A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews :) We're just entering into the interesting part now, so I hope you enjoy it. Keep your thoughts coming, I love reading what you're thinking (some of you are closer to the truth than others, but I won't be giving anything away!).

~oOo~

Given the high drama of her first six years at Hogwarts, it was bizarre almost to the point of disappointment when Friday rolled around and the Chamber of Secrets remained – well – secret. Tom had spent practically all of his free time in the library with her, which she suspected was designed to make her forget about his suspicious behaviour in the dungeon corridor, but either way it had left him barely any time to go wandering. Her surveillance during those times had turned up nothing interesting.

On the train, Tom was particularly withdrawn and she found it impossible to guess his thoughts. The journey passed in near silence, both more inclined to stare at the scenery than start a conversation, and on the platform she had barely said goodbye before he disappeared through the barrier to two months of life totally outside her observation. It was unsettling, having spent so much time watching over him.

She caught sight of Zorion while he was still scanning the crowd for her, and for a second the spike of adrenaline created a sensation something like a hippogriff running into her chest. If there had been any doubt about her feelings up until that point, there could be no denying it after. Suddenly she felt nervous, on edge; never mind butterflies, the feeling in her stomach was more like elephants – most terrifyingly of all, she had developed the Lavender-esque urge to check her hair.

None of these symptoms were new to her, of course – quite apart from Ron, she had felt them for Lockhart of all the incompetent idiots! Then for Remus (Professor Lupin, at that time, and what was it with her and defence teachers?). Then Charlie (and that was a secret she had always planned to take to the grave, but honestly, Ron was lucky she had ever got over what an unappealing fourteen year old he had been). Then Sirius – then even for a brief period, Professor Snape. As much as she had spent the year afterwards hating herself for it; probably unfairly, as it had transpired. Not that any of that mattered now.

In other circumstances she might have spent a while considering what it meant that she had at one time thought herself in love with almost every eligible male she had ever known – or at the very least bemoaned the lack of such males – but then Zorion had spotted her and her heart jumped and stuttered again and the opportunity for introspection was forgotten.

She made her way through the crowd, smiling perhaps a bit manically, though his expression upon noticing her had frozen into something quite blank. There was no grand reunion. He would not meet her gaze, simply steering her deftly towards the barrier, taking one stride to her two. They walked into the wall, but like last time did not appear on the muggle side of the platform.

His eyes, up close, were grey shot through with green; it wasn't the kind of thing she would usually notice, but since they were filling almost her entire vision it was hard not to. It was several seconds before she began to process everything that must have just happened; they were standing on his front doorstep again, a heat haze shimmering over the field opposite. Time could have been standing still in this spot for all it had changed since last year.

"You might have asked before you took all my clothes off," she said, lightly, having noticed that she was no longer occupying her thirteen-year-old body. They were still standing much closer than would be considered proper.

His serious expression finally broke, and in his triumphant smile there was absolutely no trace of shame or repentance. He wants you. He wants you. He wants you.

"And what would you have said?" His comeback filtered into her brain and then down her spine, making her shiver, and she opened her mouth and shut it again because the only thing that was going to come out was yes please yes again yes now yes yes yes and that didn't seem like the sort of thing she would say out loud. She had definitely gone red. She could tell by his expression, which was even more triumphant than before.

He ushered her inside, breaking the moment perhaps deliberately, and then she was in the centre of a gaggle of elves all talking at once. Zorion closed the door behind them, and winked when their eyes met, and damn it he knew she couldn't possibly take in anything the elves were saying, not when she had just two seconds ago been made to think of undressing for him and now he was removing his suit jacket with far more care than necessary and loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his collar and oh how she longed to find out what his shirt would feel like under her hands or against her bare skin…

"Miss Hermione?"

Oh sweet Merlin. There were so many pairs of bright eyes looking up at her. She hadn't heard a word of it.

"Oh, Nifty – everyone – I'm so sorry. It's just been a very long journey… give me a minute. I've missed you all so much."

