubt if the Cabalistica is as stupid as they were
three years ago. From the state of wizarding world affairs today, I know
they aren’t. They won’t be so arrogant as they were last time. They’ll
surround her with legions of Cabalistica minions.
I don’t know why they want her.
She’s in trouble.
She’s in trouble and I have no idea where she is. I can’t keep her safe.
I can’t stop those holding her against her will from hurting her.
If they’ve hurt her...
This is the last time this will ever happen.
I will find her. I will make whoever did this pay.
And once I find her, letting her out of my sight again won’t be an
option.
Every time I’ve let her go away from me, she’s walked into one bad
situation after another. A marriage that should have never happened. A
vain lamia. A stalker who thinks time is his toy. Now this.
Damn her stubborn pride. Damn being her own witch.
Women’s liberation is all well and good, but it’s far past time for her
to realize that she’s not just her own... she is mine.
Ted came to stand next to Harry.
“Is there something outside that window that will help you find my
daughter faster? If not, then what’s all this about?”
“Nothing.” Harry snapped out of it and turned towards the father of
the woman he loved. “I’m glad you let us in on what’s been happening.
And trust me, we will find Hermione for you.”
“For me... or for you, Harry?”
“Ultimately, for herself,” Harry replied without missing a beat. “Once
she’s back safe and sound, she’ll be free to make her own choices.”
“She made her choice a long time ago,” Ted said flatly, studying
Harry’s face intently.
“We make choices every day, Mr. Granger. Muggle or witch, we make
choices... and sometimes, we change our minds. I’ll call a board meeting
with the rest of the staff, and we will find your daughter.”
To Harry’s utmost shock, the corner of Ted Granger’s mouth twitched,
as if he wanted to smile but was so unused to the gesture that he wasn’t
quite sure how to go about it.
Janet appeared at the door. “Professor, Dr. Granger, there’s tea in the
staff room. Can I tempt either of you?”
“Thanks, Janet. Perhaps you can show our guest where it is, and I’ll be
along shortly. I need to find Stacy and set up an emergency board meeting
for tomorrow morning. We may need your help alerting the network, too, if
you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, Professor. Dr. Granger, if you’ll just come this way...”
Just before Ted left, he did something that he’d never done before.
In passing, he patted Harry’s shoulder.
“Wonder how much red tape I’d have to go through if you weren’t in
love with her. Let me know when you get any information.”
And out he walked, leaving a stunned Harry in his wake.
Next afternoon, around the same time of day.
Executive suite, The Black and Potter Foundation.
Carole was waiting for Sirius when the emergency board meeting was
over. She’d set up the picnic on the small conference table instead of in
their usual spot behind the manor. With her right hand, she graded a stack
of World Magical Cultures exams. With her left, she swished her wand in
order to amuse their three year old son... blowing bubbles for him to catch.
Little Max was in the middle of a leap when he saw his dad. Before he
could even react, Sirius swooped down upon him and placed him atop his
shoulders.
“Whee! Turn around, Dad!”
Sirius obliged, allowing himself and Max a spin or two. Then he set
him down before he could whine about “wanting to play with Snuffles”. It
amused his son to no end that his father and pet were one and the same,
even if that pet was a huge bear of a black dog.
He walked over to his wife. Carole looked up with a grin, setting
down a quill that dripped with blood-red ink. “I didn’t want to break our
routine,” she said. “It’s been a long time since you’ve worked on Sunday.”
He leaned down and pecked the tip of her nose. “I see you’re working,
too.”
“A teacher’s work never ends,” she replied. “As well you know.”
Sirius shook his head, sitting down next to her. “Yes, but it’s very well
that I’m no longer upstairs. I don’t have anywhere near your patience level.
Harry is a much better headmaster than I ever was.”
“You sell yourself short. Without you, the school would never have
been.”
“The vision was both of ours jointly. Harry came out of the war with
unshaped ideas about what to do if we wanted to prevent the next one, and
while he was recuperating in Avalon I had plenty of time to formulate a
plan. He was the visionary; I the shaper.”
“How did he take your decision in the meeting today?”
Sirius let out a gust of breath. “Not well.”
“You anticipated that, though.”
“Harry doesn’t understand. If she were his sister or his wife, our
protocol would demand that he not be directly involved. There is no way
he can be objective when it comes to her... he could jeopardize the entire
team.” He shrugged. “Besides, he’s got a school to run and classes to teach.
Not to mention a wedding to plan once Diana comes to her senses.”
“Don’t you think that girl is gone for good, Sirius?” asked Carole.
“When Diana came around yesterday morning she seemed pretty
distraught. I’ve never seen her look like that before.”
“Lovers’ quarrel,” said Sirius. “They haven’t had one yet. Better for
them to blow off steam now than to let it build up until December.”
Carole nodded. “Who are you sending to South America instead?”
But before Sirius could answer, there was a knock. Without waiting
for a response, seconds later the door swung open and Harry stepped in.
The agenda from the board meeting was a parchment roll in his hand.
“Excuse me, but do you have a moment?”
Sirius glanced at his wife, then at his godson. “Can this wait until after
lunch?” he asked, standing up in a gesture of conciliation.
“No.” Tone flat. “We need to discuss this. Now.”
Carole looked from one man to the other. Neither was breaking eye
contact. Sighing to herself, she picked up Max before he could reach Harry
in greeting, and said, “We’ll be outside. It’s getting a bit too chilly for
picnicking on the grounds, but there are lots of piles of leaves on the
ground to jump into, aren’t there?”
Max laughed. “See you soon, Harry!” he giggled, as Harry smiled in
spite of himself and Sirius mouthed a “thank you” to his wife over the little
boy’s head.
The second the door closed, Sirius spoke before the barely checked
anger on Harry’s face could form words.
“Harry, the selection of the team was by joint board consensus. We are
sending operatives to South America solely based on their experience and
skill level.”
“Experience and skill? Qing-Jao’s only got six months’ field training.
Last year this time Wiley was a foreign correspondent for the Daily
Prophet. I’m more capable of getting the job done than all six of them
combined...”
“Nice to see you’ve retained your characteristic modesty as well,”
remarked Sirius dryly. “What you fail to realize is that no one in that
meeting even considering sending you. You are in the middle of a school
term... you took time enough off when you went searching for the girl
before.
“Which brings me to another crucial point. Everyone who knows you
knows that Hermione Granger has been one of your very best friends for
years... including everyone at the Foundation. Several know that you feel
something more than friendship for her. Now, once she’s back, you and
I can both talk to her about the security risk that she poses by going off into
the Muggle world unarmed. We can also get more particulars on this Heath
character...”
Harry listened to his godfather making plans and at the same time
didn’t listen. He hadn’t shared with Sirius his newfound suspicions about
both Diana and Zach. It was indicative of his relationship with Sirius these
days... cordial, professional, but with a minimum of affection and warmth.
He knew the cause of it, of course.
Did all things in his life begin and end with the selfsame woman? Was
she the answer to everything?
“No, she is not,” said Sirius. “I hate what you’ve allowed her to do to
you, Harry.”
Harry felt murderous towards this godfather of his, from whom even
his very thoughts were not private.
“Well, I hate what you did to us,” he said, very quietly. “I trusted you,
Sirius. First I trusted your judgment, and then you talked me into giving
her up. Then I trusted you to keep my secrets, and you opened your mouth
at the worst damned time. So forgive me if I no longer trust your
judgment... or trust you.”
Sirius shrugged. “You trust me more than you think. Otherwise, you
would never have let her leave. You know that I think you’re blind, that
you’re better off without her, that if you ever were to have what your heart
desires you would regret it.”
Harry folded his arms. “Yes, I know that somewhere along the road
you grew to hate Hermione... a girl who you once admired, a girl who you
even teased me about long ago.”
“Yes, long ago. Harry, I... your mother and father are not here, and so
there’s no one but me to save you from yourself. Hate is such a strong
word. It’s not that I hate Hermione. Quite the contrary. But I do not think
that she is the woman for you.”
“Right, I know that, of course. You’ve never explained.”
“If I explained fully, you’d likely end up attempting something that
both of us would regret. So for the thousandth time, I ask you to consider
your reasons for wanting a woman who has voluntarily left you three
times.”
“That’s unfair and you know it! Eleven years ago you forced her to do
what she did! Three years ago she was still technically married to Ron, and
thought me the worst sort of cad... again because of what you did. And last
month I was engaged and she had a job on the other side of the world. She
never left me just to spite me. That’s not her, and if you think it is, you
know nothing about her.”
“I know enough,” Sirius replied. “I know that a witch-hyperempath, if
not wise about her powers, can Enthrall a wizard when she heals...”
“Be careful, Sirius. Godfather or not, I’d choose my words carefully if
I were you,” Harry said, cracking his knuckles.
“I am not saying she did it intentionally, Harry. You were very young
when you were sent into Tartarus, using magic that has killed many adepts
who have tried to wield it. And you cannot wash the poison of that world
off very easily... only time and distance can cure you of it, which is why
Nephthys, Drakkar, and the other Old encouraged you to seek Avalon. Yet
looking at Ron and Hermione, I nearly wish we had sent them away too. At
the time, we thought because they’d had comparatively stable childhoods...
“Anyhow, recently I’ve thought about it, and it came to me. Much of
what you feel for Hermione just might be due to the healing she performed
while you were in Avalon. My theory is that when she was done, she left
part of herself inside of you and in return kept a bit of you. Which actually
is quite correctable. A simple spell, and...”
“I don’t want any more of your magical solutions,” snarled Harry.
“I don’t want your wand ever pointed at her again.”
“Only see how unreasonable you’re being, Harry...”
“No, you’re being pigheaded, and rather stupid. I was half in love with
her before we ever went to Tartarus. I can’t believe that you’d try to
cheapen the very act that saved my life... if Ron hadn’t found me when he
did, and she hadn’t done what she did, I wouldn’t have survived that night.
“I was sixteen years old when I realized that she wasn’t just meant to
be my friend. I’m thirty-two now. After spending my childhood saving the
world, I’ve spent the entirety of my adult life feeling incomplete... except
for three weeks, a night, and a day. I’m tired of regretting and waiting and
wanting, Sirius. I’m ready to live.”
“Which is why you’re with Diana. I wish you’d wake up and realize
what you have underneath your nose.”
What, a traitor? A spy? Harry nearly thought, but knew Sirius was
listening. “Well, she’s gone, evidently.”
“Evidently. She’s the one you need to be going after. Diana has been
by your side for the past two years, working for you, taking care of you,
loving you. Is it fair to repay her by racing off to search for an arrogant,
self-centered witch who has done nothing in recent years but cause you
grief?”
Harry’s jaw and fists slowly clenched.
“So you are saying that you hate her. Sirius, if you hate Hermione,
then you hate me.”
And with that, he turned and walked towards the door.
“You are not to go to South America with the team,” called Sirius.
“That’s an order, Harry.”
Harry did an about-face. In three quick strides, he was face to face
with Sirius again.
“I may be your subordinate in the Foundation half of Black and Potter.
As Grand Wizard of the Order, you are my superior as well at the stone
table. But you’ve been a bloody poor excuse for a godfather, and I am an
adult. How I run and staff my school, and how I spend my free time is no
longer any of your business.”
He tossed the parchment roll with the Black and Potter logo at his
godfather and business partner.
“Oh, and Sirius? Don’t ever give me an order again.”
~~~
Usually when he wanted to be alone to think, Harry flew. Since he’d
never had the benefit of conventional magitherapy, it was self-help. He
knew his mind could be troubled and tumultuous at times. He could fly
without thinking. It was stress relief and fresh air and exercise all at once.
Yet after he stormed out of Sirius’ office, feeling seventeen again, he
was too out of sorts to fly. He thought about the antique Danish
broomstick, varnish dry, ready for a trial run. But the thought of going back
to his lonely cottage at the edge of the woods was abhorrent. He thought of
what was waiting for him there... unwashed breakfast dishes in the sink,
unchecked student tests on the table, silence, solitude...
Loneliness.
So instead of going flying, Harry sat by the seashore just beyond the
ferry landing, watching the waves. He liked beaches, although thanks to his
upbringing with the Dursleys and a lack of a physical education course at
Hogwarts he could do little more than float. Ron and Hermione were
virtual fish, and he remembered the time they tried to teach him how. He
and Cho had accompanied them to Ibiza for one of the weekend trips they
so loved to take early in their marriage.
Cho could swim as well, but insisted upon sunbathing for a while. He
was going to do so as well, but after he’d rubbed lotion on her back and
midriff, Ron and Hermione insisted on taking him out. Well, they did more
than insist. They practically dragged him to the shore and threw him in.
Water filled his nose and eyes and ears. He panicked, thrashing and
flailing. After surviving so many things, he was doomed to drown within
sight of a crowded tourist beach.
Above the water, he heard Hermione saying something, then Ron’s
hands tugged him back onto his feet. He coughed, water flying out of his
nostrils, gulping in sweet breaths of air.
“Harry, it was just four feet of water,” Hermione said once he’d
recovered, obviously trying her best not to laugh.
Ron was laughing at him. “All you had to do was stand up.”
After that, he avoided further impromptu swim lessons, but still
enjoyed watching the water. He loved the endless ebb and flow of the
waves, the tang of sea-salted air, and the way sand felt a bit like dry snow
underfoot.
The cry of a seagull sounded overhead. It was soon joined by another,
and the pair of them soared out to sea. Strange that the two birds were
separated from their flock... from what he knew of gulls, they seemed to
travel in packs... but not strange that a mate would seek its own. He knew
nothing of bird mating patterns, but perhaps the one somehow got
separated from the rest, and the one it was paired to went to find it.
The same way he’d have to find Hermione.
Harry knew he wasn’t alone even before he looked up to learn the
identity of the footsteps he was hearing, crunching through the snow. He
was surprised that he wasn’t very annoyed by Zach Raupp’s presence. He
welcomed it.
Zach didn’t say anything, just lowered himself onto the chilled
ground, eyes fixed on the sea.
“Did you tell Mr. Black about Diana and me, sir?”
Harry shook his head.
“I’ve been away searching for Diana. She’s long gone, Professor.” He
didn’t seem surprised at Harry’s lack of reaction to this announcement.
“I know you wanted answers from her, but since I’m the only one here,
I suppose I’ll have to do.”
“All I want to know is this. Was she spying for the Cabalistica?”
“Assuredly not,” said Zach. “Think about it, Professor. Wouldn’t you
have been able to tell if she was? If she or I had ill intent, there are charms
that would ensure we never saw the light of day again. No, your problem
most likely is underground at the Foundation... one of the staffers, perhaps,
who lives and works below.”
Harry didn’t say anything. He still did not trust Zach and knew there
was far more to him than met the eye. He did, however, think Zach could
possibly help him.
“Zachary,” he said slowly, “how would you respond if I asked you to
do something that could possibly cost you your internship here?”
Zach cocked his head to one side. “Professor, that would depend on
what you’re asking me to do.”
It only took a minute for Harry to explain the rough outline of his
search plan. First, they’d pay a visit to Charlie Weasley in Argentina. Even
after having to close Dragonworld because of the topsy-turvy economy,
Charlie and Liz were still prominent members of the wizarding community
at Bariloche... several hundred expatriates and refugees from the Voldemort
Wars made it a European city in the heart of Latin America.
Then unless someone at Bariloche had more information or
connections, they’d plunge into Brazil. Harry had only been to Brazil once,
for a Quidditch match, and he knew two things about it: it was beneficial if
you were fluent in Portuguese, and the wizarding community was a bit
more provincial and far more hostile to outsiders than that in Great Britain.
So they’d most likely need an interpreter along... but that could wait until
they arrived in Argentina.
Of course, Harry didn’t speak much Spanish, either. Wizarding
languages he knew aplenty, there was the Latin he’d picked up at
Hogwarts, and because of his penchant for foreign women, his past lovers
had taught him a smattering of words in languages from Albanian to Gaelic
to Urdu. As he’d never had a Latina girlfriend before, about all the Spanish
he knew was taco.
He thought, irrelevantly, that Hermione was fluent in French and
Latin. She also could get on very well in German, Italian, and Spanish. He
