Brennan's questions about owls were soon pushed far to the back of her mind. It wasn't that she forgot, exactly, it was that once in Hogsmeade there was so much more to learn, so many other questions to ask that soon the use of owls to carry the mail seemed to fit perfectly with everything else she saw.

Hermione remembered her promise to accompany Brennan into every shop she wished to enter, and Brennan wished to enter every shop.

Some visits were quick and short. The hair salon, for instance, was like every other salon . . . except for the fact that the scissors cutting away and creating fantastic new 'dos were working by themselves. A pudgy little witch with a towering head full of curls that wouldn't have looked out of place on Marie Antoinette offered to "have a go at a few snips" for Brennan - on the house. The anthropologist politely declined and left the shop running a hand over her own smooth chestnut tresses, just to make sure she hadn't accidentally had a haircut.

The music shop was inspected on a similarly brief visit. Quiet before they entered, no sooner had the two women stepped over the threshold into the brightly lit interior than every instrument in the room began to play in a crescendo of sound. Invisible hands plucked the strings of a large ornate harp. The bow of a violin slid smoothly across the beautifully polished dark red instrument. Several pianofortes ran scales and played in harmony with each other. The fussy proprietor, a thin little man with a mustache that curled back on itself in a design of incredible complexity, bowed worshipfully over Hermione's hand for several minutes until finally, they made their escape.

Brennan was slightly more interested in Gladrags Wizardwear, where a multicolored array of cloaks and robes lined the walls, but more impressed with the workroom in the back of the store. Cotton and wool fed themselves into large looms which clicked and clacked, creating bolts of cloth of various colors and patterns. In one corner a colony of silkworms crawled across a live mulberry tree, diligently producing dozens of frothy white cocoons which fell into baskets at the base of the tree. The four witches at work in the room stopped when Gladys, the proprietor, followed Brennan and Hermione through the door. After introductions were made, the youngest returned to her earlier task, watched carefully by the two visitors. With a wave of her wand, a length of black wool stretched wide in front of her; another casual flick and a tape measure spanned the breadth of the cloth while a pair of scissors clipped away. Brennan smothered a smile at one point when the scissors, having veered slightly to the right, were snapped sharply by the tape measure until they lined up correctly again.

In the bookstore, Brennan almost forgot Hermione was there. Hermione, known to lose herself among books as well, understood and the two women cemented their new friendship over the dusty volumes they pulled from the shelves.

"I would like to purchase this book," Brennan said, holding up a dingy copy of The Magical Truth Behind Muggle Science. "Does this establishment take American Express?"

"Erm, no," Hermione answered, biting back a smile.

Brennan thumbed through the pages of the book. "Then I will require an ATM machine. Is there one nearby?" She studied the words on one page. "This book says that it was a wizard, Bertrand Adelbert, who taught Benjamin Franklin about electricity."

Hermione nodded. "Yes. I think you'll find that wizards were often behind many Muggle inventions."

"And it says here," Brennan continued, looking further into the book, "that a witch by the name of Wilhelmina Strassebenz helped her brother-in-law, a Squib who took the name of Karl Benz, with the combustion engine which led to the invention of the motor car."

"And none too soon," a portly witch browsing nearby commented. "All those horses - my grandmother told such stories! You could smell the Muggle villages for miles around!"

Hermione wrinkled her nose as if the smell was fresh.

Brennan lowered her voice. "But if wizards know all of these things, why don't they use technology? Why is this village, the home we were in last night, why are they all perfect examples of 19th century living?"

"We don't need those things," Hermione answered simply. "We have magic. You don't."

Brennan looked at the book she held, considering. "But with your abilities and the use of modern technology you could . . ."

"Rule the world?" Hermione asked, a slight smile playing across her face. "That never ends well, does it?"

"Change the world," Brennan corrected. "The word I had in mind was change."

"But for the better?" the witch responded, her tone serious. "Whose to say that the whole world knowing about a relatively small population of people with magical abilities would be a good thing? How soon would it be before we would be subjugated, taken advantage of, our powers used for ill in a world that doesn't always make the right choices? No," she shook her head, "there's a reason we keep ourselves separate from the Muggle world. In the end, both sides are better for it."

Brennan reflected for a few minutes before nodding. "Your conclusions are valid. I accept your position."

They browsed the bookstore for several minutes longer until Hermione, after receiving assurances from Brennan that it would be kept safely away from curious eyes, made a gift of the book to the anthropologist. "My way of saying thank you for your help," she insisted until graciously, Brennan accepted.