Mercifully, this seemed to be taken as an instruction to fetch the tea, and quiet followed once the patter of many small feet had left.

"I believe I owe you a birthday present," he said after they had stared at each other for several seconds with mounting awkwardness.

"Of course not. I mean… gosh… obviously, that's nice – lovely, in actual fact – but really, there's no owing, of course, it's just a –" His laughter broke off her babbling before it could go any further, which was just as well because she probably could have continued until dinnertime.

"Oh, darling, I've missed you," he said, and it was fond and playful and happy and she was utterly gone. "Follow me."

She probably would have followed him into hell itself (which was sort of ironic given his occupation) so it was a bit anticlimactic when their destination merely turned out to be the courtyard with the lily pond. It was the same as she remembered; blues and greens and honeyed sunlight coating the water in diamonds.

"I think I might make you find it. A little game." She narrowed her eyes.

"It's not in the pond, is it?" He laughed.

"No." There was nothing in the courtyard that hadn't been there last year – she was sure of it.

"It's a trick… It's in your pocket."

He raised an eyebrow in a suggestive sort of invitation, arms folded across his chest, and she wondered how she kept creating innuendo completely without meaning to. She realised she was staring at his trousers and should probably stop. She didn't.

"Be my guest," he said.

In unfamiliar situations she generally favoured the trick of pretending to be somebody who found it normal. So she tried to raise an eyebrow back (which probably resulted in an odd expression, since she couldn't actually raise only one eyebrow) and stalked behind him in what she hoped was a confident sort of way. It wasn't helped by wearing high heels on a paved surface – her heels had definitely not been that high this morning. Interesting.

His shirt was cotton, she supposed – very slightly rough against her fingertips, and she had no reason to touch it but she wanted to and it seemed like the kind of thing that somebody-who-found-this-situation-normal would probably do. She could feel the heat of his back radiating through the fabric, so close and solid. Her hands drifted lower, brushing around his belt until they found their way one into each pocket. She was definitely standing closer than was strictly necessary. On a whim she closed the last few inches until her body from breasts to thighs was pressed right against him, and was rewarded with a hitch of breath.

There was only one item in his pockets, and it was made of card.

"I swear to God," she said, rubbing against him subtly and enjoying his answering shiver, "if that's my present, I will –"

There was a small cough somewhere below her, and they jumped away from each other as if burned. Nifty was holding the tea tray, eyes even wider than usual, and she felt herself going bright red. Zorion was still turned away from both of them, and when she worked out why she felt another bolt of arousal shoot through her and turned even redder.

"Oh, Nifty, t-thank you. That looks lovely." The little elf continued to stare for a second before recovering himself, placing the tray on the table and bowing.

"Nifty interrupts master. Nifty will punish himself –"

There were twin shouts of "No!" as they both sought to ensure that there would be no punishing, and then Nifty excused himself in a bit of a hurry and Zorion turned back around and she couldn't tear her eyes away from his trousers again and she was still bright red and she didn't feel at all like the somebody-who-found-this-situation-normal anymore. Then he smiled, and handed her the card, and it was still awkward but somehow she knew it was going to be alright.

Archibald Alderton (1568 – 1623) is remembered for causing the destruction of the hamlet of Little Dropping when he attempted to mix his wife's birthday cake using magic.

"You knew I'd assume there was something in your pocket," she deduced.

"Oh? And you think that I would encourage that assumption, knowing it was incorrect, on the off-chance that you might touch me, and as a final joke give you the only card in the set that contains birthday-related humour?"

"You sneaky bastard."

"Yes," he conceded, wryly. "I used to get that a lot." They were staring at each other again, his gaze sincere and affectionate, making her heart beat so strongly and her head feel so light. And if she had been truly paying attention she might have noticed that for the first time in years she was carefree – but she was caught up in the moment, and so said,

"You haven't tried baking again, have you? Nifty was telling me about that last year…"

"No, don't worry. Do you give up?" Admitting defeat, she nodded. He turned to the western wall of the courtyard, the one covered in climbing cream-coloured roses, and touched a stone about halfway up – she could just see a cherry motif carved into it. The roses rearranged themselves into an archway and the enclosed stones disappeared. They stepped through, and the wall re-sealed itself behind them.

