Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).

ooo

Hermione steps out of the Floo at Longbottom House to be greeted by the small dark house elf, who looks at her with an expression that might be approval and on the other hand might be reproach. She's five minutes early, by her watch… well, there's enough to be getting on with. She dusts the soot and Floo powder from her robes and thinks, not for the first time, that the magical instantaneity of travel in the wizarding world comes at a price: either the dislocation and nausea of Apparition, or the dustiness of Floo.

The elf conducts her into the formal parlor, where she Scourgifies her robe and cloak before sitting down in the tall tapestried chair in front of the window. It's the very one in which Draco sat when Gran had her little conference with the three of them… weeks ago. Two weeks, by the world's calendar, or a little less. She fingers the handle of her wand, thinking about what they might be about this afternoon. She's brought her notebook, of course, and a Muggle pen she's enchanted to serve the purposes of a dictation quill. She thinks it's silly to be clinging to such archaic kit; quills might look quite elegant, but they are slow and she crosses the border often enough, these days, that she doesn't want to be conspicuous…

The morning light filters through fog and mist, a heavy sky over the distant profile of the hill. She thinks about the curious things that have come to pass as they approach the solstice…

A shadow interposes itself between her and the landscape… no, not a shadow but a quite solid body, in sober dark everyday robes. She squints against the backlighting, and looks up… into that pale pointed face with its reproachful expression.

How long has he been looking like that?

He clutches a book against his chest, as if shielding his heart, and looks down at her. "You've been avoiding me," he says.

She frowns.

"It's not only you, but Longbottom as well," he says. "You're taking her advice, aren't you? 'Whatever it is, I don't want to see it in the papers.'"

She sighs in exasperation. "I've been at work," she says. No, she's not going to explain to him what sort of work. "And you've been revising for NEWTs, which," she adds in what she hopes is a conciliatory tone, "does require unusual persistence in the absence of proper equipment."

"You needn't condescend," he says. "She's provided me with everything I need." He adds, "Longbottom really has no excuse for being such a duffer at Potions. Madam Longbottom has a quite satisfactory laboratory on premises."

He's still hovering like a restless ghost.

"Oh do sit down, Malfoy, if you're going to be reproaching me," she says. "You're not intimidating me, but you are giving me a crook in my neck."

He makes a wry face, with a ghost of a sneer and something she isn't quite sure how to read, and sits down in the chair opposite. The book is on his lap now (an antique edition of Moste Potente Potions, she notices, at least two hundred years old if she reads aright the style of the binding about which his pale fingers are clasping and unclasping). He looks at her, his grey eyes only slightly lit by the pewter light outside.

He tries another tack. "If you're going to have me under Fidelius on the subject of whatever naughty things we've done," he says, "you really ought to make it worth your while."

She still isn't entirely comfortable with the notion that Malfoy fancies her, let alone that he's striking the pose of the seduced and abandoned lover… abandoned twice, though she's not sure of the count of seductions. She's inclined to believe Neville's version of events, as it seems more likely it was Draco who provoked things with him. She, on the other hand, is the one who propositioned Draco.

She looks at him: he looks cold, and pinched, and rather miserable. Well, not surprising, given what happened to him not very long ago… the winter light makes him look washed out, and there are still greyish bruised hollows under his eyes. His gaze rests on her, as it did two weeks ago, avid and unwavering, but there's a slight tremor about his mouth.

She reaches across and pats his hand, and feels the tension in it. Before she can pull back, he grasps her wrist. "They'll be leaving me to it soon enough," he whispers. He looks at her and licks his lips. "Something's on the wind," he says. "Of course, they won't tell me what it is."

She shakes her head. "I haven't the faintest notion what you're talking about."

"My aunt. The renegade. She was here the other day, to tell me that my parents have something to tell me. But of course she can't be bothered to tell me what it is. That would be spoiling the surprise." His mouth twists as if tasting something bitter. "They're to visit for Yule. It's nothing good, I'm sure."

Hermione has a good idea what it might be, but there's no question of telling him (or anyone, for that matter); she can feel the Fidelius close her throat even as she thinks about telling. Ah yes, Derwent knows her business with that spell.

"Ah, you've been waiting, have you? Unavoidable delay…. That lot in the Ministry," says Gran, as she comes in, shedding her outdoor cloak. She nods to Draco. "That's a good lad, keeping our guest occupied." It's clear from her expression, and his, that she has a good idea what might have been said. "I'm afraid we must go directly."

