Getting that Time-Turner was probably the worst mistake I made this year. While it increased my productivity, I paid in comfort and sanity. I put up a good front, but it was I who suffered the effects of 5/4th days, worsened by insomnia. I closed my eyes and I could almost feel Lew's arms around me, and there were times that the only way I could prevent myself from reaching out to her was by getting back up and writing more plans, more diagnostics, more proposals. And even with my hands writing, my eyes focused on the page, her face still danced before my eyes. I forced myself to be strong, and when I had no more strength left it was a relief, because then I could sleep.


Regin did not enjoy being rushed. This, he reflected, made him a spectacularly bad fit as the personal aide of Dane Teague, but what was done was done. He rather preferred his former duties as the butt-monkey of the entire High Council; it was far easier to slip under the radar when you had over a dozen bosses.

He pulled his robes away from his chest in a vain attempt to dry the sweat under his arms. He mopped his brow before pausing in front of Teague's office, composing himself. He pushed the door open, speaking as he did so. "Sir, the records indicate -"

Someone was facing away from Regin, and they didn't turn to look at him as he interrupted. Teague looked up from his desk, a look of irritation briefly crossing his face. "Regin, thank you for your... promptness." He stood, nodding at the person, who stood as well. "I believe you have met Lew Cunningham?"

Regin froze in shock, before taking a quick step backward."Yeh- Yes, of course," he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Somehow the mangled body of Beable Noff would not leave his vision.

"A pleasure," Lew said coolly, giving no indication that she noticed his distress.

"Lew will be helping me in a similar capacity as yourself," Teague said. "Consider her your direct superior, and treat her as you do me."

Regin swallowed again, and then forced himself to take a quick step forward, drying his palm on his robes before offering it to the woman. "Absolutely," Regin said, shaking Lew's hand limply. "Eh - It will be a, I'm most glad to be working with you," he managed.

"Very good," Teague said, and took his seat again. Lew followed. "So, as you were saying? The records?"

Regin couldn't stop himself from glancing at Lew, who was looking at him with mild interest. "They show no monetary transfers between the Ravensdale family and Mr. Thomas, but in 1997 Thomas's body was found in possession of a singular bracelet that can be traced to Susan Ravensdale."

Teague smiled then. "Very good," he said. He then turned to Lew, explaining, "That helps substantiate Thomas's claim of parentage."

"Sir," Regin ventured. "Thomas is dead. How could this possibly be relevant?"

Teague gave him an inscrutable look. "Thomas is a half-blood," he explained finally. "Albert Ravensdale can't claim full blood status if Thomas is his father. What surprises me is that the Ravensdales weren't paying him for his silence."

"Perhaps they didn't know," Lew said.

"Then why would it take so long for Thomas to claim Albert?"

Lew shrugged. "Women have their ways of guaranteeing a man's silence," she said.

"So Thomas was the gigolo of Susan while keeping a Muggle concubine of his own?" Teague considered this. "It's possible." Finally he sighed. "Well, Regin, have a good weekend."

He heard the dismissal in the other man's voice and fled the room, taking a moment in the hallway to calm his beating heart. Lew was a bloody murderer and a traitor! At least that explained who was responsible for forgiving Lew. He wondered absently if she was considered an Auror now.

He left the building, noting that the sun had set, and walked to the Portkey slowly, seeing that he had five minutes to wait until it left for London. There was a rickety wooden bench on the hill, which he sat on, picking idly at a scab. The December air was chill against his body, but luckily he had just started to become uncomfortable before the Portkey took him off.

It wasn't far to Apparate to the phone booth, and down he went, to the inner bowels of the Ministry of Magic. So late on a Friday evening, there were only a few people left in the halls, so he walked unconcernedly, dispensing with a concealment charm. He wasn't very good at them, in any case.

Eventually he approached an office, and knocked briskly on the door. "Come in," filtered through the door, and Regin entered, smiling in greeting.

"Still at the office after sundown on a Friday night?" he said with a friendly tone.

The man sitting on the other side of the desk just smiled back at him. "Sit down, son. Do you have something you want to discuss?"

"Uh, yes, actually," he said, flustered. "Mr. Teague seems to be utterly preoccupied with finding blackmail items against the noble houses. He hasn't even mentioned anything else to me."

"Really?" The man raised his eyebrows. "That is... unexpected."

"Sir," Regan wet his lips nervously. "He has tracked down Lew Cunningham and apparently, she's working for him now. The deranged killer?" He let that sink in. "Perhaps he is conducting his... other affairs with her, or another servant's, help."

The other man hummed. "Naturally. He would trust a servant who is at his mercy, and Lew Cunningham has everything to lose if she displeases him. And she is far more capable than his other servants. It seems that perhaps I made a mistake in pushing your assignment to him."

"I'm perfectly content to stay for another month, perhaps two."

"Yet your services might be more effective elsewhere," the man said, standing and walking to a perfectly falsified window. The skeletal outlines of trees clawed upward at the horizon, the sky still lit faintly.

"Yes, sir," Regin said, and he felt the queasiness in his stomach come back. "To be perfectly honest, I would be more comfortable working for someone else. You, for example."