She gasped. In front of them, in what last year had been an empty part of the meadow, was a smooth lawn enclosed by an extension of the courtyard wall. On this side of the wall the roses were a deep red, and in the centre of the lawn a sapling had been recently planted. She recognised it straight away as a real version of the cherry tree her wand so loved to conjure.

"Oh! It's – it's beautiful. It's perfect. Oh! I love it. A real secret garden… Thank you. Thank you so much."

His expression went from anxious to pleased, and then rapidly onto surprised as she threw her arms around him. It was an innocent gesture – the kind of hug she might have given to Harry – and yet it felt so different. She began to cling tighter, and his grip on her waist tightened too, until she wondered if she would be able to go on without that comforting pressure ever afterwards. She tried to remember all of the moment; the feel of his shirt and his scent and the colour of the sunlight and the sound of the small birds and the complete sense of peace, and wished sincerely that it would never end.

~oOo~

"Elizabeth?" Mrs Cole was sporting a typically vacant expression, causing his anger to bubble up. "Oh, red hair… northern accent?" He glared and nodded curtly. "I think she went in the first wave. Way back in September."

"Went. Where?" The woman recoiled slightly, and seemed to weigh up whether to tell him off.

"To the country, of course. Away from the bombs. Of course, nothing's actually been bombed yet, but they keep telling us it's for the best if–"

"Where exactly did she go?"

"Heavens above, how should I remember? That's if she ever wrote to tell us. Some of the older ones were sent to families alone." The interrogation tactic clearly wasn't working. It took absolutely all of his self-control to pull the frown from his face and replace it with an expression of some sort of concern.

"Please… Please could you go and check? I wish I could write to her, at least, to see how she is." While Mrs Cole didn't look entirely convinced by the sudden change of demeanour, she did bustle off in the direction of her office muttering something under her breath. He dodged in behind before she could shut the door.

The room was much as he recalled it; a shabby desk was covered with papers in no discernible arrangement. After some considerable time, and many words which adults didn't usually use in front of him, Mrs Cole pulled a folder from the rickety filing cabinet. It contained the standard form the orphanage held on each child, and only one other piece of paper.

"You're in luck, she did write. Home Farm, Glastonbury."

"Where's that?"

"Good grief – do I look like an atlas, boy? Now go and wash up for dinner, you're already late."

Tom let himself out of the office, suitcase still in hand. Down the corridor to the right, the sounds of cutlery and a mildly unappetizing smell came from the direction of the dining room. To the left, the front door still stood open, providing a glimpse of pavement and the clear night beyond. Nobody was looking. He thought of Diagon Alley – of Mr. Malfoy – and of scrubbing the floors in the nursery and the spiders in the attic room and the lumpy stew and the grey blankets. And he slid noiselessly back out into the street.

Glastonbury. He had never been to the countryside, except Hogwarts, and he got there on a train. That would be the thing to do – somebody at the station must know.

It was already gone eight, and King's Cross was a long way away. Instead, he walked briskly to Waterloo. He had visited several times a few years ago, when something as dull as a train had still been novel to him. It was quiet at this hour; only two trains sat next to the platforms, and the man in the information booth looked to be napping. Tom pasted on his most polite expression and cleared his throat.

"Excuse me." The man, ruddy-faced with a round stomach and thinning hair, jerked awake and proceeded to act as though he had seen his customer all along.

"Ah... Hello, young man! What can I be doing for you?"

"I was hoping you could tell me how to get to Glastonbury. You see, my –" and here there was the briefest hesitation, unnoticed by the older man – "sister has been evacuated there, and I'm supposed to be joining her." If the man found the story surprising, he certainly didn't show it. Tom supposed this kind of thing was happening often.

