2: The Portkey

That was how Hermione found herself holding a Portkey in her living room, waiting for the cuckoo clock on the wall to strike eight. Her bags were packed, exactly meeting the specifications Luna had given her: sporty winter clothes for seven days, some things for lounging around a fireside, and the smallest bikini she could muster.

The Portkey itself was a small copper cube, presumably designed by Luna.

Or was it Lucius?

Or both.

It, like Luna's office down at the travel agency, had some impressive spells woven into it the metal. If you tapped the cube once, it gave you the weather report for the day. Pinch one of its corners and you received restaurant recommendations in the area. And the failsafe switch—squeeze the cube tightly for an immediate Portkey back home to England.

At some point in the vacation, the little Portkey sprung open and took a photograph—moving, of course—of the client living it up abroad. This was turned into a postcard to mail back to loved ones. Wish you were here, and all that tosh. Hermione had used this little function to pepper Harry and Ron with endless photos of herself from her trips, and had even sent a few back to Luna to thank her for organizing everything.

Then the cuckoo started to crow, and the clock turned eight.

Hermione felt the telltale tug at her navel, and she relaxed her body as much as she could so she wouldn't get woozy on the ride. Finally the wretched feeling of being tugged through space ended, and Hermione tumbled out on a bank of soft snow. She looked up to the luminescence of a full moon highlighting the snow all around her. A short distance away, she saw a dozen tiny buildings and a central wooden lodge with a sign bearing more vowels and umlauts than she'd ever seen in one place before.

So it wasn't Russia.

Hermione picked herself up, dusted the snow from her coat, and trudged over to the lodge to check herself in.

A blonde woman behind the desk greeted her. 'Hei!'

Hermione faltered. 'Er… Hello?'

'Ah! A Brit, I see,' she said, speaking flawless English with a lilting accent. 'Welcome to the inn. May I take your name?'

After reassuring Hermione that she had a luxury cabin to herself for the week, the receptionist handed over a set of key cards and explained where to find equipment and trails for nordic skiing, when to look out for the Northern Lights, and how to add more wood to the lodge's sauna.

It sounded perfect.

A whole week of skiing, catered meals, and magical evening skies. Seven days without listening to the Healers at St Mungo's demanding that she develop another potion for an emergency case. One hundred and sixty-eight hours without Snape needling her about her lack of professionalism in the office or watching him scare the pants off their assistant David O'Reilly. Ten thousand and eighty minutes without O'Reilly accidentally blowing up their experiments because of the way Snape loomed over his shoulder incessantly and barked at him for trying to show off.

Besides, they were told it would take at least a few days to rebuild the lab space, so it wasn't like Hermione could have gone into work even if she'd wanted to.

A brief walk through a forest of birch trees led Hermione to her temporary home away from home. It wasn't terribly late, but she was exhausted. Hermione collapsed onto her mattress, surrounded in a cocoon of warmth and comfort with the cosiness of a thousand drowsy kittens, and she slept the dreamless sleep of the just.

The next morning, she was finally in a state to take it all in. Luna's magical instincts were spot on, as it was beautiful and simple and peaceful. All light woods and crisp white linens, with a private jacuzzi tub and a kitchenette stocked with berries and smoked fish and something labelled as viilithat she'd guessed was fermented milk. She tucked into a hearty helping of the stuff, fixing herself a cup of coffee and flipping on the television news while she pretended to understand Finnish.

Hermione then changed into something appropriate and went off in hunt of those skis. When she found them hanging in the entryway, she plucked them off the walls. Clearly expensive, they weighed almost nothing. The buckles and shoes were self-explanatory, and a waterproof trail map was next to a pile of extra woolens for warmth. She suited up, pocketed the map, and headed out into the forest in pursuit of nothing in particular.

After an hour zhuzhing over trails, she found herself on a frozen lake in the most beautiful silence she'd ever not heard.

It wasn't quite noon, and the light was already changing. It really was extraordinary, this place, and Hermione made a mental note to ask the receptionist just how far north she was. With only a few hours of direct sunlight during the day, Hermione suspected she was close to the Arctic circle.

After another hour or so, skiing peacefully and listening to the occasional bird call or the deep, low crack of the ice across the lake, she headed back towards her cabin, planning to curl up beside a fire with a good novel and whatever they were serving for lunch. She slipped off the skis and toed off her boots, shaking the snow out of her hair as she holed up in her cabin once more.

A quick shower later, now draped in a warm robe, Hermione went to the kitchen, where a hot meal was waiting for her. Bless room service, she thought. It turned out to be seasoned potatoes and hot cabbage rolls, followed by a kind of a sweet pancake. This marvelous meal accompanied her literary trip to a dystopian future in a bleak read from one of her favourite twenty-first-century authors.

All was well.

Except…

She glanced out the window.

No, it couldn't be.

Could it?

Hermione could have sworn that she saw Snape walking to another one of the cabins.

Except that it couldn't be him. Sure, the nose looked the same, and he had the same lean figure. But this man was wearing one of those ludicrous knitted caps with a pom pom flopping about on top, a wild fuchsia and orange one at that, and Severus was far too suave to wear something so over-the-top in public. He was all tailored blacks and greys, and this colourful cap was a bit mad even by Harry's dubious sartorial standards.

Maybe the fermented milk thing she'd devoured had gone turned. Yes, that seemed much more likely. She was simply imagining things.

After all, there was no way that Snape was here.

To zhuzh = to glide effortlessly over the snow in a pair of nordic skis. I zhuzh, you zhuzh, he/she/it zhuzhes.