had no idea if she’d ever bothered to learn Portuguese. Knowing her, the
second she got the Brazilian assignment he knew she was likely off to the
local Borders or Spidering at Amazon.com to pick up language discs...
Then he resolved to stop thinking about Hermione at every turn, or
else he would drive himself insane.
“Well, I’m fluent in Spanish,” said Zach. “It’s a language that was
spoken at the school I attended before receiving my wizarding training.
Can’t help much with Portuguese, though...” He seemed to be going over
the details of Harry’s plan in his mind. “Her destination was Manaus, you
say? That’s deep in the Amazon, right?”
“Yeah. You either get there by air or by the river. There are really no
viable roads from the South, and it’s a bit too far for accurate Apparition.
That’s really all I know about it, but we can do our research once we’re in
Argentina before heading north.” He sighed. “We don’t even know if she’s
in Manaus. For all we know, she never made it there.”
“Then she might not be in Brazil.”
“No, I’m fairly certain she’s there, or was there,” said Harry, without
knowing why he was certain. “The question is where. Brazil is a huge
country... far larger than England is, and it’s hard enough finding the
missing here. Then, too, when Minister Jobim was assassinated their
wizarding government descended into anarchy. Not a good place for
known Muggleborns to visit.” All things considered, looking at the state of
things over there, perhaps Brian Riordan isn’t so bad after all.
“Well, we may actually have more success than the Black and Potter
team. In a situation like that, my guess would be that stealth is the key.”
I’m still not certain that I trust him, thought Harry. He knows far more
about me and my life than I know about him and his. He also read me like
an open book yesterday morning. Young upstart.
Can I trust him?
“Professor?” Zach was saying.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I’ll go with you,” he said. “Even if it costs me my place here.”
Harry was floored. “Why?”
“I’ll tell you. But first, tell me about her. Start at the beginning, on the
day you first met, and continue on to the last time you saw her. Tell me
why you’re willing to drop everything and risk all because she’s in danger.
And then I’ll tell you, but I think you’ll already know.”
“Well, those would be my reasons, not yours.”
“Not at all. Begging your pardon, sir, but when you went to Tartarus,
were all of your reasons so concrete? Did you just go to save your
generation, or did you go to save all generations? Did you go just to
increase your own magical ability, or did you go to preserve all magic? Did
you go just to save your own love, or did you go so that love in general
would remain in the world?
“Professor, in the place where I come from, the most abhorrent thing
that a man, woman, or child could ever do is to live and die for their own
selfish gain. I am going with you because I see her in your eyes. Twenty-
first century and women’s rights aside, I believe that a lady in trouble
deserves to be snatched out of that trouble if at all possible. So I go with
you, and you have my pledge than I will remain with you to the end.”
Harry looked into the lad’s clear, frank and unblinking blue eyes... and
saw reflected there something innocent... something that cut him to the
heart... a reflection of what he had once been.
He sighed. “I’ll welcome your companionship, Zachary. But if we are
to be comrades on this mission, I must insist that you call me Harry.”
Zach nodded, a twinkle in his eye. “Well, thank you, sir... once we’re
off this island, will do.”
They clasped hands and shook. Harry clapped Zach on the back, and
the younger man smiled.
“So, what are we waiting for? We’ve got a damsel in distress to
rescue!”
“Right. Well, then, gather what you’ll need from the manor and meet
me at the ferry landing at sunset. But not straight to Argentina, though...
before we go, I’d like to extend the invitation to one more person.”
The next morning.
Weasley home, The Wirral, Liverpool.
When Ron came down to breakfast, Mo was sneezing again. As she
prepared pancake batter, she used her wand-hand to stir and the other to
blow into one of his paisley handkerchiefs. The boys were already seated at
the table. Maury was playing a game with his Piggy Puffs, attempting to
charm them up into his spoon via a toy wand, yet only succeeding in
snorting a lot of milk on his nose, which he then blew out on his little
brother.
“Mummy!” yelled Archie in his shrill toddler’s voice, waving a piece
of soggy cold toast. “Maury snot me!”
“Well, then, snot him back,” said Ron, coming in.
“Don’t listen to Daddy, you cannot go around snotting people,” Mo
replied. He looked her over with a grin. Despite the red nose and the
smudge of flour on her nose, she was still the loveliest lady he’d ever laid
eyes on. Pregnancy only served to enhance her beauty.
He was glad to see that the hives had nearly disappeared. Sleeping in
the guest room had helped, although sometimes she slipped in with him.
She paid for it the next morning, however, in various rashes and swellings
that Blaise Zabini would simply give her creamed potions for, shaking his
head at her, and his long bony finger at Ron.
“Pregnancy-induced mate allergy syndrome is nothing to play with,”
he invariably fussed. “You’ve got to limit physical contact with your wife.
It’s only going to get worse until she delivers, and you don’t want her
having an allergic reaction that could jeopardize her life or your unborn
child’s.”
Now, Ron knew from Hermione that Muggle women sometimes
suffered from something called PMS, tied into their menstrual cycles or
something. As no adult witch ever had to suffer the monthly curse, witch
PMS was very different, and far rarer than the form than the version their
Muggle sisters suffered from.
When witches got PMS, they were invariably pregnant. The source of
the allergy was whoever the sire of the child was. There had been quite a
few PMS-induced divorces when here and there a wizard came to realize
that his pregnant and glowing witch was now inexpicably allergic to the
owlery keeper.
Mo had first shown symptoms of PMS when they got back from their
Canadian holiday. She’d sneeze uncontrollably whenever he was in the
room. At first, they thought she had a cold, but when she didn’t respond to
Pepper-Up Potion or anything from Higginbotham or Parkinson-Locke,
they took her to Blaise. Blaise immediately diagnosed the problem, but the
cure was a bit more than either of them could take.
“Move out?” said Ron. “You’ve got to be kidding! There’s no way I’m
going to abandon my gypsy girl for the next six months. Impossible.” He
leaned over the examining table to kiss his wife, who coughed in response.
Blaise had warned them of all the dangers, but really, Ronald and
Maureen Weasley found it rather hard to keep their hands off one another.
They’d been together for all intents and purposes for five years and
married for three, and were still the same fun-loving, passionate and well-
matched couple they’d been since the beginning.
At first when they learned she had PMS, Ron had been tentative about
kissing, touching, and lovemaking, but Mo wasn’t. “No pain, no gain,”
she’d say, and after all was said and done he’d invariably be left with a
huge Cheshire grin on his face.
He had the same grin on his face as he walked over to the counter,
spun his wife around, and kissed her until even her sniffles subsided.
“Ewwy! Mummy and Daddy are playing kissy-face again!” said
Maury in disgust, while Artie simply giggled hysterically.
Mo then gasped suddenly, breaking the kiss.
Achoo!
Artie nearly fell off his chair. “Mummy snot Daddy,” he said between
chortles, bright red fringe dipping into the milk that remained in his bowl.
Mo grabbed up a tea-towel and wiped her husband’s face.
“Oh no, babe, I’m sorry about that.”
“I’m not,” he said, smoothing her hair back. “How are you feeling?”
Her reply was another sneeze, this time caught on the tea-towel.
“What did I do to deserve this punishment? All I ever wanted was to love
my husband in every way possible and this is the thanks I get... I get sick
every time I’m near him.”
Ron’s hand went to her beautifully rounded midriff.
“Well, it’s not a life sentence, is it? Just a few months more, and you’ll
be giving me another son.”
“Don’t you ever tire of boys?” asked Mo, nose still buried in the
towel.
“When I do, we’ll wrap things up with a baby girl. Which is the way
families should be... lots of brothers, and then a sister at last.”
“No, that’s the way your family is,” laughed Maureen. “Think I’m
Penelope Weasley, do you?”
Ron smiled. “Well, you’ve got her beat as it is. Penny was only
pregnant twice... the first time with P.J., and the second with the twins. She
got a ready-made family in the other four. Are you saying we ought to
adopt?”
She kissed him again, ignoring her sniffles.
“Not on your life. Genes as sexy as yours ought to be preserved for
the benefit of posterity.”
There was a firm knock on the door. Ron let his wife go reluctantly
and went to answer it, sons racing to it in front of them.
When they saw the visitor, Maury and Artie jumped up and down.
“Uncle Harry, Uncle Harry!” shouted Artie, giggling as Harry tossed
him up seconds after greeting Ron, leaving him suspended in mid-air.
“Have you brought us presents, Uncle Harry?” asked Maury, and was
rewarded with a sack of assorted Honeydukes sweets. “I knew it!”
“Harry, stop that, they just ate,” said Mo cordially, coming out of the
kitchen. “Still ready to boil me in hot Horklump oil?” Her tone was light,
but she wasn’t smiling.
“Actually, Maureen, I need to talk to both of you. Something has
happened that put everything that’s gone on over the past couple of months
into perspective.”
“It’s Hermione, isn’t it?” asked Ron. “What’s wrong?”
They sat down, kids playing underfoot. Harry recounted what Ted
Granger had shared with him, and as much of the day before’s Foundation
meeting as he dared disclose. Then he shared the plan he’d formulated with
Zachary Raupp, who was in Diagon Alley finalizing their travel
arrangements.
“I’d like you to come along with us, Ron,” said Harry.
“Are you certain about that, Harry?”
“I’d like to know how I’d be able to do it without you. Ron, I need
you along... I can’t do without you. You have to do this for me. And her, of
course. Think about it. She’d do the same for you and so would I. No
matter what’s gone wrong in recent years.”
Ron glanced over at his wife. She’d stopped sniffling. Her face had
become extremely hard, even though she was holding Artie on her lap.
He turned back to Harry. “How soon do you want to leave?”
“This afternoon, if at all possible. Zach has reserved three tickets on
Aerolineas Argentinas for Buenos Aires. We’ll be there this time
tomorrow.”
“Have you owled Charlie?” Ron asked, immediately standing up and
walking to the sofa table for a rather large owl directory.
“No, I thought it would be better if we surprised him, for security
reasons. I didn’t want to owl from Ayr.”
“Knowing Charlie, we had better owl in advance. He and Liz tend to
travel a lot these days since little Elizabeth’s at Hogwarts now. You don’t
want them to be in Romania or Hungary or China when we show up on
their doorstep... here, just a brief note to let them know we’re coming...”
He was reaching for a parchment and scrawling quickly. “Scout, bring
Dad’s sealing-wax from the desk upstairs.” Maury raced upstairs.
Then Ron turned to his wife. “Won’t you go and pack a few things up
for me, love?”
Mo’s lips were set into a firm little line. “I can’t believe this. Just like
that, eh? You’ll drop everything and run after her? What about your
family? What about me?”
“You’ll be well taken care of... I know gold’s been scarce enough
lately, but you’ll have enough to... anyway, you’ll know how to get in
touch with me. I’ll make sure of that.”
“It isn’t enough,” said Mo flatly. “Why do you always have to go
running after her? Bad enough that he always does it,” here her eyes
flashed at Harry, “when most likely this is another one of her attention-
gathering stunts...”
“It is not,” said Harry. “No one has seen Hermione for a month. No
one. Now, perhaps you don’t care whether or not she disappears from the
face of the earth, but your husband certainly does!”
“He’s my husband now,” snapped Mo. “Haven’t I suffered enough
because of that fact? Hasn’t she made sure I knew how much she and all
the other witches in our set hated me because of Ron? Why should I give
an imp’s arse what becomes of her?”
“Maureen,” Ron said quietly, before Harry said or did something that
wouldn’t have been proper for children to witness, “I’m not tagging along
with Harry to plunge down onto my knees and beg her to take me back,
you know. Hermione isn’t my wife any longer, but there is always the
Covenant.”
“Which she broke.”
“Yes, she did... but Harry and I didn’t. I owe her my life, love...
without her, you wouldn’t have ever met me. Surely you understand why
I have to.”
Tears were running down Mo’s face. Ron walked over to her, reaching
out a thumb to dry them. As for Harry, he was so angry that he’d turned
toward the fireplace, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets.
Ron pulled his wife close. She sneezed into his chest, crying openly
now. He whispered into her hair how much he loved her, how she was the
only one for him, how she’d brought so much happiness into his life.
Asking her if she would show how kind and generous and unselfish she
was by supporting him in this. Promising that when they brought back
Hermione safe and sound, she could let the other witch know exactly how
she felt about things.
“If you don’t want me to go, Mo,” he said finally, “just say the word
and I won’t.”
The look on Harry’s face spoke volumes. Still he said nothing. The
situation was too dire, and he needed Ron, who was perhaps one of the
best-trained wizards in the world when it came to reconnaissance.
Although it had been more than a decade since Ron had gone off on such a
quest, he had been trained at seventeen by Drakkar the Chalybian. Those
kinds of lessons one couldn’t exactly forget, no matter how hard one tried.
Still, he made a mental note to let Maureen Ludlam Weasley know
exactly what he thought of her once Hermione was all right. Crying as if
she was the one in danger...
“You can go,” said Mo. “Only because you have to.”
Ron leaned over and kissed her. “I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just come back to me in one piece.”
“Oh, we happen to be very good at that,” said Ron, winking at Harry.
“Got full marks in that ‘coming back alive’ column every time.”
“Let’s hope your luck holds,” Mo replied. “Harry, you know you owe
me.”
If you weren’t a woman, I’d...”Sure. Put it on my tab. That’s how your
husband usually does it.”
She stared at him, obviously resenting his lighthearted tone. Didn’t he
understand what he was taking away from her?
“I’ll run upstairs and pack you a bag,” she sighed finally, then
disappeared.
“She’ll be all right,” said Ron quickly. “Just that Hermione isn’t her
cup of tea. Had you come wanting to rescue Diane Riordan herself, I doubt
she would have been as stubborn.”
“Do you think they’ll always resent each other?” asked Harry. “Mo
and Hermione, I mean?”
Ron shrugged. “Hard to tell with witches. They aren’t as simple as we
are, I guess. Know how they’ll bring up something that happened five or
ten years ago in the middle of a blazing row?”
“Oh, yeah... and it’ll be totally irrelevant to whatever you’re talking
about. For certain.”
“Frustrating. They ought to be more like us.”
Harry considered this. “I’m sure they say the same about blokes.
Anyway, if we find Hermione, we can have her send a brief owl to Mo or
something...”
“When we find Hermione, you mean,” corrected Ron.
He let out a heavy breath. “I don’t know what I’ll do if we don’t find
her, Ron.”
Ron had an indecipherable look on his face. “We’ll find her, Harry.
And when we do, the two of you need to sit down somewhere and have a
long talk, I guess... but first, we’ve got to find her. And we will find her,
understand? You’ve got to know that.”
Harry nodded.
“Great. Let me get my pack, kiss the wife and kids good-bye... and
then we’re off to Brazil via Argentina.”
Tuesday, October 23, 2012. Afternoon.

Executive suite, The Black and Potter Foundation.
Sirius Black finished the memorandum. With one hand, he fanned the
ink on the parchment dry and called for his assistant.
“Stacy, can you get Harry in the fireplace for me?”
“Sure thing, sir... just one moment.”
When she returned, she had an odd look on her face.
“Well, Stacy? What is it?”
Stacy wrung her hands before answering. “Um, well... it seems as if
the Professor isn’t in this morning. Janet MacCulloch is covering his and
Diana Oliveira’s classes.”
“Then get him at home.”
“According to Janet, he isn’t there either.”
“Then when will he be back? Did you ask her that?”
She walked over to the desk and put her hand on her boss and friend’s
shoulder.
“He’s taken a leave of absence. Left Jocelyn in charge, as the length of
his leave is indeterminate.” She sighed. “Sirius, I think he’s gone to South
America anyway.”
Sirius’ fist plunged down on the desk.
“Damn!”
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart)
i am never without it (anywhere I go
you go, my dear;
and whatever is done by only me is
your doing, my darling)
i fear not fate (for you are my fate, my
sweet)
i want no world (for beautiful you are
my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has
always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is
you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud
of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called
life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can
hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the
stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my
heart)
~e.e. cummings
A/N: We’re off to Brazil! Next chapter, fly away with Harry,
Ron, and the mysterious Zach as they head to South America,
where Charlie and Liz, Monica Starling, and a informant await in
Argentina. More Heath, Engli, and the Dark One to come... and the
focus of everyone’s attention is a certain talented Dr. Granger.
Love Gordon has drawn an excellent map of the Portal Island
of Ayr. Here ‘tis:
http://www.geocities.com/zer0_gurl/ayr_map.jpg
SOURCES: Pippin and Jana wrote bits of the chapter for me
when I was terribly blocked... without Hermione or Angelina in this
