The letter was out of the envelope again less than five minutes after Hermione had put it away. And this was the third such rotation that morning. The poor letter had been in and out more times than a Hokey Cokey champion, and shaken all about just as much. Hermione's excuse was that she needed to memorise the supply list, even though she had the letter right there in her breast pocket for reference should she need it.

Hermione stuck to her flimsy reasoning, but Lyra, Papageno and Mal saw through the ruse as easily as if it were made of glass. For Hermione could already recite the supply list if they asked her, which they often did randomly, as a sort of game to confirm their suspicions. No, Hermione wasn't reading the letter constantly to simply go over their itinerary. In fact, she only ever had her eye on one part ...

The part where Harry Potter had signed his name.

For that was the part Hermione had recited first, not to mention read the most. She had been excited enough to have been accepted into Hogwarts, putting to bed the lingering doubts that Mr Dumbledore had cast on her plan when he told her that she might not be granted a place at the prestigious magical academy. The arrival of the letter was greeted with relief by all concerned, but that relief transformed into mindless euphoria when Hermione read the letter's adieu.

"Miss Lyra!" Hermione had practically screamed when she first read the name. "Look! It's him! It's from him!"

"Well of course it is," Lyra had frowned back. "Mr Dumbledore said he'd send the letter -"

"- no, no ... not Dumbledore!" Hermione had cried imploringly, cutting Lyra off abruptly. "It's from him ... from my Mr Potter!"

"Let me take a look at that," Malcolm had insisted, before reading the name and grinning. "Well, either that or this world has an unusual penchant for names."

"That's a fair point," Lyra mused, taking the letter so that she and Pantalaimon could read it next. "Harry could be a woman ... Harriet, maybe."

"But would the Deputy Headmistress be so informal, on an official piece of correspondence?" Papageno asked sensibly. "I don't know any teacher that would, especially on a first time of interaction."

"True," Mal agreed. "Still, it remains quite curious why Mr Potter would have signed the letter, or even had anything to do with the process at all."

"I say serendipitous," Hermione sang happily. "It's a sign that we are on the right track. A good omen."

"I don't know that I believe in signs or omens," Mal returned with a grimace.

"Then lighten up and start believing," Lyra teased. "Our Hermione has just had the first bit of contact with her future love ... and it's happened just like that. As if by design. I think that Dust has followed us into this world, you know. I'm happy for you at least, Hermione."

Hermione beamed back. This was the pattern the last few months had taken. Ever since the Longbottoms had begun educating them about this strange world, other decisions had been made, too. Namely that Lyra and Malcolm would have to assume the role of Hermione's parents, and play it convincingly. Almost naturally, Mal had become the voice of caution and sense, whereas Lyra was playful, mischievous and tended to side with Hermione to tease Mal, almost like a Mother and Daughter coven.

If Hermione wasn't careful, there was a chance she might forget that this was just a cover scheme and not the real thing ... a trap that Lyra, herself, had fallen into months and months ago.

But Hermione had plenty of other things to keep her occupied, and Mal's curious observance about why Harry Potter had written her Hogwarts letter was principle among these.

To start with, Hermione simply dwelt on his name - Harry. She wasn't even going to question that this was the boy she was looking for. She just knew it, in every fibre of her being. It was as though she were dialling through the radio stations and that every other name she tried was just static. David Potter? No. Peter Potter? No ... that sounded like a super hero in a story about hamsters and guinea pigs. And no other name fit satisfyingly, either.

But when she tried Harry ... it was just right. Like finding perfect resonance between radio transmitter and receiver ... and getting a clear signal. A signal that told Hermione that Harry Potter was the boy she was going to fall in love with.

Her heart did so many little flips and turns at the thought that Hermione had to take a lie down before she fainted. Harry Potter was his name then ... did she ever think she would fall in love with a Harry? The truth was she had never thought about such things, other than to accept the glaring possibility that love was something that was more likely to happen to other people than her.

But here she was, Hermione Granger, holding a letter written to her by her future lover.

She laughed happily as she realised that he didn't know anything about that, and what he might think about it when she eventually told him, however many years in the future that might be. It would be one of those funny stories to share on a date, or as a nervous outpouring of emotion when trying to explain opposition to him being on a date with someone else - which was a thought that already made Hermione cross and jealous - or, Hermione thought shyly, to tell on a wedding day ... or to their children ...

But such thoughts were likely to make her head explode, so she put them into a compartment in the recesses of her mind and swallowed the key.

