Author's note:
My stint as a full-time caregiver has ended, alas. I haven't resumed writing yet, since I'm recovering from exhaustion and emotional overload, so I still anticipate a hiatus after chapter 146. But I definitely plan to keep going, not least because my (deeply grieving) father-in-law is a huge Loose Cannon fan and eagerly awaits more chapters.
"Is that where you're going today?" asked Ryan, indicating the photo she'd retrieved from her bag. It showed a fenced back garden, and an address was scrawled on the back.
"Yes, it's my uncle's house. May I look at your road atlas?"
"Of course," he said, and he fetched it from the shelf. Hermione opened to the appropriate page, covering over the Daily Prophet, which was still sprawled across the table. They'd both read the article about how Harry had cheated on Lydia, which made Hermione especially glad for a break from the wizarding world.
"Will I see you tonight?" Ryan asked.
"That depends on what Jenny has in mind—I promised her the entire day. For all I know, she'll want me to Apparate her all over Britain, now that she tolerates it so well."
She'd last seen her cousin in November, and that was only for dinner. Jenny read maths at Bristol and was terribly busy during the term, but the holidays had come and she demanded a day with Hermione. According to her email, she had heaps of questions. "You'll probably think I'm mad," she wrote, "but it's only fair, since I thought you were a runaway drug-addict for so long."
"I'm envious, you know," said Ryan. "I can't tell you how tempting it is to chuck secrecy and tell my cousins about magic."
"That would be nice, and I'm sorry you can't."
"It's all right—I at least have a relationship with them, which is more than you had for ages."
It still felt strange to be friends with her cousins, since they'd never been close as children. What on earth was wrong with me? Hermione wondered. Here they were clever, and not unkind, but she'd somehow been unable to relate to them. But now she had more mates than ever, and no longer just people she knew from Hogwarts; in the past fortnight she'd seen Lydia, Annie, and Helena. Admittedly she'd met them through Harry and Ryan, and not on her own, but she felt they were truly friends.
She still wasn't sure about Esme Selwyn or Calliope Nott. The latter, who was married to Theo's cousin and mistress of a noble house, had invited her and Ryan to a Solstice revel that Tuesday. Hermione was excited to witness an ancient rite, which spoke to her new interest in hedge magic, but the witches still struck her as insincere.
She'd hoped it was just her imagination, but even Lydia had her doubts. "Esme has a perfect veneer, but she notices everything and definitely keeps score."
"Then why am I even going?" Hermione asked despairingly. "I can't possibly enjoy it if I'm worried all night about making some gaffe."
"You don't get it," said Lydia. "They need you more than you need them. They might laugh behind your back, but I'm sure they'll study you as well, for anything they can copy."
"To make fun of?" said Hermione, with painful memories of primary school.
"No, because you're so original. Trust me—just be yourself. And don't worry, I'll be there."
This wasn't comforting, but it would have to do, since Hermione had every intention of going. And perhaps Jenny would have advice, since she'd never been socially awkward.
With one last look at the map, she Apparated to her uncle's back garden, which Jenny assured her would be safe. And there were her cousins, watching through the sliding glass door. Albert opened it, grinning ear to ear. "Un-bloody-believable," he said, ushering her inside. "Is that how you got from crackhouse to crackhouse?"
"That's getting old," said Jenny, scowling at her twin. "Hermione, I'm so sorry you have such an unfunny cousin. No wonder you avoided us for so long."
Hermione hugged them and said she didn't mind, which was mostly true. Her aunt and uncle also greeted her, and they spoke warmly about spending Christmas together in a few days. "Nan is over the moon," her cousins told her, and they asked about wizarding holiday traditions.
"They're mostly the same, although the crackers are better," she said vaguely. A million times better, she thought, not wanting to ruin the surprise.
Eventually Jenny dragged her to her bedroom. "All right, you have to hear what I've been up to," she said, closing the door behind them. She'd only returned from university the previous night, so her suitcase was still open, and she pulled out a book called Magic: A Beginner's Manual. "Have you seen this?" she asked. "Or something similar?"
It was the sort of book Hermione would normally have sneered at—full of make-believe spells and woodcut illustrations of witches with cauldrons and brooms. Ron would have called it "Muggle bollocks," and Hermione mostly pitied people who read books like that.
"No, I've never read that sort of thing before," she said politely. "Is it interesting?"
"I think so, but maybe it's all just rubbish. Would you mind taking a look?"