Kingsley Shacklebolt turned away from the window to smile at the boy. "Perhaps in a month or two," he said. "I will owl you."

"Yes, sir," Regin said, and made for the door. It was to be a solitary night for him, but he had been looking forward to relaxing all week. He shut the door and felt tension drip off him. Friday night.


"It is unacceptable," Rackrim said grimly, glancing ponderously around the smoothly polished table, his beady eyes angry in the half-light. "The mudblood insults our honor."

An older goblin scoffed loudly. "She insults our business sense, as there is no honor to besmirch."

"What is there to be done?" asked a smaller goblin, distinctly green in the candlelight.

"Close her account and seize the funds," Rackrim said instantly, but already there was muttering.

"Before she so rudely confronted us, she had already withdrawn all of her money and closed her vault."

"Is it true that she was looking for investment?" said another goblin. "Perhaps she stole something. It's not unknown! Harry Potter did it."

"We have tripled security! It is impossible."

There was an uneasy silence around the table as the group considered last year's unpleasantness.

"It is completely impossible for her to establish a competitive banking establishment," Rackrim said finally. "Granger is well-known as a dissident. If she becomes a real threat, we will deal with her then."

There was vague consensus, and then the group moved on to brighter topics.


Hermione ordered tea and took a seat at the bar along the window, facing inward. It was a hole in the wall, but coffee shops were hard to come by in the Wizarding world. As she waited, she brooded.

Those damn goblins. They refused to listen to her logical argument in favor of investment. Clearly her threat of opening a competitor was only distantly feasible, and certainly she would need a front man (she considered Malfoy; he was bright enough to see the potential). But in the meantime, the wizarding economy suffered. She, Hermione, suffered with it - she needed about 10,000 galleons, and while she was fairly certain Harry was flush enough to handle that, she didn't want to force Harry into such a narrow investment portfolio.

Fucking goblins.

The man had to say, "Hello, Ms. Granger?" to get her attention, and when he did she blinked and focused on him. He was standing approximately a foot and a half away, and she mentally cursed herself for her inattention.

She hopped off the stool and gave a short bow, which the man returned. He was wearing simple robes, the only extravagance being red lining and purple shoes. His face was lined by worry, but at the moment his eyes were bright.

"James Ravensdale," she acknowledged.

"No, please, call me Jim," he said, taking a slightly awkward seat at the bar stool next to her. "I'm terribly sorry for this preposterous meeting-place, but my wife Susan is highly suspicious of lending money," he paused, and Hermione filled in "especially to mudbloods" for him. "It seemed better not to excite her."

Hermione nodded in what she hoped was understanding. "Of course. Although I feel I must remind you, this isn't a loan."

He waved his hand. "As long as you guarantee me a full return in two year's time, I have no qualms with the arrangement. You know, Ms. Granger, you come with quite a few recommendations. I don't consider a loan to you a risky proposition whatsoever."

Hermione couldn't control a wince at his incorrect term, but fought through it. "Yes, sir. Would you like me to show you how it works?" She brought the new model, a sleeker design with a slightly smaller mirror, out of her pocket.


Harry,

I'm going to Belgium for the Daily Prophet. They didn't want to cover the Snickets issue in depth, but I insisted and Talls finally capitulated. The permission forms for temporary leave went through like clockwork, surprisingly. Maybe someone on the inside agrees with me.

I'm including a business plan for the phones. In summary, I'm looking for a small investment of 4,000 galleons from you and one other party, and I am contributing 2,000 of my own funds. You and the other investor will hold 40% of the total value of the company, while I will have 20%. At any point you can break the contract and absorb 60% of the remaining sum of your investment, which is a condition that the other investor insisted upon. As with any investment, I will distribute the profits according to the share of the company that you hold. As a for-profit company I can assure you that I will be looking to expand our profits at all times, except in the case of a potential breach in law or ethics.

I will hire one 'manufacturer' and one salesman, who will double as quality control. I will begin selling the hand-held devices on February 1st, but Iexpect to accumulate a few pre-orders. The basic model will retail at 350 Galleons, and I will also offer a pre-enchanted mirror for household use at 180 Galleons, with an additional cost depending upon the frame.

Merry Christmas Harry. Don't let Mercy get to you too much.

Love,

Hermione

Harry shook his head, staring sadly at the stack of books beside him. He reached into his pocket and pushed the green button, saying, "Hermione Granger."

There was no response. After the mirror dimmed again, he tried again. "Hermione Granger."

Her face appeared, obscured by a big knitted hat and a scarf. She was outside, and her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes kept flicking up, and she continued walking as she spoke. "Harry. Did you get my letter?"

"Hermione. Two questions. Why don't you have a salary and why did you send me five books for Christmas?"

"I have a salary, Harry. What are you talking about?"

"For your phone company, you list only two employees, but there are three."

Hermione frowned heavily at him. "I'm not planning on exactly working for the company, Harry," she said.

"Don't be ridiculous, you're the CEO! Intellectual property and all!"

She brushed the comment off. "And you need to read the books," she said. Of course.