For she hadn't even met the boy yet, and Papageno was still full of sage warnings that he might turn out to be a horrible person. Which was valid enough, but abhorrent enough, for Hermione to ignore him for a full hour every time he brought up this cogent point.

Harry Potter couldn't be any of those things. Hermione was quite decided on that. Mother Nature, the Fates, Dust, whoever was in charge up there ... they just couldn't be so cruel to her, they just couldn't. In any case, Harry Potter had very nice and neat handwriting, and in Hermione's view there was a lot to be said for that.

There was also something to be said for the fact that Harry Potter had made the mistake of signing his own name on the Hogwarts letter, rather than that of the actual Deputy Headmistress. It was this point that Hermione obsessed about next, once she had accepted the name of Harry into her heart. This in itself soon pleased her, too, as she realised that their twin first initials made their names pleasantly alliterative. Harry and Hermione ... 'H' and 'H'. It was another good sign in her book.

And, though usually she may have been as dubious as Malcolm when it came to signs, books were something she could always rely on ... so this was good enough for her.

"But why did he make the mistake?" Hermione found herself asking, usually just to Pap when they were alone, but often to just herself, when Papageno went off for a wander and left her solitary and dæmon-less for a time.

And the answer was usually the same ... he hadn't been thinking or paying attention properly. But why? These were formal letters, and the Deputy Headmistress would surely have emphasised the importance of accuracy in them. But Harry Potter had made this mistake. What did it mean? Was he simply careless? That was entirely possible, but Hermione's heart wouldn't stop whispering another reason to her ... one that made her grin wildly and set her pulse to silly speeds.

He was distracted ... maybe excited ... to be writing to her!

Hermione didn't want to believe that, because it would make this whole thing too fairytale-like. And Hermione was at pains to remain sensible and logical about all this. If she let herself become a slave to her whims, to believe that somehow Harry Potter knew about her, and was so eager to meet her that he'd lost his concentration in his excitement, Hermione was liable to have some sort of euphoric fit.

And that wouldn't do at all. It would be hard enough as it was, to meet him and not blurt out everything she knew in her first sentence. But if she thought that he knew things about her, and was holding them back too, that might just tip her over the edge. And the fate of at least two worlds would be hanging in the balance then. And they were in enough danger as it was.

So Hermione folded the letter away again, tried not to wonder if Harry Potter would be nearby where she was going today, and focused on her breathing. That, at least, was something she could still control.

What Hermione didn't know was that Harry Potter was already there.

And he was in trouble. For his Godfather was very cross.

"Eight Sickles a scoop! Are you kidding me?"

"No. Eight Sickles, please."

"For owl treats?" Sirius protested.

"For Hedwig," Harry corrected. "You know how much of a diva she gets if I come back with the cheap stuff."

"I bet she wouldn't know the difference," Sirius huffed.

Harry just blinked at him. "Then you really don't know my owl!"

Sirius shook his head but handed over the silver coins. Soon Harry was back with a little pouch of gourmet Owl Pellets, which Sirius stowed in his bottomless, weightless, leather satchel, next to the plethora of basic potion ingredients and the set of brass scales that were sat neatly inside the pewter cauldron they had already bought.

"So, where next?" Harry asked brightly.

"Well, what have we gotten so far?" Sirius replied. "Where's your list?"

"In here!" Harry grinned, tapping his head just above his scar. "I wrote it out so many times I don't think I'll ever forget it."

"Then what do we still need?"

"Well, we have all my Potions things, and we bought my telescope last week, and tailor Swift measured me up for my robes and gloves this morning," Harry recited, checking the items off on his fingers. "He said I'd grown three inches since he made my Farringdon Fliers cloak, did I tell you? He says to bring it in once the school rush is finished and he'll take the hem down a bit."

"More money to hand over then!" Sirius smirked.

"You chose to be one of my guardians," Harry reminded him gently. "Don't blame me for costing you your Galleons. But what else would you be spending it on, eh? Firewhiskey and the ladies of Immore Alley, no doubt. Aren't I a better charity case than them?"

"I'll answer that once I get the bill from this little spree," Sirius quipped good-humouredly.

"I don't know why you're complaining," Harry went on lightly. "My Dad will pay you back. He's good for it."

"I may not know your owl, but I do know your father," Sirius chuckled. "And if you knew him half as well, you might think twice about making a statement like that."

Harry brushed it off. "Either way, I'm your Godson. This comes with the job description!"

"True it does, kiddo!" Sirius laughed. "So, what is left on the shopping list?"