"I'd be glad to," said Hermione, already wondering how to soften the blow. She opened the book and scanned the text, which went quickly thanks to all the illustrations. Unfortunately, it was as bad as she feared, and the only consolation was that it had been marked half-price.
Jenny was watching her intently. "Not good, eh?"
Hermione shook her head. "No. The pictures are nice, but none of it looks accurate. If anything, it proves that whoever implemented the International Statute of Secrecy back in 1692 did a bang-up job."
Her cousin sighed and said, "Yeah, that's what I was afraid of. I thought maybe the author was a Squib and they'd uncovered magical practices for people like me, since some of it seemed to work. But maybe I was just fooling myself."
"Really? What were you able to do?" Hermione certainly hoped Jenny had a hint of magic, but they already knew she wasn't even a Squib, based on her inability to see Chudley Stadium without an amulet.
"Well, I tried floating a feather—which didn't work—but I felt a sort of tingling in my hand, and even a bit of warmth."
"Oh, that may have been real," said Hermione. "I study a branch of magic called the Light Arts, which uses subtle energy, and my teacher said Muggles can feel it too. You can't use it to cast charms like we can, but it's very powerful in its own way."
"Really? How, exactly?"
"It's complicated, but subtle energy is closely linked with our thoughts. So if you work with your subtle energy—and smooth it out—you'll become happier and more compassionate, or whatever your intention is. Although I'm vastly oversimplifying things, so you're better off finding a proper teacher."
"But no one would teach a Muggle, right?" said Jenny, frowning.
"No, you misunderstood—the Light Arts are just the magical version of the practice, but my teacher says heaps of Muggle traditions use it as well. So it's mostly a matter of finding a teacher you trust and a cultural framework that suits you."
Jenny glanced down at the book. "Honestly, I kind of like the neo-pagan thing, if I can find something a bit more authentic."
"By all means," said Hermione enthusiastically. "Maths student by day, earth goddess by night!"
"You're the earth goddess! Which reminds me, I want to see that thing with your hair—can you really control it now?"
Hermione showed Jenny her blue sparks, first with her hair in ringlets and then in its natural state. "I don't know why it's brighter this way, but for some reason it is."
"Now that's the hair I remember!" said Jenny. "Why don't you wear it like that? The ringlets are lovely, but an earth goddess needs to be wild!"
"You're as bad as Ryan! He wants me to wear it like this in public."
"He's right! Can you make your fingertips spark as well? Honestly, it would be cool if your whole body crackled with it!"
"No, that would be weird even for wizards, and they'd send me to hospital."
Pretending to sulk, Jenny said, "Then you have to wear your hair like this. Come on, maybe I can do it up. I always wanted to play with your hair when we were little, but you never let me. Admittedly, Albert and I wanted to play Bride of Frankenstein ..."
"I had a hunch," said Hermione dryly. "But yes, go ahead—I at least know detangling charms now."
Hermione sat in a chair with Jenny behind her, experimenting with clips and combs. "I wish this were bigger," said Jenny, holding a clip suitable for her own straight hair.
"How big?" asked Hermione, pulling out her wand. She conjured every conceivable hair accessory, to her cousin's delight, and she could feel Jenny tugging her hair every which way. "This can't possibly look good," she said, reaching up to feel it.
Jenny swatted her hand away. "What do you know?" she chided. "And it's not done yet—hang on, I'll fetch the hair spray. There's a bit that needs teasing out."
"No, that's where I draw the line. Don't make me conjure a mirror."
"Fine, but give me two more minutes." She'd already fastened much of Hermione's hair up, but she pulled down several locks, and Hermione anticipated a hideous mess. "There, it's perfect. Come, have a look."
Jenny opened the wardrobe, revealing a full-length mirror, and Hermione nearly gasped. Her hair was in absolute chaos—half up, half down, and looking more than ever like Bellatrix Lestrange. But when she broke out of Azkaban, thought Hermione with horror.
"Absolutely not," she said, raising her wand to fix it.
"No! It looks fantastic! Make it spark!"
"I can't, not like this," she protested, but it began sparking anyway—even brighter than before.
"Ha!" cried Jenny. "Your magic likes it!"
For a moment Hermione was transfixed, and her entire upper body pulsed with energy. Maybe my fingers could spark after all, she thought, looking down at them. "I see your point. Still, I could never go out like this."