The next stop on the tour, the herbology shop Dogweed & Deathcap, was equally as fascinating. Brennan lifted lids and examined jars, comparing the ingredients and their uses to the herbal remedies used in earlier civilizations she'd studied. She paused, fascinated, staring at a long twisting silver horn for several minutes before reaching out to touch it with gentle fingertips. "Unicorn," she breathed, unaware she spoke out loud. When she turned to Hermione, her eyes glistened. "How could anyone . . ."

"The horns are very rare," the witch agreed. "They're usually recovered only when the animal is found dead in the forest."

Brennan wiped away a tear. "So they aren't killed for their horns?"

"Well, we do have occasional problems with poaching," Hermione admitted. "But it's rare because it's an awful thing to do, to kill a unicorn. If Hagrid finds evidence of such an occurrence, he immediately notifies me, or Harry. Only a dark wizard would do such a thing."

Brennan sniffed. "I'm sorry," she rolled her eyes irritably. "I'm usually very unemotional, unless I'm pregnant." A horrified look crossed her face for a fraction of an instant before she shook her head. "No, it's not possible."

Hermione chuckled and patted the other woman's arm sympathetically. "It's not you, Dr. Brennan. Unicorns have a special magic that connects most especially with females. Especially females who are 'pure of heart.' " She smiled gently. "It says something wonderful about you that you were so touched by the unicorn's horn."

"Oh, I am not a virgin," Brennan said, shaking her head. "I have three children but even before Booth and I became involved I had a wide variety of sexual . . ."

Hermione held up one hand hand, laughing. "No, Dr. Brennan, pure of heart. The truth of one's heart has nothing to do with . . ." she smothered another chuckle. "Let's just move along, shall we?"

Outside the herbology shop the two women stood for a few minutes discussing their next move. Suddenly a wide smile crossed Hermione's face and she took a few happy steps forward.

"Professor McGonagall!" she said, reaching out to grasp the older woman's hand and draw her closer. "Dr. Brennan, I would like to introduce you to one of my former teachers and a past headmistress of Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall."

Temperance Brennan could count on one hand, with fingers left over, the number of times she had felt awestruck upon meeting someone new. Standing in the presence of Minerva McGonagall, however, awestruck was the word that immediately came to mind. Power hummed from the tall, slim witch and the stern expression she wore seemed engraved on her lined visage. Beneath her hat, however, her green eyes twinkled, reflecting the deep shade of the velvet robes she wore and her smile was warm, if somewhat reserved as she offered her hand in response to Hermione's introduction.

"The Minister has told me all about your work, Dr. Brennan," she said. "I hope you've been given the assistance you require?"

"Yes," Brennan answered, "everyone has been quite helpful."

"I've been giving Dr. Brennan a tour of Hogsmeade, Professor. We've just come from Dogweed & Deathcap."

"Yes, well, I'd stay away from Scrivenshaft's," the professor said with a testy shrug of her shoulders. "I've just been there and the new supply of quills is very poor quality. Honestly," she tutted, "I believe they've hired trolls for their workshop now!"

Hermione made sympathetic noises then asked, "Perhaps now would be a good time to take a short break? I thought, perhaps, Madame Puddifoot's . . ."

"Good heavens no, child," McGonagall shook her head. "All those scented candles and that awful simpering music she insists on playing! That place quite makes my head hurt. "No," she continued, heading down the walk, "let's pay a visit to Rosmerta. A good honest pub is just what I need."

Sharing a grin, the two younger women hurried to catch up.

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"Minerva! So nice to see you again!" Rosmerta kissed the older witch on both cheeks. "And Hermione, always a pleasure." The young witch received the same kissing welcome before the pub's proprietor stepped back, looking curiously at Brennan.

"Erm . . . Dr. Brennan, Madam Rosmerta, the owner of the Three Broomsticks. Dr. Brennan is . . ."

"Oh yes, the Muggle," Rosmerta interrupted. "The Minister has been singing your praises." Turning away from the women, she surveyed the room. "Oy, you lot," she said, addressing a table of four scruffy looking wizards. "Clear off! I need the table."

"Here now," one dirty fellow argued. "You can't just . . ."

"The hell I can't," she said, her tone biting. "You've been nursing that same pint for the last hour! Don't you recognize Minerva McGonagall and Hermione Weasley? Shame on you! If it weren't for them and the rest up at Hogwarts, you'd all have tattoos on your arm right now! If you don't already," she added, her eyes narrowing as she glared at them, hands on her hips.

"No call to be nasty," he grumbled as the group left the table. "We're going. Ladies," he added, doffing his hat in an attempt at groveling politeness as they filed past the three waiting women. Rosmerta flicked her wand toward the corner and stepped back as a broom and bin rushed over, followed by a bright white towel that quickly wiped down the table.