Draco stares at Hermione, and then at Gran, and with pointed slowness, relinquishes Hermione's hand.

ooo

"So, is he paying court to you again?" Gran asks as they walk into the kitchen to the Floo.

Hermione shakes her head, not quite sure if she's telling the truth. "He's distressed about his aunt's visit."

Gran nods. "The House of Black does love its mystification." She shakes her head. "Always did. Though I must make an exception for Andromeda. She's a capable lass, and I did like her Dora. A real Auror, that one." She looks reminiscent for a moment. "A shame, all of it, a great shame."

They step through the Floo, Gran ahead of her announcing in her unmistakable contralto, "Twelve Grimmauld Place."

ooo

They step out into the kitchen with its long table, and come face to face with Harry, accompanied by the old house-elf Kreacher, down from Hogwarts.

Hermione and Harry make eye contact for one supremely awkward moment, then glance away. Gran makes her apologies for their delay—unavoidable business at the Ministry—and says to Harry, "So this is an unexpected pleasure, as I was telling our Hermione. One of the finest sets of modern defenses in Britain." She adds, "Though I understand, you have some very particular modifications you wish to make, to meet needs of the post-war."

Harry nods, looking ill at ease; Hermione isn't sure if it's she or Gran who is the cause of it.

ooo

The specifications, what of them are written down at any rate, are in the library. Gran shakes her head over them. "Of course this isn't the whole of it," she says. "It never is, thought it's better documented than Malfoy Manor. As one would expect."

Harry says that there are only one or two things he wants to modify, the most important of which is to make the place proof against Dementors.

For the first time, Gran frowns, and Hermione finds herself echoing that expression. "You'll need someone who can cast a corporeal Patronus," Gran says.

Harry shakes his head. "But they were able to shut them out at Hogwarts," he says. "I remember that Dumbledore banned them from the grounds."

"Hogwarts is rather a different case," Gran says. "Unfortunately, no one outside the Department of Mysteries has access to that information… and it's not clear how many Unspeakables do …"

Harry frowns. "Percy said you were an expert on household defenses."

She says, "A civilian expert."

Hermione adds, "From all I've read, there are things they don't tell." Both Gran and Harry are looking at her. "For the Sentient Beings Committee," she says. "In the line of duty. But there are things that don't appear to be written down. If you want defense around the clock, you'll need a night watch to cast a Patronus, and have them relieved in the morning ..."

ooo

From the journal of Hermione Granger

Late December 1998 (some days before Christmas)

"Madam Longbottom has never been anything but well-informed." O'Halloran's remark keeps haunting me at odd times now, but especially this afternoon. There was nothing to be done about Harry's request for defenses against Dementors, but there were other matters. She watched me as I followed her lead in testing the defenses, and once or twice I saw her narrow her eyes. Yes, I've been through this ritual once before, in suburban London of all places, but I tried to look less experienced than I was.

The problem is that I've never been a particularly good actor, and Madam Longbottom's eyes are both sharp and experienced. It probably doesn't hurt that she's a Slytherin and as such appreciates misdirection as an art form.

Kreacher appeared to have been mollified somewhat in the matter of blood-traitors and Mudbloods in the sacred precincts, for he dealt with Madam Longbottom without cringing or sideways insult. Of course, it helps immensely that she is a Pureblood witch, and that her kin appear on the family tapestry, and that her grandson was one of those who had had helped to bring down the killer of brave Master Regulus.

I keep forgetting how very personal and feudal are the loyalties in this world, so Kreacher tolerates my presence because of my own connection to the avenging of his long-dead young master. It's clear that he finds me repugnant, in a thoroughly racial way, having absorbed the notions of Mistress Walburga on bloodline, the sacredness of the Ancient and Most Noble House, even though they have done nothing but oppress him… no, the kind acts (generally self-interested) stand out against the background like candle-flames in darkness, Miss Cissy and Miss Bella, the latter of whom he seems to regret in spite of her alliances.

A note from my subsequent reading: The binding of house-elves is actually intimately tied up with the magic of place and property. My intuition was correct: the elves were once place-guardians, and before places were bound to wizarding families, the elf and human inhabitants co-existed. Like so many other arrangements, that one was up-ended by the institution of private property in land. Ted Tonks appears to have been quite right in that respect. It's not clear that a Marxist perspective explains everything about the house elves, but it does ask some of the right questions: about the notion of property, and what came before, and (by implication) what might come after.

