Author's Note: Thank you all for your incredible support thus far. I really haven't written much in this fandom and am having way too much fun with this. A word to the wise: Read carefully. Otherwise, you'll mistake an Apparation point for Hermione's new career as a prostitute. I'm going to update this as often as the muse strikes. Props for this chapter go to maps. which helped me find directions from Hermione's hotel to the house I found for the Grangers. Double props go to the Uni's website for the School of Historical Studies, as well as my roommate Kateydidnt for enduring some of my more asenine questions.

It was a few minutes before 5:00 when the front desk rang to say that she had a visitor. True to form, Dad expected everyone to be at least five minutes early for every scheduled meeting, so Hermione had already packed and planned to be ready by 4:55.

She had already reduced her luggage so that she could tuck the two suitcases and a rucksack into the pocket next to her pocket Sneakoscope, but the moment that she found herself alone in the lift, she extracted all three and Engorged them to a more normal size. The difficulty arose in the fact that she then had to lug them across the lobby of the hotel to where her father was standing rather nervously near the concierge desk.

For a moment, he seemed to recognize her. Of course, there could be only so many seventeen-year-olds trying to drag all their worldly possessions across a marble atrium and that probably meant that she was his quarry.

She nodded a greeting to him, and then returned the key to the clerk who had kindly allowed her to loiter a few hours past checkout. Without waiting for a response, she turned to the tall man from whom she had inherited her hair color and lithe build.

"Hermione, I presume?" he asked immediately.

"Hermione Granger," she confirmed, extending a hand once she had extracted it from the handle of her larger valise.

"Wendell Wilkins," Dad introduced himself, shaking her hand.

He glanced rather skeptically at her scarcity of luggage, but in typical fashion, he just arched one dark eyebrow. "Just these, then?"

"I like to travel light," she lied—there was no need to mention the four-person tent, functional camp stove and collapsible bicycle that could be extracted with little difficulty from her beaded clutch.

"Good girl, then," he laughed. "Why don't I help you with these…"

The car was the same model of Citroen hatchback that he had favored in London, but a dark-blue color. Still, it was something almost as familiar as the man sitting next to her and she settled in as comfortably as if she had just boarded the Hogwarts Express on a September morning.

"Not to worry," Dad said cheerfully. "We'll have you home in no time."

Of course. The house on Holden Street that she had visited earlier that day was a mere six kilometers from the hotel, but he had no way of knowing that the fifteen-minute drive was an eternity compared to her usual mode of travel.

"I hope you're not some sort of vegetarian," Dad commented conversationally. "Monica's making a roast and even an unhealthy torte for afters to welcome you to the 'family.' She said you looked underfed for your age."

There was no first-conversation way of explaining what a war did to appetite, much less the constant need to be on the run. Even now, some two months after she had watched Lord Voldemort slump with a peculiar grace to the floor of the Great Hall, food was more of an afterthought than a necessity.

Instead of telling her father about this, she shrugged and settled for a partial truth that was, nonetheless, a truth. "I did a bit of camping this last year and I don't think my appetite's ever recovered," Hermione explained honestly.

"And you young people lead a much more active lifestyle than old duffers like myself," he rejoined.

Hermione thought first of seven years of chasing after Ron and Harry on their various unintentional adventures, and then of the vine-wood wand that she had slid into a pouch next to her favorite Eagle-feather quill for safe keeping and easy access.

"On occasion," she agreed.

"Monica says you'll be at the university next month?" he prompted. "I don't suppose you'll be joining me in the School of Dental Science?"

"I rather think I have the wrong temperament for it," Hermione echoed her familiar argument against following in her father's footsteps. "I prefer an honor's course in Ancient and Medeival History at the School of Historical Studies."

"Honors," Dad repeated, sounding impressed. "You beaver away at your studies then?"

"Constantly," Hermione recalled.

"Good," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "It will be good to have a kindred spirit around until Emilia grows into that habit."

She had no words for that, since it would seem odd to say exactly what was in her heart and her voice didn't want to cooperate with small talk at the moment.

"I suppose you haven't been here long," Dad observed a few minutes later, once they had turned from Victoria Street onto Lygon. "I can't imagine it's much of a joy living in a hotel."

"I was only there a night and a day," Hermione assured him. "It was just a stop-over until I could find a place to call home."

"I did the same sort of thing when I was your age," Dad informed her. "I was a restless sort and spent the first year in hostels and cheap dives across the continent before I came back and settled in at Cambridge."

Every time that she could recall hearing the story, he had added that when she was old enough, he would take her to a few of those old hostels, "as long as your mother never knows." Even now, he stopped speaking for a moment as if he meant to say something else. Hermione looked away so he wouldn't see the pinched look that had taken over her face.

"And your parents?" Dad inquired, changing the subject abruptly. "Are they as airy-fairy as their daughter?"