"No respect," Rosmerta huffed, watching the cleanup. "Folks are starting to get a mite too comfortable, forgetting what it was like back when You Know...back when Voldemort was in power."

"Ah well, that's the way of things," McGonagall murmured, patting Rosmerta's arm. "Once the danger is past, we all tend to get comfortable."

"Mad-Eye had it right, though, didn't he? Constant vigilance." The two witches shared a look. "Times like this, when everyone is comfortable, that's when the seeds are sown." Rosmerta sighed heavily and shook off her malaise. "Well, at least we have Harry watching out for us," she said cheerfully, gesturing the ladies to their now clean table. "How is he, Hermione? And your Ron?"

"Both fine, I'll tell them you asked about them," Hermione answered, settling into a seat. "They're with Dr. Brennan's husband, at the Ministry."

"Ah, wonderful," their hostess responded. "Now, what can I bring you ladies? Uh uh uh," she wagged her finger at Hermione when the younger witch opened her bag. "Your galleons are no good here, girl, I've told you."

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione smiled, "thank you. Dr. Brennan and I will each have butterbeers, please."

"And I'll have a nice sharp red currant rum, if you please, Rosmerta," McGonagall added.

"Certainly." Hermione watched her totter away on the high heels she favored before abruptly turning back to the table with a loud groan.

"What is it, dear?" McGonagall asked in concern.

Hermione tipped her head toward the door. "Rita." She leaned in toward Brennan. "If she comes over here, don't . . ."

"Well, hello! How wonderful to see such a charming gathering, here in little Hogsmeade!" The newcomer wore a broad, fake smile, her eyes glittering inquisitively as she surveyed the women.

"Go away," Hermione said abruptly, standing up quickly.

"Really, Ms. Weasley," Rita tutted, her expression simpering. "Isn't it time we let bygones be bygones, that we . . ."

"Bury the hatchet? I'd love to," Hermione agreed grimly, pulling her wand. "Just let me get one."

Rita laugh was loud and false. Her curls, dyed a horrendous shade of orange and piled haphazardly on top of her head, shook slightly when she reached a talon like hand toward Brennan. "I'm Rita Skeeter, correspondent for the Daily Prophet. And you are?"

"None of your business," Hermione responded sharply. Brennan eyed the grasping hand distastefully before crossing her arms over her chest, leaning back from the table. "You aren't welcome here, Rita. Leave."

"Really, Hermione." Rita dropped the air of phony friendliness and glared back. "Our little unpleasantness was so long ago, isn't it time you dropped it?"

"Your article last week sent one of my employees home in tears," Hermione responded harshly.

"What, that little piece? I'm sure I don't know . . ."

"You said she was little more intelligent than a mentally handicapped troll and compared her looks to a hag with boils."

"Well she does have that unfortunate complexion . . ."

Hermione leaned in close to Rita. "If you print one more column attacking one of my employees I will personally see that your little secret is made public."

Rita gasped and drew back, lifting her chin defiantly. "Perhaps it's time I went to the registry myself and took that little weapon away from you. I'm tired of being threatened with . . ."

"Please do," Hermione smiled, her teeth bared. "I think a six-month stint in Azkaban would do wonders for your personality."

Rita's mouth opened and closed several times as she struggled for words. Finally, she squared her shoulders and huffed. "I can see this is a bad time for an interview. I'll just . . . I'll just . . . well. Goodbye." She turned and stalked away from the table, casting one last venom filled glance toward them before stepping outside the tavern.

"Was that wise, dear?" McGonagall asked as Hermione took her seat again. "I know there's no love lost between the two of you but . . ."

"She's foul," Hermione said bitterly, over Rosmerta's return with their drinks. "She's cruel and vindictive. I don't know why the Prophet continues to employ her."

"Well, she's sleeping with the editor," McGonagall said, taking a dainty sip of ruby red liquid.

Hermione choked on the sip she'd just taken. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, yes," her former professor nodded. "I'm surprised you don't know. It's common knowledge."

Brennan smiled and sipped again from her glass. "I'm glad to see our worlds have some things in common."

"Men are men, be they wizards or Muggles," McGonagall said wisely. "All of them are too easily led astray by a pair of shapely legs."

The three women touched glasses in a silent toast to the weakness of the male sex.

"Professor McGonagall, I wondered if you would mind answering some of Dr. Brennan's questions about the wizarding community. Our history and so forth," Hermione said to the older woman.