"Well, I may have my robes, but I still need my pointed hat," Harry replied.

"Mary Milliner over at The Mad Hatter will sort us out on that score," Sirius informed Harry. "Then we just need your books ... oh, and your wand."

Harry's eyes lit up with that and he felt a tingle of excitement, the same sort he remembered getting each time he wrote the words on the Hogwarts Invitation letters. Getting his own magic wand was one of the things he'd been looking forward to the most.

"Can we get my wand first, please!" Harry begged. "It's been at the very top of my list."

"Okay, kiddo," Sirius replied, ruffling Harry's hair in the same, annoying way that his father had a habit of doing. "Lets just go and grab some more cash. My pouch is rather lighter than it should be."

But that plan soon proved to be more difficult than they'd imagined. For as they approached Gringotts, they saw an agitated crowd gathered at the bottom of the flight of marble steps leading to the entrance to the bank. Now Harry and Sirius were used to large crowds, they sort of had to be since it was a phenomena that tended to develop around them whenever they were spotted in public.

This crowd wasn't for them, however, and the mood soon darkened when they heard what the fuss was all about.

"Robbed! Yes, that's what I heard!" an excited little wizard nearby was saying.

"Not robbed, so much as tried to be," his friend corrected. "The vault had not long been emptied just this morning!"

"And it was one of the deep ones ... one with a dragon guard!"

"Must have been some serious Dark Magic to get through all the enchantments," a stout witch replied. "You don't think -"

"You-Know-Who!" all three whispered together in a hush.

Harry felt his own breath catch in his lungs at the mention of the much-feared Dark wizard.

"Oh, bless my heart! Don't say that!" the first wizard said, faintly.

"Merlin save us if that's who's behind this!" the second added.

"But who else knows such things!" cried the witch.

"You-Know-Who is gone!" Sirius growled fiercely, approaching the little trio. "Trust me ... I know! I was there! Spreading gossip and discord is no way for respectable people to behave. You should be ashamed of yourselves!"

The three of them bowed their heads, suitably chastised. But Sirius placed a protective arm around Harry in spite of this as he guided him around the edge of the throng.

"C- could it be him? Be You-Know-Who?" Harry asked quietly, ashamed of his own cowardly stutter.

Sirius stopped and rounded on him, fixing a firm stare into Harry's eyes.

"Dont call him that!" Sirius hissed sternly. "Using such a nonsense affectation only makes people more afraid of him. Call him Voldemort or, if you really want to anger him and his memory, use his hated Muggle name - Tom Riddle. He was just a man, Harry. A very bad one, yes, but a man nonetheless. Not a myth, or an irresistible force, just a disgruntled wizard with daddy-issues and an inferiority complex, who just happened to be highly skilled in the magical arts. But that didn't save him from getting his twisted arse handed to him by me and Dumbledore.

"He's gone, Harry. You don't need to be afraid of him. Or anyone. If anything threatens you, absolutely anything, you have me, and your Mum and Dad, and Minerva, even Dumbledore, to look after you. And I'd burn the world down to keep you safe. Don't you ever forget that."

Harry threw his arms around Sirius' middle and squeezed tight. He couldn't help it, and Sirius didn't mind in the slightest.

"Look, I'm going to see if I can find out what's really going on at Gringotts," Sirius went on, gently disengaging Harry's limpet-like grip. Here, take my money pouch. There should be enough in there for your wand and look, there's no queue! Everyone's come to watch this drama. Idiots! Charlatans! Go on, if you hurry you can beat the crowds."

"Okay," Harry agreed. "I'll get my wand then head to Flourish and Blotts. I can at least browse in there till you arrive with more money!"

"That's my boy!" Sirius barked. "Meet you in the bookshop there. Oh, and Harry ... don't go wandering off, okay. Just in case."

Harry nodded his agreement, then hurried to the wand-makers, just as he was bowing another rather interesting customer from the shop ...

"Next! Yes you, missy! Are you next? Then step forward, girl!"

Hermione pouted and wanted to be cheeky and say she wasn't next, but was Hermione. But Mr Ollivander was so harried and impatient that she thought better of it. So she dutifully made her way to the wand-maker and consoled herself that Lyra was frowning enough for the both of them.

Mr Ollivander seemed to sense Lyra bristling at him, and eased his mood down. "Another for Hogwarts, eh? Seems only yesterday that I was wand-fitting the last batch. Where does the time go? And why do so many leave it to the last minute."