chapter, or any Weasleys other than Ron to speak of, I confess
freely that I felt a bit lost! Pippin wrote the ending for the first
Ron/Mo scene that I so love. Jana wrote parts of the DSG class
scenes, jump-started the Harry/Diana argument, and helped with the
Harry seduction scene (although I don’t think she minded that
much!). Special thanks also to Lissanne of Love Is A Battlefield
fame for her eleventh-hour chat about the Trio and Maureen, which
helped so much!
Continued thanks to my beta team... this time, Pippin, Jana,
Ash, Carole, and Michelle were the eagle-eyed editors. Couldn’t do
this without you.
Special thanks to everyone who participated in the December
th
30 ParaCon chat. You helped this come into being far more than
you know.
And thanks to all of you for your support, whether via e-mail,
IM, FictionAlley Schnoogle review, or HP_Paradise Yahoogroup
post. Special thanks to Schnoogle reviewers of Chapter 3,
“Evergreen”: John, Tobi Malfoy, Kathryne, Tess, Heather, Allie,
Aprika91, potterlovingash, Jing, Lady Rhianna, tigercoat, Ayla
Pascal, Dixie Malfoy, ice diamond, Moreta of Pern,
RangerPrincess, Jen Beckett, Starling, Yasmin Cameron, nafeesa,
Mary Potter, PennyLin, Keith Fraser, Jocetta, Michaela, Al,
QuidditchQueen8, Honeyduke, FallenAngel, PinkCat, halo and
wings, Melodylemming, Angela Burgess, Unholy Diety, Amrita,
Evilkarky, Ruby, Liz, BruinFan, METMA Mandy, Andy PLS,
Melanie, catlady de los angeles, Sarah, miuccia, Heather
(dreamgirl48), Vicki Granger, Caitlin Allyana, Michael Malfoy,
Thieving Magpie, Athena, ksenia, Kate, Angel of Music, JQ
Tolken/Jade, StellarAtalanta16, Mike, Aeoles Aestas, Katta,
Kristen, Rosepixie, amathya, and Sabs.
I appreciate your continued support... it means a lot to me.
Have a happy Valentine’s Day! I hope to post Chapter 5 within a
shorter time interval than the latest hiatus... we’ll see. My New
Year’s resolution is to give you guys surprises rather than ETAs.
Surprises are much more fun, aren’t they?
Chapter Summary: Harry and Ron head to South America
with Zach to find Hermione before the compromised Black and
Potter team or the Cabalistica does. Meanwhile, the good doctor
has managed to help herself a bit, and learns that when in Rio, one
must do as the cariocas do if they wish to survive...
Dedicated to my dear friend Heidi Tandy, who is the glue that
holds this fandom together.
All English/Portuguese translation and primary Brazilian
consultation done by Mariana Herrera, Ana Luiza de Castro
Coelho, and Roberta Solis. Roberta was also a most valuable
carioca consultant for all scenes set in Rio de Janeiro. Many thanks.
English/Spanish translation by the author.
aaaaaaaa
5. The Girl From Ipanema
“Olha que coisa mais linda

Mais cheia de graça
É ela menina
Que vem e que passa
Num doce balanço, a caminho do
mar...”
– Antonio Carlos Jobim and Vinicius
de Moraes, “Garota de Ipanema“
(1963)
Somewhere in Brazil.
I
Exact time, date and place indeterminate.
n over a decade of doctoring, Hermione Granger had never delivered a
child before. She knew the in and outs of childbirth from her
mediwizarding course in Midwifery at Paracelsus, of course, but had
never expected to have to put her skills to use.
The screaming of her cellmate interrupted her night’s rest. Hermione
sat up in the darkness, completely clearheaded. She no longer slept very
deeply anyway. Their captors had conditioned her well.
“What’s wrong?” she asked in English, after a moment of searching
for the Portuguese words she wanted without success. So much for her
guidebooks and Spider-disc dictionaries... Hermione hadn’t seen any of her
things for weeks and doubted if she ever would again.
“Bebê,” said the younger girl, panting. Biting her lips bloody to stop
from screaming again.
Baby.
It was coming.
Hermione threw the filthy burlap bedcovering off, sliding out of the
hard pallet . The shift she was wearing was no cleaner than the linens, but
it would have to do. With a quick tug and tear, she ripped the bottom hem
of her shift off, grabbed one of the two buckets from the furthest corner of
the cell, and made her way over to the gasping, sweaty girl.
I need hot water. Clean sheets and blankets. Perhaps even something
for her to bite down on, since I don’t have my wand. And even if I had it, it
wouldn’t do me much good in the state I’m in.
How can I deliver a newborn using only this?
Inwardly Hermione sighed. Yet she made sure that the girl only saw a
serene face and tranquil brown eyes.
“Vou morrer de qualquer jeito,” said the girl between gasps. “E meu
bebê morrerá também.”
Hermione shook her head. After rehearsing all the greeting and
common travel phrases for months, it was ironic that morrer had been
among the first words in Portuguese she’d learned. She had heard it often
enough over the past few hellish weeks, several times in reference to her.
Certainly there were times when she felt as if she would “morrer” – die –
in this place, all alone. Before she had the chance to go back to England
and set things right.
Another inward sigh.
Her hands plunged the makeshift rag into the bucket of brackish, sour
water. She laid the metallic-smelling yet cool cloth against the girl’s
forehead and began to coach her breathing.
From the corners of her eyes, Hermione glanced around at the other
women in their cell... surely there was someone else who could assist in the
birth?... yet they all feigned sleep as the youngest among them suffered.
Perhaps it was because they disapproved of the nature of the pregnancy, as
Eva was an unmarried teenager who’d come to this place a virgin several
months before Hermione had. Perhaps it was because they were afraid that
Eva’s screams would alert their jailers, provoking another round of poking,
prodding, and abuse in general.
Perhaps it was because they no longer cared.
Hermione couldn’t help but care. As she drew closer to the girl, she
began to experience the all-encompassing pangs of birth herself. She
gritted her teeth, willing herself to disperse, dispel and ignore. Now was
not the time for her to share.
It was even harder because she could no longer shield.
“It’s going to be all right, Eva,” said Hermione, stroking with the
cloth, using her other hand to brush sweaty strands of midnight black from
the girl’s forehead. “You are not going to die, and neither is your baby.”
Eva began to whimper. Another piercing scream sliced through the
black night, cutting it much as a machete does through the lush tangle of
the Amazon.
This time, their captors were alerted. The large one who the women
called the Bear came, unlocking the six-inch thick bolted door with a swift
- 121 -
Alohomora. Wand drawn, he stepped into the cell.
“What’s all this racket?” he said, directing the question towards
Hermione as she was the only English speaker and he never spoke any
Portuguese. English was not Bear’s first language, Hermione had guessed.
He was likely Slavic, from one of the former bloc countries in Eastern
Europe.
“She’s having her baby,” said Hermione dully. “Under these
conditions, both she and the child might die.”
Bear’s eyes flickered over to the girl on the pallet that Hermione was
bending over, twisting and writhing under the filthy coverlet.
“Come,” said Bear. With an ungentle flick of his wand, he sent Eva
flying upward... and towards him. When Hermione tried to follow, he
slammed her against the wall with that same wand. “Stay!”
The cell door slammed. The other women were now awake. One of
them, a grandmotherly type with snapping black eyes, came to pull
Hermione back to her feet.
“Volte a dormir, gringa,” said the old woman. “Não há mais nada que
você possa fazer para ajudar.”
Hermione frowned. Dormir... really. How could one sleep in a place
like this? And perhaps there was nothing more she could do for the girl at
the moment, as the old woman believed, but at least she had tried.
Yet after a while, sleep found her. Her eyelids, weary of staring at the
ceiling that seemed to be more than one hundred feet up, became heavy,
each lash weighing a ton. After a drowsy whimper and a face-splitting
yawn, Hermione was drifting off to sleep.
As she slept, she dreamed.
She dreamt of a faraway island world, surrounded by a crystal sea, a
million miles away from her captivity. It was a world where she could find
wildflowers intertwined in the swaying green grass and orchards heavy-
laden with her favorite apples... apples of every color and variety.
In her dreams, she saw bubbling brooks tinted pastel from rainbows
overhead, and the fairy-nymphs that made them their home. She saw a
marble hall in the midst of a garden fragrant with asphodel, clasped the
long-fingered hands of an Immortal unearthly fair in greeting, and
returned the Lady’s knowing smile without knowing why.
And then she was mounted upon a winged, sable horse, clutching
thighs tightly to the magnificent beast’s back and flanks, gathering fistfuls
of jet-black mane as strong, familiar arms wrapped around her waist and
held her close... and as she inhaled...
As she dreamed, she remembered.
- 122 -
She was awakened abruptly by a rough hand, jerking the stiff covers
off her. It was much like that first awakening when she’d first remembered
everything... bliss, followed by terror and anger, and ending with simple
resignation.
Bear’s broad face leered above her.
“Come,” he said.
After binding her wrists with some sort of enchanted rope (Hermione
always thought this was rather pointless, as there was nowhere to escape to
anyway), she followed Bear down the narrow corridor, up a flight of stairs
that felt slimy and rather nasty against her bare feet, and down another
corridor to Bear’s room.
She’d been here, once, as she’d been in all of their other jailer’s
rooms. Rape was a simple fact of life at this facility, and after her breaking,
Hermione supposed she was meant to warm the bed of one of these foul
men. It added to the theory she’d first formulated in Tartarus... that rape,
whether of male or female, was an essential tool of the wicked because it
was the worst form of humiliation. Even after the success of her breaking,
she remained proud as ever... and they wanted to see her brought low. How
better to do that, than by defecating on her soul?
They had each tried to rape her once, as they had violated all but the
oldest of the old women. But she wouldn’t cooperate... every time they
tried to touch her in any manner, they invariably ended up getting stung.
Each one had slapped her around a bit until they either saw that it wasn’t
anything she was doing intentionally or the sting knocked them
unconscious.
The latter only happened once, and when the wizard in charge – the
man who Hermione always thought of as Rat – found them in the morning,
he thought to beat her. That didn’t work. For every blow Rat delivered to
her delicate and sensitive skin, she made sure he felt the pain tenfold. At
first it seemed to turn him on, but then she got to be too much for him and
he flung her across the room.
So she was left alone, left bruised and scratched and bitten upon her
pallet to suffer. The other women, including Eva at first, avoided her. She
spoke no Portuguese then and they didn’t want whatever unlucky curse she
had to rub off on them. It took nearly a day... much longer than it would
have before her breaking... but Hermione succeeded in healing herself
quite nicely. Not even a scar remained.
When her jailers saw that, they left her alone.
Bear opened the door to his room. There was Eva, moaning and
thrashing and cursing on the bed, propped up with a number of pillows. On
- 123 -
the bedtable beside her there was a large bowl filled with steaming hot
water, towels, and surgical scissors.
“Get to it,” growled Bear. “If she dies or the baby dies, you die.”
Hermione nodded, biting her tongue sharply to stopper up the first
furious words that came to mind. Bear retreated into a corner to watch the
birth process.
It lasted for hours upon hours. Hermione coaxed, soothed, and tried to
keep her own empathizing under the radar. A few touches relayed to
Hermione information about how the baby was progressing and where it
was. She was thankful that it was not a breech birth, and that Eva seemed
to be able to accommodate the child without any dangerous cuts to aid the
delivery.
After what seemed like an eternity, the head appeared. Eva’s screams
crescendoed, but soon the baby came in a slippery gush of water and blood
and life... the mother shuddered with relief, and after the release came the
rain of tears... and the baby boy wailed as Hermione cleaned its nose and
cut the umbilical cord.
Eva smiled her gratitude and reached out for her child. After quickly
cleaning him off and wishing she had her wand and clinical partner Blaise
by her side, Hermione handed the boy to Eva with a grin.
“He seems just fine. A healthy babe indeed,” Hermione said, happy for
the first time in weeks. An incredible rush flowed through her veins. The
birth process was so filled with awe and wonder, she thought as she took
care of the afterbirth... and motherhood was a lot like the mystery religions
of old, its initiates baptized with pain just before the reward of glory...
The door to Bear’s room opened. In stepped the Rat. His beady eyes
focused on Eva as if they were the crosshairs of a gun.
“A son,” he said, snatching the baby from Eva’s hands, cackling. “My
son. You’ve done well, Evinha.”
Eva screamed and sobbed, clutching at the air as the Rat walked away.
It took everything Hermione had not to lunge at the disgusting lanky
wizard, and he saw it in her eyes.
“No need to be jealous, Dr. Granger,” he said, reaching out a long
finger to trace her jaw. Of all the jailers, he was the only one who called
the women by name. “You’re next on my list... and I do believe you will be
well worth the wait.”
She was sure she was stinging him. Yet the difference with the Rat
was that he seemed to enjoy it, the sadomasochist.
If Rat ever tried to violate her, Hermione swore to herself, she would
kill him. Kill him without hesitation and deal with the implications later.
- 124 -
She’d never killed anyone before. Nephthys had warned her about the
mortal peril that a hyperempath risked if she committed murder... she
would most likely end up dead herself. Knowing this, Harry and Ron had
done all the attack magic in Tartarus, leaving her to heal and perform
defensive spells. However, she wouldn’t hesitate if this Rat even thought
about...
Rat saw the fear in her eyes. He licked his lips, turning to his
underling.
“Tonight,” he said to Bear, voice breaking a bit. “Have her cleaned up
and sent up above to my rooms.”
With babe in arms, he swept out of the room.
Eva began to sob uncontrollably. Forgetting her own troubles for the
moment, Hermione rushed to her side, thinking to comfort her patient, but
Bear’s wand stopped her, snatched her up like a rag doll, and drew her
back to him.
If I only had my wand...
Lot of good it would do you, Hermione. Before the breaking you could
have taken care of this clod with your bare hands.
“You heard what the boss said,” Bear growled. “No time for weepy
girly stuff. You’ve got work to do if you’re to be presentable.”
Hermione glared at him as the door opened again. A woman who was
working for them, christened Croc in Hermione’s mind due to her
protruding, snoutlike jaw and pointy teeth, appeared with wand drawn.
“Viene conmigo, ahora,” she said sharply. Hermione came, albeit
grudgingly, throwing one last sympathetic glance in Eva’s direction.
This was it. Tonight she would kill the Rat and escape the prison, or
be killed and escape the torture. It didn’t matter... she would be finally free.
After her wrists were tied again, she followed the Crocodile woman.
Hermione’s eyes swam before her as she sent her thoughts across the long
miles.
I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so very sorry. I never want to be this far from
you again. How I long for you... long to have you hold me again. And this
time, I swear I’ll never let you go. Never.
Why did I ever run away? I miss you so much that it’s like a
permanent ache in my heart... an ache that was always inside of me, an
ache that I didn’t recognize until I came to this place and realized that it
was there all this time.
I’ve been so blind. A fool... how could someone as wonderful as you
love someone as stupid as I’ve been?
If I could just have one chance to do things all over again... just one
- 125 -
chance to answer differently in the roof garden... one chance to linger in
that bed three years ago just a while longer... one chance to follow my first
mind all those years ago at Fred and Angelina’s wedding and go along
with you to take Anya home...
One chance to choose another course in Avalon, because...
I remember, Harry.
I remember everything, Harry, and I promise never to forget again.
Never again will I forget how much I want you... miss you... love you.
“Keep up,” growled the Crocodile woman.
Sighing, Hermione shook off her wistful thinking and her tears, and
quickened the pace.
~~~
End of September.
Somewhere in the Greater London area.
Back in England, the man who had pointed a gun at Hermione on the
eve of her birthday was checking out the headlines of the Daily Prophet at
Flourish and Blotts’ newsagents.
Unlike most, he did not have the wizard paper daily owled to his
home. Instead he took the very long walk every day from his East End flat
to Charing Cross Road and the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn’t as if he had
anything else to do. He’d not had gainful employment for well over two
years.
And it was all her fault.
He could not escape seeing her face. It had been splashed on the front
page of the Prophet all week, as her reappearance in the wizarding world
was supposedly internationally newsworthy.
The picture he was looking at was at the bottom of the first page. It
was a snapshot that had been taken the morning after the botched
assassination. She was walking along Diagon Alley with her lifelong friend
Harry Potter... most of the pictures that had been featured since the initial
article on the twentieth were those snapped by the paparazzi on her
birthday, as any mention or glimpse of the elusive man known alternately
as the Boy Who Lived and the twice-blessed was considered a plus for the
reporter or photographer concerned. Harry Potter had been the subject of
more than half of the past two decades’ worth of Golden Quill Award
winning features.
He watched as the Hermione in the photograph walked, a vision in
- 126 -