Harry is uneasy with me, still, not having expected my presence when (on Percy's advice, apparently) he engaged the services of Madam Longbottom. We successfully avoided each other, by keeping to the roles of the client and the consultant's apprentice.

Until the last, when he turned to me and said, "So we can expect you for Christmas dinner?"

I nodded, and it suddenly dawned on me that the invitation only had Molly's signature on it; it was Harry who had extended it. Harry the prestige son-in-law was exercising his influence.

ooo

Gran took me aside afterward, in her study at Longbottom House, and reminded me of my other invitation, for Boxing Day.

Then she said, "You've a bit of experience in our line, haven't you?"

I frowned.

"You understand more than you tell. That's all to the good, but there are dangers." Something about the way that she said that reminded me of the other set of defenses I knew, the ones that had been built in my parents' house. She continued, "You gave yourself away, the first time we handled the homunculi. Uncanny things they are, but you didn't flinch." And I remembered, very dimly, just how uncanny I had found them the first time, but it was wartime, and one doesn't flinch any more than one does from field-surgery.

Instead, I said, "So you're serious, then, about attaching me as an apprentice. Depending on the NEWTs, of course."

Gran nodded, and said, "The NEWTs are really pro forma in your case." She added, "The plural of Horcrux is not generally a question on the NEWTs."

Nor is the process of making one, though regrettably I know more than I would like about that. It's one of many unsavory things that play themselves out behind my closed lids as I'm falling asleep. Though probably I should be grateful that with the passing of time, my nightmares have become more abstract, and less… vivid. I notice, as I re-read these pages, that Bellatrix Lestrange has not risen from the dead to torment me, in recent times.

No, it does help that I have the distraction of contemplating something worse.

She waved her wand, a short offhand flick, and the roll-top desk snapped open. From one of the many cubbyholes she brought forth a parcel the size of one's palm.

"Bill Weasley brought this," she said.

It was very, very heavy. I remembered that there had been a promise of certain volumes that one ought not to request in writing… when Viktor came to London for the trials. Presumably there was enough of a sense of urgency that the timeline had been moved up.

She added, "By way of a mutual acquaintance, he said." She handed me the sealed note that went with it, apparently.

The seal was the mark of Gringott's, and the note in Bill's hand. It explained that the contents had been conveyed to him by Andrei Karkaroff and it might be best if those volumes remained away from Hogwarts, as they conspicuously did not belong to the library there… and as if to underline the situation, the note vanished into smoke once I had read it.

Gran watched as I restored the parcel to its original size: a tower of books half my height. I gasped, actually, as it had had a lightening charm on it. The tomes were bound in dragon-hide with the Durmstrang coat of arms glowing in it. No, Bill was quite right; those books, even glamoured, had no place at Hogwarts.

She said, "Quite right he is. The castle would recognize those."

I said, "I have a place for them." My parents' house, of course; the Ministry might think to search Longbottom House for this short course in the Dark Arts, but as for that nondescript house in the London suburbs… yes, safe enough. And in any case, no one will get through the defenses of that place and live to tell the tale.

Gran raised one eyebrow, but didn't object. "I'd warrant you could qualify on the Durmstrang exams, as well," she said. "Though what you and Bill Weasley have in mind would certainly trump anything they'd ask you to do in the way of Dark Arts."

ooo

Once I was safe home, with the tower of borrowed Durmstrang grimoires incongruously stacked in a corner of my parents' bedroom, I sent my Patronus to Bill Weasley with one question: was Augusta Longbottom safe? that is, was she one of ours?

Yes, the answer came back (and luckily no one can forge a Patronus): "Yes, she's one of ours, and we'll be able to depend on her when the time comes. In the meantime, read."

Never has anyone given me an order that was easier to follow. I walked through the house, turning on all the lights, then looked through the stack of books. Andrei Karkaroff had tucked a parchment with preliminary suggestions inside the cover of the topmost volume. Very well, then, I would begin. The lamps were lit for the moment when I would loop back through time and occupy those other rooms.

With a time-turner, I could hope to do my preliminary research in a single night.

ooo

Author's note: Thanks to the reader or readers who nominated this fic for the Deathly Hallow Awards (Best Work in Progress). Voting is open through 30 December 2010. To vote, see the link on my profile. Be warned: there are over 300 nominations, a true feast of reading for lovers of HP fanfic.