"Glastonbury? Nothing goes direct. You'll need to change at Templecombe, but you're just in time. Platform Two – leaves in –" he glanced up at the huge clock face on the far wall, which was currently reading 8.23 – "seven minutes."

"Thank you," he said, not quite believing his luck. He wondered if he should ask how long it would take, but when he looked back the man's eyes had already closed again.

Wherever Temple-whatever-it-was was, it really wasn't near London. He was unbelievably tired, but didn't dare fall asleep for fear of missing the stop or running into the ticket collector. He didn't have nearly enough money for the fare. The wristwatch of the man opposite reached 10pm – 11pm – midnight. Woking. Basingstoke. Salisbury. The people leaving the train looked more and more sleepy; the people joining, more and more drunk.

"Templecombe! Templecombe!" He jumped – maybe he had dozed off – 12.45pm.

"Passengers for Templecombe!" The train had juddered to a halt, and he grabbed his suitcase from the overhead rack with difficulty. It half fell on him, causing him to stumble into the man with the wristwatch. Without stopping to apologise, he ran out of the compartment and onto the dark platform where a sign read Templecombe in large, black letters. A group of young men staggered past him, singing, and then the train was gone and he was left alone.

"You alright, son?" He was glad to see the man in railway uniform, because he suddenly felt quite alone and quite far from London – both of which were making him uneasy.

"I'm going to Glastonbury… to see my sister," he said, looking around at the tiny darkened station with mounting uncertainty.

"Is that right? Well, you'll have to wait 'til morning now. Last train that way went hours ago." Given that it was now after midnight, this wasn't really surprising. He shivered, only wearing the shirt and trousers he'd had on under his robes earlier. The guard considered him for some time.

"Come back with me. The missus won't mind you stayin' in the kitchen. First train's due in at seven."

Tom traipsed along behind the guard around the back of the platform to a small cottage. He noticed the neat front garden and the polished kitchen table and the warmth coming from the range, and he patted the scruffy dog and got stared at warily by the cat. But when he thought about it later, it was all a sleepy blur, and soon he was eating bread and butter and waving goodbye and stepping onto the train and saying thank you and actually meaning it.

The morning, like the day before, was clear and sunny. The scenery passing the windows was – green. That was really the only way of describing it. It was a greener sort of green than up in Scotland, and when he stepped off the train in front of the sign reading Glastonbury and Street around eight o'clock it was already as warm as he ever remembered it being at Hogwarts.

Now that he had arrived, he realised he hadn't given much thought to what would come next. In his mind, anywhere except London was insignificantly tiny; finding anyone or anything would surely be the work of a minute. As it turned out, Glastonbury was surprisingly large – having followed the other railway passengers into the centre, it became obvious that that was not where he was likely to find a farm. From the marketplace the only green space he could now see was the single hill that rose behind the town – there were sheep grazing on the side. He didn't know a lot about farms, but that seemed like a good place to start.

The sheep, as it transpired, were unattended, but having come so far he decided to continue to the top for the view of the surrounding fields. It was steep, and the day increasingly hot, so he was grateful for the derelict tower on the summit which provided the only source of shade. Perhaps it had once been a church, but now it was open to the sky and was merely a roosting place for several pigeons.

Once he had got his breath back, he began to survey the landscape. There were an awful lot of fields around the town… an awful lot of buildings that might have been farmhouses. He hadn't realised how hard it might be to find. He just wanted to find Elizabeth…

The floor under him was moving.

That seemed terribly unlikely.

But it definitely was.

He jumped to the side just as a large wooden trapdoor appeared in the hard-packed earth. It looked heavy – oak, probably – the kind of thing you might expect to see at, well, at Hogwarts for example. Though its great age was apparent, it was immaculately preserved. He could feel the magic rolling off it and zinging through the air, but why had it appeared? Where did it lead?

Gingerly, he bent over and extended his hand towards the wrought iron of the handle, the stray magic connecting with something inside himself. His fingers had just made contact when a nearby voice startled him out of his concentration.

"Good morning, Tom."

~oOo~