black and white, through the street that was just beyond the windows.
Potter kept out of the frame as much as possible, as was his wont, but it
was quite obvious that he was watching her intently.
The caption by Rachel Ratliff made note of this.
“After three years in which her whereabouts were unknown, on 19
September Dr Granger made her first appearance in Diagon Alley after her
highly publicized divorce from former star Seeker Ronald Weasley. She
was accompanied by Professor Harry Potter, headmaster at the
Dumbledore School for the Gifted and long rumoured to be an old flame of
the famous doctor.”
The man clenched his teeth. Hard.
Then he crumpled up the paper. Blindly, he skulked out of Diagon
Alley and made his way home.
Home was a crumbling flat in the East End that was accessible only
from a dank, damp alley. Generations of London’s poor had taken up
residence in exactly this area... first, the lower-class British with their
broad Cockney accents, then Irish, and now a rainbow hodge-podge of
newcomers from Britain’s former overseas colonies. There were quite a
few Pakistanis, and quite a few more West Indians, with Jamaicans
predominating. It was a poor neighborhood, one rife with crime and
dysfunction and despair.
It was also a great place to hide.
The Polyjuice wore off just as he was sticking the key into his door.
He made it inside just in time enough to feel the violent wrench of his
insides. The silver-blonde hair darkened to a drab dun color. The starry
grey eyes turned the brown of rich coffee. His limbs lengthened and
broadened, and he curved his large hands inward.
Very easy, it was, to imagine them wrapping about her pale throat.
He’d fantasized about killing her often. Nothing aroused him faster
than the thought of spilling her blood. He was not interested in rape or
torture. He was not interested in kidnapping. He just wanted her life to end
as soon as possible. Then and only then would he have peace.
Oh, how he hated her.
Getting up, ignoring the tatters that his four-sizes-too-small shirt and
trousers were now in, he made his way to his bedroom, stepping over
discarded clothing and papers and half-eaten meals, bare feet sticking to
the filthy carpet on the way.
A roach scurried across his bedroom floor, but this was too usual for
him to care much. All he cared about was getting to the large walk-in
wardrobe, reminiscent of something out of a C.S. Lewis chronicle.
- 127 -
However, the inside contained something a bit more interesting to him
than fur coats.
He crossed the wardrobe, devoid of all clothing other than swatches
here and there, and quickly reached the back wall. He pulled out the
newspaper he’d shoved into his pocket after crumpling and smoothed it
almost reverently.
He took a pair of scissors, stained with his own blood, off the small
shelf he’d built and lowered it to the back of his hand. He pressed down...
no, that would come later. He lifted the beautiful blade from his skin and
slid the newspaper gently between the two razor sharp edges. He snipped
away with satisfaction, cutting out the photo of the illustrious Hermione
Granger. He was careful to cut straight through Potter’s face; anyone who
kept company like Granger’s was bound to be evil in his own right.
He lifted the strip of paper above his head and looked up at it,
squinting through the dim light. Granger was now occupied with trying to
unsnag the top fastening of her robes from a lock of hair that had gotten
caught. She looked at him briefly, waved, and then went back to her task.
He sneered.
Using an ordinary thumb tack, he pinned the clipping on the back wall
with all the rest. He used one pin in each corner, and then he reached for
the rest of the box. He carefully selected two red pins and tested their
sharpness by pricking his fingers. He wasn’t satisfied until two red rivers
of blood flowed down over his palm.
He used these pins to poke her right through the eyes. As always with
moving photographs, she stopped moving and froze, her face an expression
of horror. He laughed to himself as he jabbed her newsprinted body with
more and more pins, leaking greyish blood everywhere.
Ah, yes, how sweet it would be to do this to her in person.
No, that would take too long, he decided. Better just one giant pin
right through her heart. He wanted her life to end quickly, but not
painlessly. Inflicting a fraction of the pain she had brought him through her
malicious behavior would be the only way to gain the resolution he craved.
A jab with a pin.
A stab with a dagger.
A bullet through the head.
It was all the same.
Next time, he would calculate his moves precisely and not make
stupid mistakes.
- 128 -
Heart of Tartarus.
Night after Harry, Ron, and Zach leave for South America.
Sebastian Borgin had never been to Tartarus before. The fact that he
was enjoying his stay was a testament to his depravity. He’d been quartered
in Lucius Malfoy’s former suite. Sebastian had been but a boy in the days
when his father had served Voldemort’s great lieutenant but some of
Malfoy’s spirit still resided in the room.
His companion, the woman known on Ayr as Diana Oliveira – but to
her own time and people as Dr. Lenore Raven – had never been to Tartarus
before, either. She was hopelessly out of place here. Like a fine ice
sculpture on a midsummer’s day. Yet she had her orders. Better late than
never, right?
As she listened to Sebastian snore in the bed next to her, she couldn’t
help but compare Sebastian and Harry in bed. A Sabaean Watcher did what
was required of her and no less... yet many of her comrades back home had
shuddered when she’d related what some of her tasks might be. Back at
home, the crude old-fashioned type of intercourse was not required for
either procreation or pleasure... none but a few engaged in it, as it was
considered rather Neanderthal. Therefore, although she had loved many
men, physically Harry had been only her second.
Lenore closed her eyes. She’d been prepared during her field training,
of course, by reading all the old clinical manuals required. But those
manuals had not prepared her for the rush of emotion that she felt
whenever he touched her. Although she’d tried to tell herself that it was
merely a series of chemical reactions, her heart knew much better.
She’d been in love with Harry Potter nearly all her life. As a child she
remembered her own mother telling stories about her childhood, about the
miracle that occurred on 31 October 1981, about the special baby boy who
somehow caused it to happen. Lenore had read all the stories that her
parents were able to unearth about Harry as well... every scrap of
information that she could find.
“You’re obsessed,” Heath Canyon had told her when they were
teenagers. “He’s not real.”
“He was once,” she’d snapped back, angrily.
“Yes, but it’s not like you’d ever get a chance to meet him. And even
if you did, how would you talk to him? He spoke English, a dead
language...”
“It’s not at all dead, Heath! It just evolved into our own Common
Speech, everyone knows that! Besides, Mother speaks English perfectly
well, and so does your dad!”
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Heath had winked at her and grinned. Then he said in perfect English,
“Whenever I make love to you, whispering sweet English nothings in your
ear, it really turns you on. Doesn’t it, Raven baby?” Heath always called
her by her last name, she remembered as she lay in Tartarus... a few short
years afterward, she had become his fair Raven.
“Go away,” she’d said after punching him soundly. “That’s one thing
that you and Harry Potter don’t have in common... all the stories and holos
show that Harry was the perfect gentleman.”
“No, the stories and holos show that Harry was a hypocrite. You just
aren’t reading them right. How many women are linked with him in the
files? Yet in the end, Raven, he only went for one. I doubt he’d give you
the time of day.”
“Heath, if Harry Potter had ever laid eyes on me, he would have
forgotten that Hermione Granger existed before his next breath. Haven’t
you seen the holos on her? She was a dowd... not even our homeliest girls
today look that plain.”
Heath shrugged. “She wasn’t so bad looking. Interesting face, I think.
Everyone here in Sabera is made to... what does Dr. Stone call it?...
‘maximum physical specifications’. Boring. That’s why while you like
reading the old books, I like watching the holos. People were better to look
at back then, I think... their differences made them beautiful, Raven.”
She and Heath had spent hours together as children, immersed in
conversations about their parents’ work and the interesting figures who
lived many centuries before. They bantered back and forth about life back
in the romantic twentieth and early twenty-first century, before the horrific
Purges of the mid to late twenty-first century came and nine-tenths of
humanity died.
Their parents always admonished them to stop fantasizing about a
time that hadn’t been as wonderful as it had seemed.
“Yes, Lee, there were many technological advances within a short
period of time,” their father had sighed. “Yes, there were wonders back
then that we’ll never see again, although many of our colleagues are trying
to resurrect many of the vanished species that we’re finding we may need.”
“They say you could play outdoors back then,” Dale, her younger
brother, had added to their father’s speech. “Children did it all the time.”
“Yes, they did,” said their mother. “But many children starved to
death. Many children were abused and neglected and undereducated. No
children in Sabera or in any other nation of the Gaea Alliance must suffer
these things anymore.”
But at least they were free, the woman now known as Diana had
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thought.
Then came the Great Crisis to their world. The cataclysm was
unavoidable; human technology, though much advanced since the
frightening Purges, was unable to prevent it.
All seemed to be lost.
Heath’s father and Lenore’s mother invented the Watchtower just in
time. Across the Alliance, Dan Canyon and Tori Raven’s names were
celebrated... but in their hearts, the two old friends knew that the torch
would have to be passed on if the Great Crisis was to be avoided.
Dan’s oldest son and Tori’s oldest daughter had just come of age –
Heath was thirty-two then and Lenore thirty, so their parents had suggested
them as joint heads of the project. Together they spent the next five years
planning their mission... and Watching. Zack Canyon and Dale Raven were
still underage, only in their late twenties, but they became their older
siblings’ primary assistants.
There were only ten others in all of Sabera who qualified for the work.
Seal and Vick Valentine, another set of siblings who were in their early
fifties... at their prime. Seal had been Heath’s closest comrade other than
Lenore from childhood... the two often operated as one. Vick wasn’t quite
as powerful as the others were, but she had by far the best brain. Not that
the others were slouches, though.
Logan Lovelady, at sixty-three, was the oldest of the group. Yet she
was hale and hearty, and was in better shape than the average forty year old
during the time they’d been watching so closely. Three of her daughters,
Winter, Summer, and Autumn, were underage, but approved as field
specialists.
Two brothers, Lance and Guy Knight, rounded out the group. Lance
and Guy were just as smart as the others, but possessed sheer brawn and
tactical cunning. They could best even Diana in a round of hand-to-hand
combat.
Although there were fourteen on the team, Heath and Lenore provided
the leadership. Yet around the third year of preparations, it was apparent
that the other team members deferred to Heath in all things. It wasn’t
because Heath was a man – all knew that Tori Raven was listed first in the
Watchtower patent – but because he was simply born to it. Lenore was the
strategist, but Heath was the Watchers’ heart and soul. So when it came
time for the Council to elect a leader with sole responsibility for the
Watchtower, the mantle fell upon Dr. Heath Canyon.
She narrowed her eyes in the murky darkness of Tartarus,
remembering. How she had grown to love Heath Canyon almost more than
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anything. How she had broken the law to lie with him, many times,
something that no citizen of Sabera was allowed to do without a proper
permit from the Council. How she would have done almost anything for
him, how she, like everyone else in the Watchtower and in all of the Gaea
Alliance, adored him.
And yet, when it was time for them to go, her love still wasn’t enough.
Heath had wanted her to infiltrate the Cabalistica. The evil wizards
and witches of their parents’ bedtime stories and her own nightmares. She
was to travel up their ranks, gain the ear of the leadership, perhaps even sit
in the Cabal herself.
“Your name will be Eleonora Diana Oliveira de Figueroa,” said Heath
during their last briefing as he massaged her shoulders. “You are the
orphan and sole heiress of the Figueroas, a wealthy Death-Eating family
from Portugal. We’ve invented an entire background for you, baby. All you
have to do is use it.”
“If you loved me, Heath,” Lenore had said, eyes awash with tears,
“you would not do this.”
“If you loved me,” he’d countered, “you would not mix our private
life together with the work of the Watchtower.”
She’d felt totally betrayed. Her own lover was ready to throw her to
the wolves. Well, he had a surprise coming to him... she wouldn’t go
quietly. On the outside she was all feminine compliance and comradely
graciousness. She even shared a bed with him on their last night together in
Sabera.
When it came time for the jump, she adjusted the coordinates of her
pod. She’d asked Vick to show her how over a year before, and had
pretended not to understand. Yet she remembered every step.
Instead of arriving at Jerusalem: Israel: 01-08-2012: 1200...
... she adjusted the controls and arrived at Aberdeen: Scotland: 01-08-
2010: 1200.
The woman known as Diana Oliveira shifted in bed alongside
Sebastian Borgin again. She wasn’t quite sure at this time if she regretted
her decision. She’d enjoyed her two years at Ayr, and her year with Harry.
She’d made many friends, treasured her relationship with her students, and
had loved one of the most influential wizards of this time.
Yet Lenore knew in her heart of hearts that what she’d shared with
Harry was only a shadow of what had existed between her and Heath. She
knew early in her relationship with Harry that she was destined to be
another statistic in the long list of witches and Muggle women that his
name was cross-listed with in their records. She knew that she wasn’t the
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love of his life.
Perhaps if I can change history...
Yet she had changed nothing. In the Time Before, Harry had dated
another woman, an Australian Muggle named Melissa Jones until
Hermione had come back on her birthday. He’d left on the selfsame date
for South America.
All she had done in this timeline was replace Melissa’s name with her
own.
Perhaps changing history is futile. Perhaps the lifework of Mother
and Dan Canyon, myself and Heath, and everyone else is in vain.
Perhaps the Great Crisis cannot be averted at all.
Perhaps I shall never get back to my own time.
Perhaps I will never see Heath again.
That last thought frightened her most. She knew that Heath was here
now, and had been for a few months. She also knew that there was no way
he was going to seek her out... he was trying very hard to avoid the fatal
Paradox phenomenon, and had no way of knowing for sure if he could set
foot on Ayr safely. Diana was grateful that her own direct ancestors on her
father’s side were scattered around the Mediterranean and the Near East...
and her mother’s were either safely imprisoned in Azkaban or residing in
Eastern Europe.
Well, she would begin her mission... albeit a couple of years late.
She had her orders.
Better late than never, right?
Sebastian, now conscious of her stirrings, woke up. When he saw the
beguiling creature in his bed, even he had to smile.
“My darling Diana, what troubles you?”
Lithely, she slid atop him.
“What will you give me for Hermione Granger?”
“Absolutely nothing. You are to recapture her for me or die. Those are
your orders, bitch... what kind of game are you playing?”
“Oh, I can see you’re in a bad mood. All right, then. What will you
give me for Harry Potter?”
“Nothing. My mistress is uninterested in him at the present. She
requested the Mudblood.”
Sigh. “This is my last offer, Sebastian. What will you give me for both
Hermione Granger and Harry Potter?” She smiled seductively. “I’ll even
throw in that redheaded fool friend of theirs for absolutely free.”
He ran a jagged fingernail over her ivory-golden jaw.
“If you can do all that for me, my love, I shall set you in the Grand
- 133 -
Inquisitor’s seat once and for all when that traitor Asha is dead.”
She licked her lips. “I like that answer.”
And as she kissed her way down his chest, she showed him how much
she liked that answer indeed.
Don’t you condemn me, Heath. My foresight may have saved your
foolhardy mission, and brought the Watchtower success to Sabera and all
of the nations of the Gaea Alliance. It also bought me a few stolen
moments of freedom... instead of being this demon’s slut back in El-Kharga
in August, I had three more months of bliss with a man who indeed proved
to be perfect in all ways save one.
But I’ll always hate you, Heath. I hate what you’ve made me. I hate
what you allowed me to become because you were too cowardly to tell the
Council “no” for my sake.
Harry would have never let his precious Hermione do this alone, even
for the sake of his world. Wherever she went, he followed. Because you
see, you bastard, you coward, Harry Potter understands the number one
principle of leadership... he has never required anyone to do anything that
he wouldn’t do himself. Even your own ancestor holds to that principle,
which shows how much the blood has been watered down over the
centuries.
I hate you, Heath.
Hate you hate you hate you.
But...
It would be far easier to hate you if I didn’t love you so.
Although Sebastian was too callous to notice, hot tears dripped from
her eyes and into his belly button... tears from one who had once been the
rare and radiant Lenore... tears from one who was now Diana, huntress of
men’s souls.
Thursday, October 25, 2012. Evening.