"You'll have to forgive us, sir," Malcolm tried placatingly. "We are Muggles. Our Hermione, here, didn't show the signs of witchcraft until very late. We only received her letter last week, so I'm afraid we are running a little behind on her preparations for school."

"Yes, I can see how that might happen," Mr Ollivander replied in understanding. "Never the matter, better late than never, eh? So, which is your wand arm?"

"I'm sorry, I don't understand that," Hermione returned. "I've never had my own wand, you see."

"Quite," Mr Ollivander replied somewhat coolly. "Hold out both your arms, then, so I can take some measurements ... yes, just like that ... fine. Let me see ... ahh ... I see ... very well ... hmm, curious ... very curious."

"Excuse me, but I cant help noticing you muttering," Hermione frowned. "Could you please explain what's curious?"

Mr Ollivander fixed Hermione with a pale stare.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, you know, and every person I've ever sold one to," Mr Ollivander began in his soft voice. "And only once before have I ever come across someone like you."

"Someone like me?" Hermione queried. She looked to Lyra for support. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that everyone, everyone, favours one hand or the other for the use of their wand," Mr Ollivander explained. "It is a universal truth, one of the very few that govern the subtle laws of wand use. But you ... you seem equally as adept with your right or your left. And the last person I came across who could do this had another unique trait ... they could use multiple wands without restraint, as if any they picked up had been their own."

"Is that unusual?" asked Malcolm, coming over and standing at Hermione's shoulder, reassuring her - as he always did - with his strong presence.

"Very," Mr Ollivander replied. "You see, a witch or wizard develops a unique connection with their wand over time. It starts off when the cores of wand and wizard recognise their kindred in the other, and form the basis of a bond. This strengthens over years of use and trust in each other. And whilst one may have some success with the wand of another, the results are usually unpredictable, unreliable and ultimately can lead to rejection of the wizard by the wand, which will refuse to perform to the will of the spell caster."

Hermione blinked at the revelation. She made a mental note to learn far more about wand-lore, as it seemed such a complex and fascinating topic.

"But with you, Miss ...?"

"Granger. Hermione Granger," Hermione replied shyly.

"Miss Granger," Mr Ollivander parroted. "I shall have to remember that one. For with you ... why, I feel you will be able to use any wand without issue. Of course, you will only get the very best results with your own, but I imagine you will have similar success with the wand of any blood relative and - in the future - your spouse and children. You are what we refer to as ambi-wandrous. How extraordinary! Come, let us find you your perfect partner wand!"

"But, how will I know which one is right for me?" Hermione asked. "There are literally hundreds here!"

"Thousands, actually," Mr Ollivander replied proudly. "But there will be the exact match somewhere among the dust."

He seemed alight with energy now, as though the arrival of a special client and her unique needs had made his day. His change of mood helped relax Hermione, too, who was sparked herself by the inadvertent mention of Dust. Then another thought occurred to her.

"Mr Ollivander? If I am - what was it? - ambi-wondrous -"

"Ambi-wandrous, Miss," Mr Ollivander corrected.

"Yes, well ... that," Hermione frowned. "How will I know which hand to use? Or ... does it mean I will need two wands ... one for each hand?"

Mr Ollivander's eyes lit up as if on fire. "Oh I do hope so, Miss! I truly hope it does! Come ... let us begin."

Some forty-five minutes later and Mr Ollivander was bowing Hermione Granger from his shop, the proud owner of not one but two new wands. It had been a most illuminating experience for him, not to mention profitable, too. For Miss Granger had left with her main wand - one made of rare white willow, with a unicorn tail hair core - and a second made of protective yew wood with phoenix feather core. This second wand was extremely powerful, and had simply refused to let Miss Granger leave without it.

It was also one of Ollivander's oldest and finest crafted, so it fetched a pretty price, to boot.

But no sooner had he stopped marvelling at that piece of good fortune than he was facing another. For Harry Potter was hurrying down the street towards him, bulging money pouch in hand ...

"Ah, Mr Potter. I wondered when I'd be seeing you."

"Well, today's your lucky day," Harry replied coolly. He was already fed up with the fawning people insisted in foistering upon him whenever he was out in public. He hoped to make this visit to buy his first wand as brief as possible.

"Indeed it is," Mr Ollivander agreed, though he didn't elaborate on his meaning when Harry sent him a quizzical look in reply. "Come in, Mr Potter, and take a seat.