"You might say that," she recited. "Dad's a barrister and Mum teaches French at a high school."

It was a half-truth that she had carefully practiced. Dad had chosen dental science over the position offered him in a law school and Mum had spent most of her childhood summers with relatives in Chartres.

"You must miss them terribly," he murmured sympathetically.

Her throat went very dry then, but she managed to croak out one sentence as she nodded her head slightly. "More than they will ever know."

They did not speak again until they arrived at the home on Holden Street a few minutes later. Even then, the words were an exchange of offers and expressions of gratitude between two slightly bashful strangers.

"Monica," Dad called as they reached the entryway. "Hermione reckons she could eat the fatted calf. Is dinner ready?"

"Nearly," Mum shouted back from the kitchen. "Your daughter has been redecorating the kitchen again, just because she thinks it's great sport."

They entered to find Mum balancing the baby on her hip and stirring the gravy vigorously. Dad slid one arm around her shoulders and the other around Emilia to relieve Mum of the burden as soon as he gave her a kiss in greeting.

"I always thought this wall would look better in carrot," he commented.

"Yes," Mum sighed, "but at least I kept her away from the beets. There's no telling what she might have done in the name of artistic expression."

Emilia, for her part, chortled mischievously and made a concerted effort to remove Dad's glasses. He ducked away and her pudgy hand landed on his chin with a vaguely damp smack instead.

"Darling child," he chided, "if you're looking for a new plaything, I've got a much better idea. Let me introduce you to your new housemate."

Either Emilia understood the gist of the sentence or she had developed an immediate fixation on the visitor. Her dark eyes peered over Dad's shoulder as if challenging Hermione to dare invade her territory. Dad turned slightly so that they were both facing Hermione and Emilia cocked her head to scrutinize her further. Finally, she cooed a quiet approval and broke into a grin.

"There," Dad said approvingly. "I knew Monica was right to like you. Mili doesn't usually like strangers."

That was, perhaps, because she was the only one in the house able to recognize her own.

"Phone for you."

Hermione jolted abruptly from her sleep, the remnants of a dream slipping away with the shadows as the room came into focus. She had intended to unpack before going to bed, but a short catnap had turned into a genuine lie-in, according to her wristwatch.

"Did they say who it was?" she called.

"No," Mum responded, "but it sounds like a slightly bewildered young man."

Ron, then. She had given the home number to Harry on Mum's instructions so that she wouldn't have to rely on her cellular phone. She only hoped that Ron remembered which end of the phone to use this time around.

She padded into the kitchen, wrapped in her rather tattered pink dressing gown and wearing a patently bleary expression. Mum had left the handset off the hook and Hermione put it to her ear.

"Ron?"

"Of course, 'Mione," Ron said cheerfully. "Blimey, I thought she'd gotten lost on the way."

"She didn't," Hermione responded, "but I didn't expect you to call this early."

"Oh," Ron said, not sounding ashamed at all. "Well, you couldn't expect me to wait a few days to ring you after you chatted Harry up yesterday morning."

"Sorry," Hermione yawned. "You were asleep and I just wanted to make sure you didn't think I'd run off with some Australian Squib on the way here."

"Your concern is very touching," Ron answered with mock severity. "Now, listen up, Hermione, we've got some important matters to discuss."

Which meant that he wanted something from her. Given their last conversation, this was probably a plea for her to spend the holidays for the next decade at the Burrow. Still, Ron hated to be interrupted and she simply shook her head.

"If you're looking for help on your History homework, you're on your own, Won-Won," she teased.

"Hermione," Ron echoed reproachfully. "Be serious."

"All right," she sighed. "I'll help with History, but not Charms."

"Actually," Ron interrupted, sounding even more impatient, "I was hoping you could help me with a bit of Muggle Studies."

"You never even took that class," she accused.

"No," Ron agreed, "but I need some help. See, the Prophet wants me to cover a Quidditch match against the Australian National team next week and I haven't the foggiest how to get around Melbourne. I was thinking, if you knew any lovely witches by the name of Granger who might be able to act as tour guide…"

"You're coming?" Hermione blurted, voice squeaking more than she had intended.

"Well, yeah," he sighed. "And Potter and Longbottom thought they might tag along since the term doesn't start until September. I don't suppose you remember either of them, but Harry's turning eighteen next week and I figured we'd save you the cost of Owl Post and pick up his present in person."

His tone had been serious from the beginning of the call, but she could now here nothing but a grin in his voice. It was a welcome change.

"So, you up for a few friendly faces?" he asked.

She didn't even have to think and only waited for him to finish the sentence because she had been told that it was the polite thing to do.

"What day can you be here?" Hermione asked eagerly.

"Well," Ron calculated, "the match is on Tuesday night, so we should probably be there a day or two early to get settled in and…of course…"

There were sounds of a scuffle and Harry's voice was the next sound she heard. "We can be there tomorrow," he informed her. "Is that too early?"