Dragonworld site. San Carlos de Bariloche, Patagonia, Argentina.
It was Harry’s first visit to Charlie and Lizeth Weasley’s beautiful
resort home in Patagonia. Although Dragonworld proper had been closed
for nearly a year and more, Ron’s brother and sister-in-law had kept all of
the facilities and stalls up on their ranch in the foothills of the Andes.
He could understand why Charlie loved this place, here at the bottom
of the world so far away from everything he’d known growing up. Charlie
and Liz loved dragons and they loved mountains. They’d met in Romania,
married on Mount Snowdon in Wales, and honeymooned in the Himalayas.
- 134 -
Living at sea level didn’t seem to suit them at all.
The wizarding section of San Carlos de Bariloche was obtainable
through an antique shop in the mercado, the square that contained the
central business district. Once there, one could walk through Argentina’s
equivalent of Diagon Alley and rent a broom or Apparate to the prosperous
ranches of expatriate wizards and witches.
Harry might have enjoyed the setting under other circumstances. It
was one of the most beautiful places on Earth he’d ever seen. The sunset he
was watching over the cordillera was absolutely spectacular; the sun rising
over the rolling lowlands to the east as they’d toured Charlie and Liz’s vast
property that morning was even more spectacular. Despite the fact that they
were in the middle of spring down here, Argentina was one of the very few
places in the Southern Hemisphere that was temperate and without a lot of
humidity. They’d been extremely comfortable... Harry understood why
many Europeans had been attracted to this mountainous paradise.
Something about this part of Patagonia reminded him of Central Europe.
While they waited for their contacts to gather here for the briefing
session, Charlie and Liz had been more than gracious as hosts. Each of the
men had his own room. There were four bedrooms in the split-level ranch
house, but only two for guests, Ron had insisted upon taking his niece’s so
that he could tease her later. Since Liz had run a cozy bed-and-breakfast
here when Dragonworld was open, there were plenty of sheets and towels
and even hotel-like amenities that she could drag out of storage for them.
Despite all this, Harry didn’t sleep much.
The food was both plentiful and delicious. Charlie and Liz ate much
as others in their vicinity did, whether witch or Muggle. So the grill was
fired up for parrillada... charbroiled sweetbreads, sausages, kidneys and
huge grilled steaks of the most tender, succulent cuts that one could ever
want. If that wasn’t enough, with a whoosh of his wand Charlie started
another open fire and roasted well-marinated morsels of pork, goat, lamb
and beef on levitating, self-rotating spits. Soon the entire vicinity around
the house was filled with the aroma of the barbecue.
To go along with all the meat, upon their arrival Liz made empanadas.
Hers were potatoes and beef stuffed into a flour pastry and served with
chimicurri sauce. Of course there was salad to go along with all the meat.
There was also good English fare – the first night they’d had Yorkshire
pudding with their steak – and delicious German struesels and tortes for
desert, as Liz’s parents were from Bavaria. She admonished them to eat,
and was very pleased when her brother-in-law ate as if there was no
tomorrow. Ron had won his way into many a cook’s heart doing just this.
- 135 -
Zach stunned everyone by announcing that he was a vegetarian. Harry,
who wasn’t eating very much anyway, catalogued this along with the fact
that his former fiancée didn’t eat meat either. She ate the occasional egg
and drank milk, but didn’t seem to enjoy either. She’d cook all the things
that he liked best, but he knew she was most pleased when they had vegan
meals. In fact, the very practice of “eating dead animals” seemed to disgust
her, and at times Harry had felt slightly guilty for craving even a ham
sandwich.
“I’ll just have la ensalada, thanks,” Zach said politely.
“Vegetarian?” laughed Liz. “I’m surprised they let you through
customs here, Zachary. Argentina is famous for two things... the tango and
the beef.”
“This sirloin’ll cure you of that nonsense,” said Ron between
mouthfuls. “Go on, Zach, have a bite...”
Zach’s face remained placid, but something like revulsion flashed
behind his eyes. “Definitely thanks but no thanks.”
“Best to not take him to the Barilochean in town,” observed Charlie.
“They actually serve dragonmeat dishes there, Ron.”
Harry was stunned. “You and Liz surely don’t... eat...”
“Oh, no,” said Charlie quickly. “Now, we don’t condemn the customs
of our neighbors. It’s not legal anywhere in Europe to butcher dragons...
they’re too rare, which is why authentic dragon goods are dead expensive.
But in Tibet and Nepal, in Western Canada and here, the ministries have
departments specifically for dragon population control... otherwise, they’d
soon start wreaking havoc on Muggle settlements just like they did in
medieval times. So the Confederation overlooks the dragonslaying.”
Harry knew all this. After all, although he’d never heard of dragons
being eaten in England before, there were plenty of imported dragon
products on the market back home. Of course, dragonhide accessories –
such as boots, purses, and gloves – were rare indeed, stylish, and greatly
sought after.
For Ron’s seventeenth birthday he’d given him a protective enchanted
mantle made of Horntail hide, something he’d brought back from Nepal...
the Order had whisked him to so many places in those last two years before
the Missing Week that he barely remembered them all.
He’d had to save Hermione’s present for a good many months later.
When he gave her the box, he was a bit embarrassed and had instantly
regretted not giving her a book... but the problem with Hermione and
books was that it was very likely that she already owned whichever one
you thought to purchase for her.
- 136 -
Yet she had loved her boots. She claimed that she could walk for days
in them and not feel tired. They were also quite practical, as one could
walk over anything and not suffer harm to their feet. So she’d worn them in
Tartarus. She’d worn them in Avalon.
And the last time he saw her, she was wearing them still.
The last time he saw her...
Meanwhile, Charlie was still going on about dragons until he realized
that he was way off his original point.
“So it goes with saying that dragon dishes are a rare delicacy and
something that many from around the world travel to places like this to
experience. We never served any of that at Dragonworld, though. We
couldn’t... our dragons are like family friends,” finished Charlie with a
grin.
Ron shook his head. “Friends? How many times have you both been
in infirmaries because of those friends? Friends don’t give you third-degree
burns!”
And then his eyes met Harry’s.
Harry looked away.
After dinner there was wine, something else Argentina was noted for.
In the Mediterranean climate nearer the coast, according to Charlie, there
were vineyards for miles upon miles. Ron and Zach each enjoyed a glass or
two with their hosts, but Harry refused.
“Come on, Harry, we’re all waiting just like you for Gareth and
Monica,” Ron said, setting up two chess boards so that he could play
against both Liz and Charlie at the same time. “Might as well find some
diversion to pass the time.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Harry, although he really wasn’t.
Leaving the rest behind to have their fun, he leaned against the railing
of the deck. Charlie and Liz’s home was built upon a hillside that would
have qualified as a mountain back home, and every window offered an
equally spectacular view.
Harry stood, looking at the night sky. They all looked very different
than those at home, of course... he could pick out the Southern Cross,
something he’d only seen once before at night. The cerulean sky was
spangled with stars, and the rising moon cast a soft glow upon the slopes of
the hills.
Thank Merlin for small mercies. Even if the very stars in the sky
failed him, Harry thought, the moon would not. But then, he hated the
moon too once a month... for if it wasn’t for the fickle, changing moon he
was almost certain that Lupin would have been chosen as a second
- 137 -
godfather for him.
Then again, Harry thought, it did no good to blame Sirius for all of his
problems. Yes, Sirius was singleminded and short-sighted and impulsive.
Yes, Sirius seemed to have some maggot in his head about Hermione’s lack
of character. But Sirius was all the father he had... all he knew. He knew
that Sirius wouldn’t have done anything to hurt him intentionally. His
godfather just didn’t understand that his dislike of Hermione was hurting
him.
His thoughts, as always, drifted back to her. His eyes darted to the
north... she was up there, somewhere. He closed his eyes, seeing her face
for the millionth time, conjuring up her image before his eyes as a medium
calls up a phantom from the shadowy realms of the underworld.
Come to me, Hermione.
Although he moved not a muscle, he sensed her presence there with
him. He could read her thoughts; she could read his feelings. He could
communicate with her without voice... although she smiled to hear his
voice. She could sense his emotions without touch... although he knew
nothing in the Thousand Worlds like her touch.
She was afraid.
He knew it as well as if she had been really standing there next to him.
Instantly he was alarmed. Hermione Granger didn’t become frightened for
no reason. She’d seen and experienced far too much for that. And the fear
he was picking up was so acute, so intense that it was almost terror... sheer,
immobilizing terror.
Could it be just his overactive mind? Was he projecting his own fears
onto some figment of his imagination, fancying it to be her? For all he
knew, Hermione was sunning on the pool deck of some tropical resort, that
smarmy Muggle fart rubbing sunblock all over her...
No.
It was real. She was real. He still hadn’t moved... he saw his own two
hands grip the railing of Charlie and Liz’s deck, veins standing out in
each... but he could now feel her in his arms somehow. As if he was
holding her tight, across barriers of time and space. As vivid as the
experience had always been in his dreams.
She didn’t need passion just then, he sensed. She needed more from
him. So he closed his eyes and sent all the strength and courage he had to
give; imploring whatever gods there were to let love be enough to keep her
from harm.
Please let it be enough.
Keep your wits about you, Hermione. Keep yourself safe.
- 138 -
I’ll come for you.
He sensed someone standing behind him. Instantly the sensation of
holding her was dispelled. Once again he was alone. Bereft.
Harry turned around to face Charlie Weasley. Ron’s older brother was
a frank, likable wizard who always reminded him of an elder, more settled
version of the twins... Fred more so than George. He’d always liked
Charlie a great deal, but nonetheless he resented the intrusion. There was
no way that Charlie could understand what he was going through just then.
“We’re going for a quick flight up into the mountains,” he said affably.
“Care to join us?”
“No thanks, I’d rather wait here for Gareth and Monica.”
“It might do you some good, Harry. Get your mind off things.” Their
eyes met and suddenly Charlie understood. “Right, I see. Nothing can do
that.”
“Nothing except finding her and getting her away from whoever’s
holding her.”
Charlie nodded. A slow grin, eerily like Ron’s, spread across his
features. “I see. So, Harry, exactly how long have you been in love with
Hermione?”
“If I told you that, you’d think less of me.”
“No, not that at all. I just don’t see why you let my daft brother marry
her in the first place. Imagine how different everything would have turned
out.”
Harry let out a deep breath. “If I let myself dwell on what could have
been, I’d go mad. All I have is now... and now I know that I can’t keep
letting us repeat the same mistakes. I only have to convince her, if I can
find her.”
“When you find her,” corrected Charlie. “You will find her, Harry.
She’ll be unharmed and totally convinced, I’m certain... sometimes things
happen for a reason. In fact, I am so certain that you’ll find her and all will
be well that I want you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“Before you take her back home, I want you to bring her here. This
way you can enjoy Bariloche. We’ll have a spectacular parrillada again
with all the trappings, you can take her flying by moonlight and show her
the dragons’ lairs, and then you can stand right here on this spot and kiss
the witch you love underneath the stars.”
Charlie’s thickly muscled arm darted out, and a broad finger pointed at
the Southern Cross, brilliant in its intensity.
“Will you do it?”
- 139 -
Before Harry could answer, Liz came running out onto the deck.
“Come inside, you two, our guests are here.”
Harry looked at Charlie and nodded. Then the two wizards followed
Liz back inside.
One week earlier.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil – Rocinha.
Hermione had seen pictures of that most famous of Brazilian favelas,
Rocinha, in her parents’ Oxfam mailings and on television. She was far
more prepared for the reality than she would have been before her
internment amid the tangle of the Amazon.
Now as she followed Eva up the steep hillside, she took in her
surroundings. Trying not to think about how narrowly they’d avoided
recapture.
The night that the Rat had tried to rape her still seemed like a horrible
nightmare. She hadn’t checked to see if he was dead after she stung him;
she merely assumed. That was her mistake, and one that nearly killed her.
It was the second time in her life that she’d been nearly strangled to death.
Of course, she knew the physiological connection between rape and
strangulation – asphyxiation mimicked sexual release in the victim – but it
was difficult to be objective and clinical when it was her life on the line.
She’d managed to reach for his bedside lamp, and the bulb broke over
her head. She felt an electric jolt, and then there was the unmistakable odor
of flesh frying. Her mouth opened in a silent scream of horror and pain, but
she could not shield. It took quite some time before she realized that she
hadn’t been electrocuted... he had. The damned hyperempathy just meant
that she had to share the sensation.
Hermione’s greatest fear had been that the Rat would die. If he died
and she was touching him at the moment of death, without the benefit of
shielding... she didn’t want to find out. After pushing his unconscious (and
she hoped dying) body from her with some effort, she grabbed all of his
weapons including his wand, found a small stash of various currencies
which she also pocketed, and staggered from the room.
It took her quite a while to recover from the sharing and become
reoriented. Her grandiose plan to liberate the entire facility went awry. She
knew that there were three cells: the women’s one where she had been
held, one for men and another for young children. However, the compound
was like a virtual maze... she ended up getting lost. Lost.
And then the alarm was sounded.
- 140 -
Uniformed Cabalistica guards, both male and female, stormed the
corridors with wands drawn. Twice she was almost caught. The first time
she’d flattened herself in a crevice and prayed that she would escape
notice. She did. The second time she slipped into a room whose door was
unlocked.
It was the one where Eva had been held. She was still there, and for
the life of her Hermione didn’t understand why. Eva explained that Bear
had responded to the alarm moments before, leaving her behind in the
birthing room to recover.
Eva didn’t want to leave without her baby, and Hermione agreed to
help her find him. They tried to get to the children’s quarters, where they
assumed the nursery would be, but failed. The two women fled into the
rainforest, barely escaping with their lives.
Now, after weeks of journeying, they were finally approaching Eva’s
home.
Rocinha was a very poor place. That much was evident. As they
walked along the dusty, litter-strewn road, Hermione realized that she and
Eva had grown up in two different worlds. Even the poorest areas of
Oxfordshire alongside Cowley Road would have seemed luxurious indeed
to these people, many of whom had no running water.
As in other poor areas of Latin America, electricity was taken by
running live wires up to the main lines overhead. Hermione watched as
children played precariously close to these, and shuddered, remembering
with revulsion the smell of the Rat’s sizzling skin. Surely their mothers
were jumpy about this too? But the women paid no attention to the
children’s antics, having a thousand and one tasks to complete themselves.
There was no evidence that this place even realized that it was well
into the twenty-first century. The favela hadn’t changed much within the
past fifty years, and barring some miraculous intervention, it would remain
this way for years to come.
Hermione knew that the favelas originated on the hillsides when poor
immigrants from the northeastern states immigrated to Rio and found that
their meagre wages prevented them from renting even the cheapest of
housing. So they used boards and sheet metal if they could get it, and after
nailing and welding, made their own shelter.
The residents themselves looked like a United Colors of Benetton ad.
Hermione was prepared for the medium brown faces that were in her
parents’ brochures and instead saw individuals from palest ivory to deepest
ebony. Brown and black predominated, however, which made Hermione
stand out. As for their clothing, they were as dirty as many of the playing
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children they passed.
During their trip, they’d become fast friends despite their differences.
Eva Maria de Souza had been nineteen when she’d been captured in Recife
the year before. She was now twenty. There was something refreshingly
innocent about Eva that made Hermione think she was a few years
younger. They were both infinitely curious about each other’s language and
customs and worlds.
Between her intensive studies back home in Oxford and listening to
the talk of her cellmates, Hermione had picked up a small amount of
Portuguese. She was determined to understand and be understood... it was
the only way she’d be able to somehow find a way out of the country and
back home.
Eva knew a smattering of English words. During their journeying, the
two phrases uttered the most were “Como se diz...?” and “How do you
say...?” Eva would speak to Hermione in English and Hermione would try
her best to respond back in Portuguese. Thus they learned to communicate
with one another.
Hermione was also determined to blend in as much as possible. A
fortnight of being in the sun without benefit of SPF had baked her skin
from its usual roses and cream cast to gold... she was only thankful that the
tangle of the jungle had prevented her from getting a bad sunburn. The
thick humidity of the tropical spring had weighed her hair down from its
usual frizz into messy curls, and she’d dyed it so that it was dark chocolate
brown instead of her usual toffee shade. She’d also purchased a pair of
sunglasses which she wore constantly, and a few items of clothing. Two
short-sleeved blouses, one dress, a couple pairs of shorts, a skirt, and
sandals. The clothing was lightweight and extremely flattering.
As for Eva, she’d cut her long midnight black hair short. Her small,
petite frame was very feminine, but with the right clothing and attitude, she
made for a passable youth. The arrangement would only be until they could
get to her mother’s home in Rocinha. Eva believed that the Cabalistica
thought she was from Recife, as she’d been captured while working as a
nanny for a rich wizarding family there. Only the head of the household
knew she was from Rio. The rest had never cared enough about a servant
to inquire about where she was from... because of her nordestino accent,
they assumed she was a local girl.
They both knew that the Cabalistica was searching for them
incessantly. However, Eva kept reassuring Hermione that they would not
come where she was taking them.
Hermione wanted to know all about what the magical community in
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Brazil was like. Eva shook her head solemnly.
“Very bad wizards,” she said. “They kill poor Minister Jobim so they
can do... how you say... things not able to speak...”
“Unspeakable things?” asked Hermione. “Como o quê?”
“Oh, Hermione, you do not know. They play with bruxinhas like
crianças play with toys. They think that we are their ratos de laboratório
to play with. And the ricos say not one word. They see nothing!” Eva’s
small fists clenched.
“O quê?” asked Hermione. “Pode dizer o que acontecendo aqui,
Eva?” She meant to ask what was going on, but her Portuguese grammar
was still as imperfect as Eva’s own English. However, Eva understood
enough to answer.
“Sick,” she said. “Very sick, only sick like you have never seen
before. Makes crianças and the old ones burn like fire caught inside. Once
sick, nothing can make cool again.”
Hermione was horrified.
“Were there...” She searched for the Portuguese words she wanted,
and failing, began to describe with gestures the phenomenon she’d seen
elsewhere with the green crystal orbs.
Eva shook her head. “No, nothing like that. They are well, then they
are sick, then they die.”
That damned morrer again.
“And the wizarding public does nothing about this?” said Hermione,
forgetting to speak Portuguese. “It is clear that Jobim’s murder, the
disappearances that we know are Cabalistica kidnappings, and this plague
are all related.”
Another shake of the head, but this time, Eva seemed as if she was
trying to be patient with this English witch who knew nothing of the ways
of the world.
“Wizards here are different than they are in your country, ‘Mione,” she
sighed. “There are two kinds of wizards. There are the pure kind who are
born to wizards. Then there are the other kind... like me.” She shrugged.
“The kind like me live with the Trouxas – you say Muggles – in the
favelas. Other kind lives in Ipanema and Copacabana. Na Lagoa, também.
With the velhos ricos.”
“Surely you can’t be as bad off as the Muggles around here,” said
Hermione. “You’ve got magic...”
“Not in the favela as much,” said Eva with a sigh. “Folk magic, yes...
so many of the Trouxas here have not forgotten the old ways. But we
cannot make real spells here. If we work for pure family or pure company,
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we can... this is why we all want to leave here from when we are children,
yes? But if we make a lot of real spells here, it is bad.”
“Ruim como?”
“Very bad,” said Eva, and there was a look of horror on her face.
“They watch. They have spells that let them. If any like me dares make
spells like them here in our homes, they come. They freeze you and all you
love. And no one sees you no more. Ever.”
Hermione shook her head. “Que barbárianico!”
“Perhaps bárbaro, but it is the way of life here,” Eva corrected quietly.
“Eu amo o Brasil. Eu amo ser bruxa. Eu só não amo a Cabalística. Eles
roubaram meu bebê. Meu menininho...”
Eva’s meaning was clear, and Hermione’s heart broke for her. Eva
loved Brazil. She loved being a witch. But she hated the Cabalistica who
had taken her child away.
“We’ll get him back, Eva,” said Hermione. “I swear we will.”
Hermione thought of this as they walked through the narrow streets.
She remembered all the tourist warnings she’d received about this very
place... foreigners were strongly discouraged from coming here. The
favelas were supposed to be rife with petty crime and sometimes even
worse. It was most certainly true that an element among the residents
preyed upon their richer neighbors along the shore and in the lowlands, as
well as upon hapless tourists.
Yet Hermione didn’t feel uncomfortable in the slightest. Her first
impression of Rocinha was that it was a poor place, but it was also very
often a happy place. She didn’t see the same looks of despair on the faces
of the residents here that she’d seen on those of other poor people.
Certainly she was sure that many here would have loved to be anything but
desperately poor, but the laughter of the children, the smiles of the women
as they walked along, the young men playing an impromptu game of
futebol through the streets, the old men playing checkers on the stoops or
strumming out a brisk tune as onlookers clapped spoke of another side of
the favela.
Eva nodded. “Not so bad here all the time,” she said. “Best samba
schools for Carnaval are here... best jogadores de futebol are often boys
here... and the beach is for everyone, even moradores da favela.”
“People from here go to those beaches?” asked Hermione. Over her
shoulder, she could see in the distance the sugary line of some of the
world’s most famous beaches, fringed by ritzy hotels, glamorous
condominiums, and the like.
Her new friend laughed. “Boba. Silly. We are rich and poor, magic and
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not magic, pure and not pure. But we are all cariocas!” She grinned,
making her look almost like the boy she was supposed to be disguised as.
“Shall I take you, after we meet minha mãe... my mother?”
Hermione was wary. “The beaches are too open,” she said. “With the
Cabalistica on our trail...”
Eva waved her fear away. “They are looking in Recife still. The
Cabalistica cannot make me afraid. This is my home, and I am a daughter
of the favela. Let them come... they will not live.”
And noting the glitter in her onyx eyes, Hermione didn’t hold much
doubt that she would make good on her oath.
Friday, October 26, 2012. Wee hours of the morning.