Harry did, but immediately saw a problem. For all the seats were full of discarded wands. There were scores of them, all different shapes and lengths and types of wood. Harry was stunned that there even was such variety.

"Last customer tricky, were they?" Harry quirked, gesturing at the piles of wands.

"Oh, on the contrary," Mr Ollivander beamed, his wide-eyes misty and ethereal. "In fact, she was the easiest I've had in years. A true ambi-wandral ... able to use both hands to spell cast," he explained when Harry looked puzzled. "Quite a remarkable young witch. She successfully created sparks with every wand you see here. We only ceased testing when the poor thing's arm grew weary."

"Is that good then? Being able to use lots of wands?" Harry asked, curious.

"It certainly helps," Mr Ollivander replied. "And it is a rare gift. Though I don't need to tell you that ... your mother was the last ambi-wandral I sold to, after all."

Harry blinked in surprise. "Was she? I ... I didn't know that."

"Really? I would have thought she'd told you. How strange. But then, you weren't raised by her, were you?"

"Er ... no," Harry lied, quickly remembering their cover story. "My Aunt raised me. Her sister, you know, and she's a Muggle."

"I know what an aunt is," Mr Ollivander returned curtly. "Now, lets see if we can pair you up with a wand, shall we?"

Harry shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. "Is ... is there a chance of that? That I wont find a match, I mean."

"Only if you were somehow a Squib," Mr Ollivander replied. "But a boy who was able to deflect a Killing Curse should be reasonably expected to perform magic, don't you think?"

"Um, yes, I suppose so," Harry lied again. Part of their story was that Voldemort had cast a Killing Curse at him, but he'd deflected it into a Runic Magic Reliquary, allowing them to drain Voldemort of his magical power. Harry often forgot the details of their ruse. "So, what should I do?"

"Wand arm?" Ollivander asked brusquely.

"Right," Harry replied, holding it out.

Ollivander began taking the same sorts of measurements he'd done on Hermione not long ago.

"Hmm, very well.," Ollivander pondered. "Wrist-to-elbow is ten-and-a-half inches, so we'll try for something eleven, just to give us some wiggle room." Suddenly, the wands behind Ollivander began to shift and move, with the correct length ones primed as if to fly off the shelves. "And we want something nice and flexible. Try this - pine and dragon heartstring. Just give it a wave."

Harry, feeling a little foolish, took the wand and waved it about. But nothing happened. So Ollivander took it from him and gave him a second - beechwood and Thestral claw - but snatched it back almost at once. The third, a springy ebony and unicorn hair wand, was so slick that it flew out of Harry's hand when he lost grip on it and smashed the little lamp on Mr Ollivander's desk.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled guiltily, retrieving the wand and starting to pick up the fragments of glass from the counter top.

"Leave that, my boy, don't want you cutting yourself," Mr Ollivander replied. He seemed to have no mind for his broken lamp, and was fevered in his enjoyment of trying to find Harry's perfect match. They tried three more without success, so for wand number seven Mr Ollivander took a gamble.

"I wonder," he mused, as much to himself as Harry. Then he fixed him with a deep, inquisitive stare "Breaks most of the rules ... and wouldn't make sense ... but why not try? Hmm."

The wandsmith went into the back of the shop and brought back with him a dusty old box that looked as if it had been there for years. He paused before opening it, drumming his fingers lightly on the lid. Then his curiosity won out and he handed the wand inside the box to Harry.

"Try this one," Ollivander whispered eerily. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. Nice and supple. See if this is the wand for you."

Harry knew in an instant that it was. As soon as the wood touched his hand a cosy warmth ran up his fingers, tickling his skin and filling him up with a sense of completeness. It was like finding a long lost pet whose affection had never diminished and was overwhelmed to be reunited with its owner. That was the closest approximation Harry could give.

He waved the wand, red and gold sparks shot out of the end like confetti, and Mr Ollivander clapped his approval.

"Bravo! Well done, Mr Potter," Ollivander simpered happily. "Well, well ... isn't that interesting?"

There was something about his reverent tone that caught Harry's attention. He hadn't noticed the way his heart was suddenly pounding with a nervous beat.

"I'm sorry, but ... what's so interesting about this sale? Don't you sell wands every day?"

"I do, I do," Mr Ollivander agreed, as he began wrapping Harry's wand in a new box. "But this is a curious one. You see your new wand has a phoenix feather core. Now, phoenixes are very rare, and so wands with phoenix cores are equally rare. In fact, the phoenix - whose tail feather resides in your wand - gave another feather. Only one other. This sale is curious, indeed, because though you are destined for this wand ... I literally just sold its brother ... to that girl who was in here before you."