"I'm certainly happy to share what I can," she agreed, "but if it's history you want, perhaps we should speak to Professor Binns. He's still teaching at Hogwarts, you know."

"Erm . . . no, I don't think that's a good idea," Hermione hesitated, casting a glance at Brennan.

"If he's an expert on your community's history, I would certainly like to meet him," she said.

"Well, you see," Hermione bit her lip. "He's a ghost," she continued in a rush.

Brennan stared at her, speechless. A long moment passed, then she turned to Professor McGonagall. "I'm sure you'll be able to answer any questions I have."

"I'll certainly do my best, dear," the teacher replied with a smile.

"I'm familiar with several different cultures and their beliefs about the supernatural. For instance, here in Britain and the legend of Merlin . . ."

"Oh, Merlin," McGonagall huffed, sitting back. "That man's ability to promote himself continues to cause problems for us, even today."

Brennan shook her head in confusion. "Merlin was real?"

"Of course," the elder professor said, sipping at her drink. "He was among the first students taught at Hogwarts. He was in Slytherin house, actually."

"In Slytherin?" Hermione asked, her voice raised in shock.

"Yes, Slytherin." McGonagall smiled. "Not all great wizards came from Gryffindor, you know."

"Well I knew that but . . ."

Hermione was interrupted when a small, silver dragon glided to their table and spoke in a deep voice.

"Bes' get ta the Leaky Cauldron on the quick, Hermione. Ron's gettin' ready to duel wi' that Muggle."

"What?" Confused, Brennan looked into Hermione's shocked face as the silver dragon disappeared. "What was . . . who was that?"

"That was Hagrid," Hermione answered in a whisper.

"Duel?" Brennan stood up quickly, almost knocking her chair over. "Where did they get swords?"

"Swords?" Hermione shook her head. "No, we duel with wands. But, " her hand covered her mouth in horror, "your husband can't use a wand. What if . . .I'm sorry, Professor," she said hurriedly, grabbing Brennan's hand. "We have to . . ."

"Yes, by all means," McGonagall waved. "Go and save your menfolk from themselves. Hurry!"

In the blink of an eye, Brennan and Hermione popped into a small alleyway off a busy London street. Hermione raced out, calling over her shoulder for Brennan to follow her. The American at first raced past the witch, only turning back when Hermione called her name, standing at a door Brennan hadn't seen until that moment. "In here!" she called frantically.

The two ladies came to an abrupt halt inside the tavern, letting their eyes adjust to the shadowed, smokey interior of the Leaky Cauldron. Finally, they made out a ring of patrons surrounding an open space in the middle of the room, cleared of tables. At opposite ends of the makeshift ring, Ron and Booth stood. Both held wands. Both were shirtless. Both wavered unsteadily on their feet.

"What on earth . . ." Hermione whispered under her breath as she moved closer.

Harry sat at a table near the clearing, his head on his folded arms. Next to him was a pyramid of empty glasses, some of them still smoking.

"They didn't . . ." Hermione breathed.

"What in the world is going on here?" Hermione yelled into the silence. Every eye turned toward the two women.

"Uh oh," Ron giggled. "The party poopers are here."

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, what do you think you're doing?" Hermione marched closer, her hands on her hips.

"Bilius?" Booth burst into laughter that stopped abruptly when he almost fell face forward..

"Seeley Joseph Booth!" Brennan's tone echoed Hermione's, her expression fierce as she stood next to the witch.

"Seeley?" Ron giggled, adding for good measure a burp at the end.

"What do you two think you're doing?" Hermione asked, resisting the urge to bash both of them on top of the head.

Booth staggered over to Ron and threw his arm around the younger man's shoulders. "This my buddy," he slurred, leaning heavily on the other man. By some miracle, Ron managed to stay upright, although it was a near thing.

"Tha's right," he agreed, trying to lift his arm to Booth's shoulder. "Buddy." The two men smiled drunkenly at their wives. "Gonna show 'im wizard stuff. Make a wizard out of 'im."

Hermione stomped her foot in frustration. "Harry!" she yelled at the sleeping man sitting next to the pyramid of glasses. "Harry!" Finally, he lifted his head and stared at her through bleary eyes.

"Hermione," he muttered. Blinking several times, he added . . . "Uh oh."

She picked up an empty glass and sniffed it experimentally before slamming it down with such force the pyramid tumbled, glasses rolling across the table top and to the floor, shattering with a tinkle of sound.

"You gave a Muggle firewhiskey?"

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Yea, Pottermore put me in Slytherin. What's a former Ravenclaw to do, except make friends with Merlin.

(SandNimbus29, if you're on Pottermore and want to add me.)