Dragonworld site. San Carlos de Bariloche, Patagonia, Argentina.
Gareth and Monica Starling were one of Bariloche’s leading couples.
Monica was a world-famous Quidditch player who had led the South
American team to win the All-Star Match seven times in the past decade,
and Argentina to win the World Cup four of those years. She was a feast
for the eyes, too... Harry had met her on several occasions and had been
instantly taken with her good humor, wit, and beauty.
Monica was also quite an artist, whose moving portraits were known
the world over. None of the wizarding elite felt as if their art collection was
complete without a Starling original. Her most famous painting, which
hung in London’s Museum of Magical History (Diagon Alley), was one
she called “Los Salvadores”... a Ministry-commissioned portrait of Harry
Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger commemorating the tenth
anniversary of the Missing Week. It had been unveiled at the end of May,
2008... only four and a half years ago.
Ron and Hermione had attended the celebrity event, and after much
coaxing they convinced Harry to attend as well. He’d brought Cho along,
and had received his Starling-painted replica of the larger piece that would
hang in the Portrait Gallery.
Despite resolving to take it down hundreds of times, his hung over the
fireplace of the woodcutter’s cottage on Ayr. Ron and Hermione’s hung
over their mantelpiece for over a year, then when they divorced, Harry
supposed that it was either sold, lost or placed in storage.
Yet he smiled at Monica, allowed her to kiss him and pecked her
cheek in return. Asked after her health, that of her parents and her
teammates.
“I don’t think I’ll be playing much longer,” she confessed with a
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smile. “Gareth and I are thinking of starting a family.”
Monica’s husband Gareth was a bold and brash Texan who had taken
one look at the athletic and artistic porteña beauty and swept her off her
feet at the tender age of seventeen when he’d come to work on her parents’
dragon ranch. They’d been married for fifteen years and still seemed
desperately in love.
Gareth was the South American head of the International
Confederation’s Committee of Investigations, after being promoted from
the United States Department of the same name. It was the ideal post, as it
allowed him finally to be closer to his wife, who had to maintain residence
in her native Argentina in order to remain on their team.
Harry liked Gareth a great deal. Gareth was frank and answered to no
one but the Secretary-General of the Confederation... and the SG had only
ornamental powers. Gareth had also been one of the few renowned figures
on the international scene who had protested the sentencing of Victoria
Jenkins, if not the verdict for the actual crime. He had to deal with the
Order, parry the Cabalistica satellite organizations’ growing influence, and
still maintain good diplomatic face. His honesty and forthright nature had
earned him many friends and not a few enemies, but Harry knew that he
could be trusted. Best of all, Sirius and Gareth often clashed, so Harry was
almost certain his exact plans wouldn’t get back to his meddling godfather.
“The Committee ain’t heard a damn thing, Harry,” he drawled, sitting
back around the table while Monica and Liz went to the house library to
retrieve a wall map of South America. “I hope that don’t surprise you.
There’s too many who’d like nothing better than to see Hermione dead...
and that goes for you and Ronald as well. Symbolism of such a kidnapping
and murder’d be just the momentum the Cabalistica wants, so they can do
whatever it is they’ve got up their slimy sleeves. And trust me, Harry...”
here he looked sharply at his old friend, “... they’re on to something big.”
“What kind of ‘something’?” asked Zach curiously. “From what I can
tell, evil is a lot of things, but creative isn’t one of them. I can’t see them
blindsiding us.”
“Don’t be so confident,” said Charlie. “It’s one thing to overestimate