"The ambi-wandral?" Harry asked, astonished. "Wow. That is curious. What does it mean?"

"It means, Mr Potter, that we should expect great things ... from you both," Mr Ollivander replied in his ethereal voice. "For to share in brother wands is to share a deep connection, and for the claiming of the wands to happen so close together ... I cannot believe it is mere coincidence. There is providence at work here, Mr Potter. Providence, I tell you."

Harry wasn't sure he was all that comfortable around Mr Ollivander. He paid Seven Galleons for his wand and exited the shop. He walked quickly away, disturbed by Ollivander's portents about his future. Harry was hoping for a quiet life, one devoid of drama and danger. Part of him knew such a hope was a folly, but as he ducked into Flourish and Blotts he thought maybe the life of a bookshop owner might be the one for him.

But even this profession was harassed today. The shop was crowded and Harry was buffeted from all sides. Fabian Flourish, the owner, had become a good contact for Harry, recommending books whenever Harry stopped by, which was often. He was quite flustered right now, however, and looked fit to drop. But he smiled warmly at Harry as he spotted him.

"Ah, HJP," Fabian beamed, using a nickname he'd formed for Harry. "What can I do for you today?"

"Just browsing," Harry grinned back. "You look busy."

"Frantic," Fabian replied. "I'll be glad of a nice cup of tea later. Maybe a brandy!"

"Anything I can do?" Harry enquired.

"Actually, yes," Fabian beamed in his relief. "This young lady was just looking for the Hogwarts section. Do you mind showing her?"

Fabian gestured to a girl stood just to his right. She had a pretty heart-shaped face and kindly chestnut eyes. She also had a lot of hair, which always gave Harry goosepimples, as he was constantly on the lookout for the girl he'd seen in the Mirror of Erised all those months ago. She smiled shyly back at him.

"Of course," Harry smiled goofily back. "Follow me."

So the girl did. Harry barged his way through the crowds to make way for her, scowling at anyone who challenged him, and soon they were standing in front of all the required texts. Harry snarled at a blonde-haired boy of about his own age, who sauntered away, then Harry turned back to the girl.

"The third shelf has all the first-year texts," Harry began. "Sorry ... that is what you're looking for, I'm guessing?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Okay, cool. I'm starting next term, as well," Harry went on. "The books are good. I've read most of them by now, but I've also forgotten most of it, too! Can I make a suggestion?"

"I'd love a suggestion!" the girl smiled.

"Get this book too, just for extra-reading," Harry stretched up to the top shelf - which was beyond the girl's reach - and took down a shiny copy of Hogwarts: A History. "It's my favourite, you know. You'll like it, trust me."

"Okay, I will. Thank you. I'll be sure to have it memorised by September the First!"

Harry blushed under the smile the girl was giving him. She really was pretty, but she had the sort of prettiness she probably wouldn't see in herself, and others might miss it too. Harry felt an odd sense of privilege that he had spotted it, though it was causinghim to flush hotly and he was having a hard time keeping eye-contact with ... what was her name? Harry realised he hadn't asked, and chided himself for his bad manners.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," Harry mumbled.

"That's because I didn't say it," the girl smiled, equally as shy as he. "But it's Hermione. Hermione Granger."

"Nice to meet you, Hermione Granger. I'm -"

"HARRY POTTER!"

Harry span on the spot, as a little ginger-haired girl squealed his name. Harry didn't wait for the inevitable surge of interest in him, which came moments later. He darted away from Hermione and out of the shop before she could recover herself and react to this chance meeting with her future lover. She could only watch through the window as Harry raced into the presence of a suave, dark-haired man, who whisked them away in swirl of colour.

Just then, Lyra came up behind Hermione.

"I don't believe it! I don't bloody believe it!" she cried.

"I know, I know!" Hermione agreed, then moaned deeply, "I'm so stupid! What must he think of me!"

"Who? That boy?" asked Lyra, confused. "Why? What did he say?"

"Oh, nothing of consequence," Hermione snapped. "He was kind, and courteous and Lyra - he was Harry Potter!"

"That was him!" Lyra breathed. "Oh my."

Hermione frowned at her Mistress. "What does that mean?" she huffed. "What are you so animated about if not Harry?"

"I didn't know that was him, I was more interested in that man he disappeared with," Lyra explained.

"Why? Who was he?"

"That, my dear Hermione, was Sirius Black!"