"Okay, well, look. I'll pick the money up next week on Christmas Eve, since I'm coming back anyway, and I'll give it to you then. Does that work?" He figured he needn't mention the Weasley family Christmas, since she was obviously not invited.

"Sure," she said shortly.

"Oh, and I'll tell Mercy the price, but I'm pretty sure she wants one of these phones. So you've got one pre-order already."

A smile flicked across Hermione's face, disappearing too quickly. "Great. Look, I'll talk to you soon, alright?"

"Yeah," he said, but she'd already hung up. He sighed and tried to think of a way to shake her out of her psychosis.

He had a week, but by the morning of the 24th he still hadn't come up with a winning strategy. So he settled. Hermione had been devastated when they discovered that Crookshanks had been mysteriously misplaced during the Weasleys' hurried move to Aunt Muriel's. Mrs. Weasley had insisted that Crookshanks disappeared a week previous, but there was a good amount of controversy over the subject, and through all that Harry had watched Hermione's face go from furious to despondent. Whatever the cause, Crookshanks had never come back.

So he Apparated very, very carefully to the foot of Hermione's apartment building and called her to announce his arrival, waiting nervously at the foot of the stairs. When she appeared, she was wearing a heavy grey sweater and a heavier frown, which lightened the moment she set eyes upon his furry delivery.

"Oh, Harry," she said softly. "Is she for me?"

He nodded and stepped forward, offering the tiny grey bundle, which made a soft mewling sound as it woke. "As long as you want her," he said when he'd passed the kitten over, but Hermione wasn't listening. The kitten had started purring.

He couldn't stop the grin from plastering itself onto his face, but then suddenly Hermione looked up and said, "But I can't, Harry, I travel too much... she needs other kittens to play with, she's too young..."

"Ah," Harry said, and offered a green paper flier. "I thought you'd say that, so I found you like, a kitten daycare. It's this Muggle place where like, businesspeople leave their kittens so they don't get lonely. It's not too expensive, either, but anyway I enrolled you for the full period."

"That is the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard," Hermione said, but she was smiling.

"Come on, Hermione, stop talking like a grouchy old lady," he said.

She glared at him as she moved to the door, juggling the kitten with her keys as she opened it. "Give me a couple hours to think on it," she grouchily conceded, and he knew he'd won.

Her studio was the most chaotic, well-organized disaster he'd ever set eyes upon. All her clothes were put away, and there wasn't a single plate that wasn't washed, but the entire north wall and most of the east were completely overrun by scrap papers, often pinned up but sometimes suspended by magic, with little red strings connecting some papers in a bizarre web. Her desk was also completely covered by scrolls and Muggle paper, and he noted that she'd completely dispensed with quills, preferring a Muggle felt-tipped pen. Her writing had also become smaller and messier.

He sat in her desk chair, while she took a seat on her bed and sat the kitten beside her. He instantly produced approximately twenty brightly-colored, fluffy, furry, or feathered objects, many with strings attached. A quick charm untangled them all, and he placed them next to the kitten.

The kitten completely ignored the toys, creeping immediately to the edge of the bed and peeking off it. Hermione watched warily as the tiny thing, barely as long as Harry's hand, jumped straight off the bed. She landed on her feet and skittered to the edge of the desk, investigating thoroughly before moving on to the chair Harry was sitting on.

Harry decided that the kitten was properly occupied and prodded Hermione about going out, and she lied so badly he had to laugh out loud. "You ought to like, join a women's club or something. What do women do together?"

"Harry, I am really not looking for any more drains on my time," she said sternly.

He shrugged, and then decided to probe. "You were getting along with Lew just fine, weren't you? I saw her in Grasia yesterday."

Hermione dropped her eyes and picked one of the toys, dropping it onto the floor in the most lackluster attempt at attracting a kitten that Harry had ever seen. The kitten perked up and bounded over to the toy, swatting clumsily and then falling over. The longer she was silent, the more Harry's premonition grew.

"Did she hurt you?" he finally asked, sensing the answer before she nodded, eyes still downcast.

He got up and moved to her bed, sitting next to her and putting his arm around her. She leaned into it, and he provided silent support in the best way he knew how.

His head was spinning. Did Lew's misdeed prompt the explosion in productivity? Was it related? Was Hermione involved in Lew's disappearance, months ago? Or had Lew done something to get back in the good graces of the Council, which had estranged Hermione? Whatever it was, he now realized that the depth of their relationship had completely escaped him. But he hadn't been wrong about her misery.

"Hermione," he finally said. "You can talk to me, you know. About anything. You can trust me."

Hermione raised red-rimmed eyes. "But I'm scared, Harry," she said.

He jumped at that. "Is she dangerous?"

She smiled faintly at him, and he relaxed. "Not scared of her," she clarified, straightening her spine and thereby retreating from him. He could see her pull herself together, and he wondered whether he should be relieved or not. "I'm trying to get a handle on this situation, is all."

"What situation?" he asked, somewhat exasperated.

"It all comes back to Muggleborn rights," she explained, completely baffling him.

"How is that related at all? Wait, you're doing something about Muggleborn rights?"