them. It’s quite another to ignore them completely. That was Cornelius
Fudge’s greatest mistake... he could have prevented the entire Second War
if he had read the signs.”
“And the signs are everywhere,” Harry said wearily. “I’ve been stupid
and arrogant, really... thinking I could live out the rest of my life in peace
on my little island, training my kids. Even in the Victoria Jenkins scandals
- 146 -
I could have done more, and I didn’t.”
Ron spoke up. “One wizard can’t stop an entire Muggle army, Harry.
If they could, the Age of Partition would have never happened. Magic is
part of us, but it can’t solve all the world’s problems, can it?” He shrugged.
“Besides, they can’t expect us to fight all the time, can they? I think we’ve
done more than enough.”
“No, Ron, you haven’t,” said Gareth. “Listen, now. I’m going to share
some of what I know, and I’m sure it’ll be an eye-opening experience.”
He then spoke of the Cabalistica, under the guise of its affiliate
organizations, purchasing property in some of the most remote and
inaccessible areas of the world. The Sahara. The Gobi. The Amazon. The
Congo. According to broom cameras, they appeared to be building...
something.
There were also strange reports showing up at the Committee on
Magical Health of an exotic new illness. Without any viral or bacterial
signs, it elevated the victim’s body temperature so that their insides
cooked. It was 100% fatal... but the problem was, the victims’ bodies
invariably disappeared before they could be examined.
Anti-Muggle and Mudblood sentiment was gaining momentum
slowly, according to Confed polls. Gareth rattled off frightening statistics.
“Moderate majority in the Confed’s razor-thin these days,” said
Gareth solemnly. “More and more wizarding governments are sending
delegations full of bigots to Tir Na N’Og headquarters. Mark my words,
it’s just a matter of time before we’re faced with a takeover so complete,
it’ll make the Grindelwald and Voldemort Wars seem like a happy
memory.”
“Yeah, they say that every time,” said Ron. “And yet every time a
miracle happens and the end of the world isn’t at hand after all.”
Gareth considered Ron a moment. “Yeah, you’re right, Ron. But
here’s something else to consider. Each and every time the miracle
happens, it didn’t fall out of the sky, did it? Came out of a wand wielded by
some ordinary witch or wizard, didn’t it? So here’s my question. If not
you,” and now he was looking directly at Harry, “then who?”
Monica and Liz came with the map, breaking the tension. They spread
it out on the table.
“According to what we know,” said Harry, grateful for subject change,
“Hermione disappeared without a trace.” He recounted all of the
information that Ted Granger had given him, and some of what he’d
learned in the Black and Potter briefing. “So far, other than the passenger
manifests and Jack’s statement to Hermione’s father that he put her on a
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plane to Rio, we have no indication that she ever set foot in South
America.”
“Then why start your search here?” asked Gareth. “She could be
anywhere.”
Harry was silent for a moment. He couldn’t possibly tell the others
that he knew he was on the right track. To admit this would set him on the
path of faith and belief and superstition, and no postwar wizard or witch
worth their salt believed in such nonsense.
The old, a small minority of the Muggleborn, and the weak-minded
adhered to the various Muggle religions... Nephthys, Drakkar, Morgan, and
the other Old Ones spoke of the mysterious Source, although nothing could
ever get them to elaborate... but no one of his generation was overly
spiritual. The war had cured them of that.
Ron was nodding thoughtfully. “I’d thought of that, actually. Can we
be so sure that we can trust this Jack bloke?” He didn’t seem too pleased
with the idea of Hermione’s Muggle boyfriend either. Harry wondered if he
was insulted that his ex-wife’s first postmarital lover hadn’t even been a
wizard.
“I see no reason for her to have shown up on the passenger manifests,
if she never made it out of Miami,” Harry replied quietly.
“Falsification of Muggle records? Come, Harry, you know that’s
easily enough done,” Monica observed. “I’m not even in that line of work,
and I’m sure I could do it. It doesn’t require any sort of advanced magic,
does it?”
“All I’m saying is that I’m certain she’s still in Brazil.”
“Why?” asked Ron flatly. “How?”
“Because it makes sense, Ron. If she wasn’t there, she would have
tried to contact me, you, her father... someone. Even when she was under
Fidelius, Malfoy and her parents knew of her whereabouts. If she was able
to escape the country, then she would have notified someone. So I’m quite
certain that Hermione’s still in Brazil, still in trouble, and each minute that
we still here talking about nothing at all is a minute wasted!”
Everyone stared at him. Outbursts like this were rare for Harry Potter.
“Well, let’s say she is in Brazil,” said Gareth finally, obviously
wishing to humor him. “So what? That’s a damned big place... fifth largest
country in the world. Unless there was a Tracking Charm on her or her
belongings, it would be like looking for a Kneazle in a haystack.”
“Not if we start in Rio de Janeiro and retrace her steps. From Rio we
can go to Manaus... certainly somewhere there will be aware of this WHO
research facility. Along the way I am sure we can get some answers.”
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Gareth grinned. “Determined as always, Potter. You had all this in
mind before you even called me here, didn’t you?”
Harry grinned back. “Of course I did.”
“Then what do you want Monica and me here for?”
Reaching towards the table, Harry spread the map of South America
before them. Like all wizarding maps, it was incredibly lifelike. The forests
of the north rustled with possibility. The peaks of the Andes rose for sharp
centimeters about the table. The Atlantic, Pacific, and Caribbean sloshed
around all sides, and some of the saline from the ebb and flow of the tiny
waves spilled onto the table.
“We need to get in and out of Brazil undetected, Gareth. Under the
noses of one of the most oppressive magical regimes on the planet.”
“Harry, you sure you need my help? Brazil isn’t the best place for a
wizard to take a vacation right now, but it sure ain’t Tartarus.”
“Right. And in Tartarus, there were the three of us. Now there’s two
for the moment. Anything we can learn to tip the balance in our favor
would be more than welcome.”
Gareth nodded in understanding. “I see.”
“Our plane leaves from Buenos Aires in thirty-six hours,” said Harry,
startling not only Charlie and Liz, but his own traveling companions as
well. “So, you’ve got about a day to teach us everything you possibly can,
understand?”
Gareth looked from Harry to Ron, then to Zach and back to Harry
again.
“Aw, that’s easy,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t worry about a thing.
I’ll teach you all I know.”
Two days before.
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil – Rocinha, Ipanema, and Copacabana at night.
Hermione was growing to love this place in a way that she’d never
loved anywhere other than Hogwarts before in her life. Life here amongst
the cariocas was infectious. Despite her frightening post-breaking
condition, despite the fact that she was afraid to contact anyone while she
was like this lest the Cabalistica intercept the message first, she felt more
alive these days than she had in many years.
Her days began early. The cot that she slept on in the two-room de
Souza home was certainly not the most comfortable bed she’d ever had,
but again, it was all a matter of relativity... it was certainly an improvement
upon the conditions in the Cabalistica facility. Rosãngela de Souza, Eva’s
birdlike and hyperactive mother, was compulsive about cleaning, whether
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it be in her own home or (Hermione assumed) her employer’s. So although
the accommodation was meager, it was very clean.
She’d been making a regular habit of accompanying Eva’s mother into
the city on the bus. Rosãngela had given her valuable tips on how to blend
in always. Hermione’s hair dye, sun-bronzed skin, growing Portuguese
vocabulary, and native intelligence helped with this a bit, and with each
day she learned more. She wasn’t an anthropologist or sociologist, so she
didn’t feel as if she could adapt that sort of condescending attitude...
studying her favela subjects with detachment, as it were. She was their
guest and their equal, not a privileged witch come to observe them like
animals or be their salvation.
Once near Ipanema beach, she and Rosãngela parted company.
Rosãngela changed buses to the home of her employers in the Barra da
Tijuca and Hermione headed to the beach itself.
After their first day when Eva took her to the beach, Hermione had
been positively addicted. She was a bit scandalized when her new friend
began removing her blouse and shorts the minute they hit the sand.
Underneath she was wearing a tiny string bikini that showed that although
her hair was boy-short, she was still very much a girl.
Eva, who had seemed shy and proper about many other things before
this, didn’t bat an eyelash when a couple of nearby local men began their
catcalling. She merely reclined on the beach blanket she and Hermione had
bought, reaching for the sunblock.
“I could never wear anything so revealing!” Hermione said.
Eva laughed at her. She found many of the things Hermione said and
did hilariously funny, and often this annoyed Hermione. She didn’t like
being laughed at... never had. Yet she had the sneaking suspicion that Eva
would do a better job blending into London than she was doing here.
“Você pode,” said Eva. “You can! What is wrong with it?”
“I’ve never worn a bikini in my life. Never. It’s just not me.” She went
to stand up and head towards a swimwear vendor beyond the calçada. “I’ll
go get a new one-piece from that kiosk over there and change, and then I’ll
be back.”
Fifteen minutes later, Eva looked up and smiled.
“Where’s the one-piece?”
Hermione blushed. “If I’m going to blend in, I think I’d better move
my tan lines a little.”
And so, she’d purchased her first bikini. The one she wore on that first
day was a plain strapless white one (with a liner, of course). She had two
others... one goldenrod yellow with strings that tied at the hip and neck and
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in the small of her back, and one in her favorite blue with crystalline beads
along the strings.
For the first couple of days she felt horribly embarrassed and
unattractive and awkward. Ridiculous, even. Then the third day she went to
the beach by herself and thought no more about the fact that she was
basically wearing nothing but three triangles tied in place with strings and
thin straps. It was one thing to be one of the few women on a beach doing
it. It was quite another to be one of hundreds upon hundreds... and the last
thing she wanted to do was stand out.
So she spent half the morning on the beach before donning her
clothing again, riding, and then walking her way back into the favela.
Hermione made a pledge to herself to keep busy while they waited out
the time until the Cabalistica stopped searching. On the second afternoon,
she found the reason why the purebloods here were so eager to keep the
magical population contained.
An entire row of houses in the favela had been quarantined. Hermione
learned the story from a little boy. It seemed as if a mysterious illness had
struck certain unfortunate individuals over the past few months. Once the
sickness took one’s body, there was no hope for them. The illness also
seemed to be contagious for some, but not to others. Nevertheless, those
afflicted and their families were considered pariahs. Surely the saints had
turned their backs on them... surely there was no help from the Orixás... for
someone had cursed them and they were doomed.
As they played, the children sang a song:
O doutor chegou tarde demais
porque no morro
não tem automovél pra subir
não tem telefone pra chamar
e não tem beleza pra se ver
e a gente morre
sem querer morrer.
That bloody morrer again.

