Monica Wilkins found herself brushing her teeth almost obsessively that morning, staring in the bathroom mirror as the toothpaste foamed up in her mouth. She though she looked quite like a rabid dog, although she was not quite sure if she had seen a real live rabid dog in her life. This thought briefly brought her away from the despair with which she scrubbed at her pearlies, but only briefly.

Her husband was still asleep in the other room. Wendell had taken to sleeping in when they relocated. She wondered if it was just jet lag that he hadn't quite managed to get over. She wasn't too worried; she'd never really liked Britain and it was a relief to move out to some place with so much space. They hadn't much to tie them there, Britain, that is – it had been a good idea to leave.

But still, she thought, spitting into the sink and baring her teeth at the mirror. Still, she had felt…something, when boarded the plane. Monica snorted and began scrubbing at her teeth again. A fat lot of good "something" did – so obnoxiously vague. Monica found that she liked things to be precise and what she didn't like was how hard she had to struggle to name the…something…that gripped her heart as she stepped off of British soil.

"Listen here, Monica!" she heard her husband calling from the other room. So he was awake then. Despite his tendency to sleep in, Wendell always seemed to wake up immediately refreshed and jovial. "Paper says some loony in town has been muggling people!"

"What's that?"

"Muggling people! You know, coming up to them, waving a knife around and taking their money!"

"You mean mugging, dear."

"Right, right." He came around into the bathroom and grinned at her, kissing her on the cheek. She rolled her eyes at his ruffled appearance. He took off his shirt, intending to take a shower, and the doorbell rang. She raised an eyebrow at him and he groaned and trotted off to answer the door.

She wrapped up brushing her teeth, knowing they couldn't get any cleaner, flossed once more, and washed her face. She and Wendell had been married for ages, and she still found him quite adorable, but he got on her nerves sometimes. She had wondered, fearfully and briefly, if the something she had felt had been dread of going off to a faraway place with him or her falling out of love with him, but dismissed it as quite preposterous. He came stumbling back into the bathroom with a wry grin on his face. "Who was it?" Monica asked, kissing him on the cheek. He wiped a stray bit of toothpaste off of her face and grinned. She flushed.

"Just the mailman. Had a package for us."

"What kind of package?"

"The small kind."

"Oh, so your kind of package?" Monica asked, giving him a teasing grin. Wendell grinned right back and took his wife into his arms, hugging her from behind and pressing into her.

"You know very well what kind of package I have," he growled playfully. She shrieked and laughed, smacking his hand as it attempted to sneak into her robe. Wendell spun Monica around and frog marched her towards the living room. She spilled onto the couch, her robe riding up her thighs, and she could not stop giggling. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at her and sidled in between her legs, kissing her lips thoroughly and then slowly and methodically moving his lips down her body, opening her robe as he did so.

The doorbell rang again and Wendell flushed, looking up at the door and then back at his wife. "Maybe it's the mailman again. Better get it." Monica sang. Wendell looked downtrodden. She smirked and tugged her robe closed, getting up and going into the kitchen to pour herself some tea. She heard him groan, pull himself together, and get up to answer the door. She fussed around the kitchen, grabbing a mug and a teabag and pouring the hot water.

Monica sipped her tea, reveling in the taste. She was quite glad that she'd never liked coffee – horrible drink always stained her teeth.

"Oh, Monica dear, we have a guest. Guess it wasn't the mailman after all."

"Who is it?" Monica asked, curious as to who would be all the way out here. Their nearest neighbor wasn't for miles, and the grumpy old man was hardly liable to visit.

"A girl," he said, sounding amused. "A Brit, like us, what's the chance of that? Says her name is Hermione Granger. Want's to talk."