Author's Note: This has been reshuffled to fit in chronologically with the rest of the story

In a little-used toilet on the third floor of Hogwarts, Hermione suppresses a shiver. A stained and battered old lavatory is marked with a new brass plaque. The plaque says:

Chamber of Secrets

Tours by Appointment Only

Beyond the lavatories stand the remains of a row of stalls. They emit a powerful scent of rotting wood. The last stall in the row boasts an intact door. The door is scarred with layer after layer of chipping, wear, and carved insults. But it, too, has a plaque. This plaque is covered with what, from a distance, appear to be flaming hieroglyphs. Up close, one can see that the hieroglyphs are really tiny, engraved letters. They say:

We apologise for the inconvenience.

Out of order. Use at your own risk.. For educational purposes only. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Void where prohibited. Some assembly required. Batteries not included. Contents may settle during shipment. Use only as directed. No other warranty expressed or implied. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Subject to approval. Apply only to affected area. May be too intense for some viewers. Feed a cold; starve a fever. For recreational use only. All models over 18 years of age. If condition persists, consult your physician. No user-serviceable parts inside. Freshest if eaten before date on carton. Subject to change without notice. Times approximate. Simulated picture. Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of agreement. For off-road use only. As seen on TV. One size fits all. Many suitcases look alike. Contains a substantial amount of non-tobacco ingredients. Colors may, in time, fade. Slippery when wet. Not affiliated with the British Red Cross. Edited for television. Keep cool; process promptly. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. At participating locations only. Not the Beatles. Penalty for private use. Substantial penalty for early withdrawal. Employees and their families are not eligible. Beware of dog. Contestants have been briefed on some questions before the show. Limited time offer, call now to ensure prompt delivery. You must be present to win. No passes accepted for this engagement. No purchase necessary. Use only in well-ventilated area. Keep away from fire or flame. Approved for veterans. Booths for two or more. Some equipment shown is optional. Price does not include taxes. Not recommended for children. Prerecorded for this time zone. Reproduction strictly prohibited. No solicitors. No alcohol, dogs, or horses. No anchovies unless otherwise specified. Call toll free before digging. Decision of judges is final. Keep calm and carry on. Mind the gap.

This supersedes all previous notices.

Hermione opens the door and enters the stall. The inside is surprisingly spacious. It features a tufted red velvet banquette trimmed in gold fringe, a gilt chandelier, and electric blue damask wall coverings. The only hint of the original toilet stall is the wooden door, upon which is drawn, in permanent black ink, a caricature of Albus Dumbledore. It has a blacked out front tooth. The caption below it reads:

For a good time, call Albus.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned," Hermione says, "It's been 486 years since my last confession."

"Three Hail Marys," says the graffito.

"The C of E no longer requires those, either," Hermione answers.

"Indeed? Is there some equivalent?"

"First three verses of 'God Save the Queen', probably."

"How unfortunate."

"Hmm."

"Hmm."

"Any progress, by the way?" Hermione absently picks at the fluffy velveteen lint balls that hide in the banquette's hidden recesses.

"I remain optimistic," He says. His voice is tinny and lacks a lower register, as if it were recorded on cheap equipment, "Although I could never teach the child a blessed thing when she was alive, I believe that, with patience and all of eternity at my disposal, I may yet persuade her to escape the prison of perpetual adolescence."

"You only come here to look at willies!" Comes the reply from the next stall. It is followed by Moaning Myrtle's distinctly affronted sigh, a loud splash, and the roar of a flushing toilet. Then, a gurgley sort of sound echoes along the ancient pipes. It might be air in the lines.

Or it might be, "Thhhhhhbbbbbppppptttttt!"

"Good luck with that," Hermione says.

"Thank you, my dear. Now, is there something I might do for you?"

Hermione struggles to suppress her own distinctly affronted sigh. Instead, she sits up straight, folds her hands in her lap, and tilts her head as she considers her words. In her most professional tone, she says, "I've just had my worst romantic fears realized. I thought I'd fall apart, but I find I can't be arsed. Also, the woman I love wants to marry me. This might require my presence at some sort of orgy. With woodland creatures."

Dumbledore's crudely animated face becomes even more animated as the slashing black lines that form his eyes ripple over uneven wood. "Woodland creatures? Bunnies? Squirrels? Pixies? Hagrid?"

"Centaurs!"

"Centaurs will not find you particularly attractive, my dear."

"I know that."

"Haven't got the hindquarters for that sort of…"

"I KNOW THAT."

"Yes. Well. Quite."

"That's not what I mean at all," she says.

"My dear," says the portrait, "Pretend for a moment that I am a hastily drawn left-handed scribble and explain it to me."

Hermione takes a deep breath.

The morning haze has burned off and a fierce sun slants through the tracery. Hermione mentally reviews her to-do list. Soon, it will be time to join Minerva for a walk to the Centaur's clearing, which Minerva has been honored with the task of warding. Then, later, they shall go to Hogsmeade, where Hermione will be expected to make a certain amount of coherent small talk with Harry and Ginny and then, presumably, deal intelligently with whatever Minerva has in mind for a midsummer evening's entertainment and/or deeply significant pagan rite. After which, she'll be off to foreign lands in search of the carefully guarded magical secret that she needs in order to save the world. Or thereabouts.

Hermione takes another deep breath.

"How on earth," she blurts, "Am I supposed to follow YOU?"

"You don't have to follow me," he says.

"Oh, I know," she blithers, "You'll tell me that love is not a competition, that it isn't sensible to compare a living love with a lost one, that I am making unnecessary worry for myself by trying to compare apples to oranges…"

"I won't tell you anything of the sort. I will tell you that you don't have to follow me," the small portrait interrupts.

Hermione is a little abashed to find that she is cradling her face in her hands. This is not working as well as she hoped.

The portrait gives, for something with no visible shoulders, the uncanny impression of a shrug. It is momentarily still, then it says, "I am being called into service elsewhere, I'm afraid. Allow me to leave you with this thought: The most difficult thing about having one's worst fears realized, and surviving, is the tedious necessity of finding all new fears."

Hermione drops her hands to her lap and looks up at the portrait through lowered lashes. "Such as?"

"Perhaps-terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time?"