Hermione went over and over the song again her head until she
understood its meaning.
The doctor comes too late because there is no car to come up to the
favela, there is no telephone to call him, there is no beauty to see, and the
people die without wanting to die.
Well, there was a doctor in this favela. And a mediwitch, too. She
knew instinctively that the victims of the mysterious sickness that struck
without warning and was an instantaneous death sentence was akin to what
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she’d seen in the Time Before cases... children and the old, burning with a
fever that could not be contained, burning from the inside out until they
were no more.
She knocked, and after a quick exchange gained entrance to the largest
of the quarantined shacks, which was now a makeshift hospital. There was
a Muggle nurse who was sponge-bathing a patient, and then another man
who claimed to be a spiritual healer who ran the place.
“Quem é você?” he asked, black eyes glittering. “And you are?”
“Ana. Ana Chevalier.”
“Nome estranho. Você é francesa ou espanhola?”
“Ambos. Mãe espanhola, pai de Paris.”
Hermione had better sense than to use her real name with anyone here.
Only Eva, who she knew could be trusted, knew her identity. She was
going by Ana Chevalier here, claiming Spanish and French ancestry to
explain away her broken Portuguese and strange accent. Ana was the
Spanish form of her real middle name and the Chevaliers were lecturers in
dentistry and friends of her parents. She didn’t want anyone to know that
she was really English... they could easily put two and two together and
discern the truth.
“Por que você está aqui?” Why are you here?
“Sou enfermeira treinada. Eles diz você precisa ajuda.” I’m a trained
nurse. They said you could use my help.
Hermione’s Portuguese was broken, but she could understand and
make herself understood.
So Hermione was quickly installed as another volunteer nurse in the
makeshift hospital. She felt as if she were back in her element. She used
her extensive knowledge of both Muggle medicine and mediwizardry to
bring some comfort to the patients. Of course, neither the spiritist Paulo or
the carioca nurse Cristina knew that she was actually a mediwitch or any
kind of a witch at all. Which didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t as if she could
use that part of her skills.
She was still hyperempathic, though.
It was via hyperempathy that she began to understand some of the
properties of the disease, when her body began to mimic the effects of it as
she tried to take the pain away.
One of the most important things she learned was that only infected
patients were contagious... that if you were not infected, you could not be a
carrier. She learned that when she met the flamboyant Juliana Medeiros de
Carvalho without disastrous result.
Hermione had been in Rio for a week before she dared venture to
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Eva’s workplace. She hadn’t seen much of Eva during those days, only in
the mornings as she came in from work and slept away the day and then
again in the evenings as she dressed to go to work. She knew that Eva
worked at one of the clubs in town and with her usual avid curiosity
offered to tag along.
“Oh, um... not a place for ladies, Hermione.”
“Que tipo de lugar, então?” What kind of place is it?
“Bad place,” cackled Eva, swatting away Hermione’s playful pinch.
“Nonsense! It can’t be so very bad if you’re working there, can it?”
Eva’s laughter reached a fever pitch. “Pode sim!” Yes, it can!
“Well, I’d like to tag along all the same. Our ‘gift’ of reais and Euros
from Rat is running low, and I do need a paying job. Otherwise, como vou
economizar suficiente para ir mi casa?”
The question hung on the air. How will I ever save enough to get
home? Hermione was wondering. It was something they hadn’t addressed
all week.
“Do not talk about leaving me, ‘Mione. We still must find meu bebê.”
She was serious again. “And I want you to meet minha amiga.”
Once Eva was washed and dressed, she grabbed the black bag she
always took to work with her, and led Hermione back into town.
The club, Panteras, was in Copacabana. Hermione had never been to
the beaches at night. The glitz and glamour of the strip was dazzling... the
snatches of music one could hear coming out of the various establishments
was intoxicating. Among the swarming tourists and rich leisure class of
cariocas Hermione felt quite underdressed. She was certainly experiencing
Rio very differently than she ever had any other place before...
economically and socially she was now on the other side of the coin.
Eva led her right up to the front doors and red carpet of one of the
poshest-looking establishments. Two identical sepia-skinned bouncers
stood on either side of it. Judging from the line that was beginning to form,
they weren’t letting anyone in just yet. Hermione noticed that the few
gathered were all men and wondered where their wives and girlfriends
were. Perhaps they’d all come with a tourist group and the ladies were still
shopping.
There was also a word in neon lights underneath the sign of the club
that Hermione didn’t understand. Dançando Peladas. She understood that
dançando meant to dance, but didn’t quite get the other word. Oh well...
she’d soon find out.
Eva greeted the bouncers warmly.
“Ei, Eva! Você trouxe carne nova?” shouted one. Hermione wasn’t
- 153 -
sure, but she could have sworn the man had called her friend “fresh meat.”
“E que pedação,” said the other, looking at Hermione and whistling
under his breath. It was then that Hermione realized that she was the fresh
meat being referred to.
Hermione’s hands clenched into tiny fists.
“Ela é uma amiga. Comportem-se... talvez ela fique tentada a
trabalhar aqui se vocês forem legais.” She’s just a friend, Eva was saying.
Behave... perhaps she can be tempted to work here if you’re nice.
She tugged at Hermione’s sleeve as the men opened the heavy glass
doors. “Vem,” she said. “We open in a half hour... I’ve got to get dressed!”
They walked into one of the nicest and most sophisticated
entertainment venues Hermione had ever seen. Everything was black
marble and neon lights. There were two identical bars, three stages with
stools set near them, and a floor crowded with tables. Hermione noticed
that although there were aisles aplenty, there was no dance floor.
Then she looked back on the stage and spotted the poles.
“Eva!”
Both she and someone else had shouted it at the same time. That
someone else was a medium-sized, balding man with sausagelike fingers.
Because Hermione was closer, she got to get her comment in first.
“Eva! This is a strip club! You don’t mean to say you actually work
here?” Despite her “when in Rome” resolve, this was a bit too much for the
sensibilities of a properly raised Englishwoman. Hermione prided herself
on being liberal, but she wasn’t that free.
Eva shrugged. “The money is good and the place is clean. João makes
it where no one bothers us... we don’t do nothing we don’t want to. It’s
good.”
Hermione was still horrified when the man known as João came to
greet them.
“So, this is the friend you are telling me about,” he said in perfect but
accented English. “Eva tells me that you speak English.”
She glared at Eva, then turned to him with a sarcastic smile. “Among
other things,” she said, doing a good imitation of a Paris accent.
“Sim, bonita. You’re as pretty as she says. I have need of a new
bartender.”
“One of the girls quit. João put her behind the bar,” explained Eva
quickly. “She was a good dancer but mean, very mean.”
“We’re like a family here, ah...”
“Ana,” supplied Hermione.
“Yes, Ana. I treat all my girls nice, very nice. Eva is a good girl, and
- 154 -
I take her word. I teach you how to mix drinks and serve if you do not
already know. So what do you say?”
Hermione folded her arms and looked from one to the other.
“Before I say anything, I’ve got a question. Is sex anywhere in this
bargain? Because if this tidy little establishment of yours is a sleazy cover
for a brothel, you can take your offer and shove it up your...”
“No, no!” Eva looked horrified. “No touching of the girls... that is a
main rule here!”
“We have monitored rooms for privacy,” said João honestly. “But for
lap dancing... no sex. That is illegal, and some of my best clients are
oficiais do governo. Panteras is known from here to Salvador for its class,
Ana... you will be safe here. Bartenders don’t strip.” He looked her up and
down appreciatively. “Of course, as pretty as you are, you’d make good
money if you...”
“Don’t even think about it,” snarled Hermione. “The matter is closed.”
He shrugged. “You are a very pretty girl. You’ll change your mind in
time.” His eyes swept her frame again. “Yes... I think you will.”
Forcing a smile, Eva stepped between João’s leer and Hermione’s cold
stare.
“Shall we go meet Juliana, then? Sim. I think so.”
She quickly took Hermione’s hand and pulled her back towards the
dressing rooms.
“You start tonight, Ana,” João called after Hermione. “Tonight!”
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Paradise Lost1b

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8:45 a.m.

... this is the wonder that’s keeping the

Thursday, September 20, 2012.

Saturday, September 22, 2012. Evening.

One month later.

Later that afternoon, back on Ayr.

Harry crumpled the parchment in a sweaty palm. Which was strange –

Time indeterminate, deep below Tartarus.

Saturday, October 20, 2012. Noon.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012. Afternoon.

“Olha que coisa mais linda

Thursday, October 25, 2012. Evening.

One week earlier.

Friday, October 26, 2012. Wee hours of the morning.

“Don’t be so confident,” said Charlie. “It’s one thing to overestimate

That bloody morrer again.

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