"Oh yes, you can. But I'll make it easy on you, and we'll go somewhere Muggle. To that bookshop, for example—I want you to help me pick out something a little more accurate." Hermione was still looking dubiously in the mirror, and Jenny said, "Come on—it's a new age bookshop. Everyone there looks weird."
"You won't," said Hermione, noting her straight, light-brown hair. Jenny agreed, and she offered to "goth it up," which meant they were a sight when it was time to leave. Albert took pictures, threatening to frame one for Nan, and Hermione steeled her courage to depart.
"If anyone recognises me, I'm exchanging your Christmas present for Cockroach Clusters, only I'll transfigure them to look like bonbons."
"Oh, quit whinging. I guarantee you'll look back on this as the turning point in your fashion evolution."
Hermione offered Jenny an anti-nausea draught, then Apparated her to an alley near the bookshop. No one saw them arrive, but when they stepped onto the pavement, people stared. Indeed, it was a relief to enter the shop, which was surprisingly crowded, and she doubted even Professor Trelawney would have stood out.
Looking around, Hermione was again reminded of Ron's words: Muggle bollocks. Everywhere she turned was some kind of faux-magical tat: candles shaped like gargoyles, pentagram wind chimes, and bundles of herbs that were useless when dried. There were ceramic mugs shaped like cauldrons, crystal balls with light-up stands, and a horseshoe—a horseshoe!—inscribed with runes.
"That might make sense if it imparted some kind of magic to the horse," whispered Hermione. "But this just says 'Twelve sun ulcer.' And for heaven's sake, is that a phrenology skull?"
"What about those wands?" asked Jenny. "Do you think any of them are real?"
Hermione had enough control over her magic not to accidentally cast sparks, so she lifted a wand from the basket. "This won't work at all—there are stones in the handle," she said quietly. "And this one has a metal ring splitting it in half." She lifted the others, one at a time, and they were attractive but obviously just sticks.
"Are you looking for something special?" said a clerk, catching them unawares. "We have more in the case." Without their asking, she used a key to unlock a display cabinet, mostly containing jewellery. "Do you have a colour in mind?"
A colour, thought Hermione with contempt. "Surprise me," she said, and the clerk handed her what looked like maple. The wand vibrated slightly in her fingers—it wasn't well made, but it certainly had magic. "Where did this come from?" she asked.
"One of our suppliers. He specialises in the unusual—would you like to try another?"
Hermione tried them one by one, and she concluded they were all magical, but either defective or poorly repaired. "I'm curious," she said, "what else do you have from that supplier?"
"Not much right now—he's a bit hard to pin down. We mostly see him at trade shows, and there's no predicting what he'll have."
Imagining someone like Mundungus Fletcher, Hermione asked to see what else he'd sold them, in case it was dangerous. But they were like the wands—formerly magical items that had fallen on hard times.
The clerk concluded they weren't buying anything, so she left to help someone else, and they went in search of books. "Remember," said Jenny, "we want something authentic, but not so genuine that it won't work for me."
Together they looked through the section on Neo-Paganism, and a handful of books seemed promising. Interestingly, two of the authors had wizarding surnames: Angela Avery and T.R. MacMillan. "Those are both fairly common names, so it might just be a coincidence," said Hermione, "But the books seem fairly plausible, and they both have sections on meditation, which is essential."
Jenny compared the two books and made her selection. "That's me sorted. But what will you get?" Hermione made a face, and Jenny said, "Oh, come on—when have you ever left a bookshop empty-handed? Surely there's something, maybe in that Goddess section over there."
Hermione assumed she was joking, but there actually was a section labelled "Goddesses." They walked over, and Jenny picked up a glossy book with an art nouveau cover. "You should get this for fashion inspiration—if anyone can pull off a hairstyle involving twigs, it's you."
"I'd never get them out," said Hermione, still scanning the shelves. "My hair might decide it likes them, after all."
"That's true, and clearly there's no arguing with your hair. But look–" She pointed out an illustration. "Her hair is woven with vines, which would look great."
"No, that's for summer solstice," said Hermione, actually considering it. "What about winter? Holly seems a bit overdone."
"Pine needles. Like you just had a good shag in the forest. Surely Ryan would approve."
Hermione was oddly tempted—not to shag Ryan outdoors, but to integrate pine into her solstice outfit. Would a pine circlet be too much? she thought, imagining it atop her ringlets. "I'll consider it," she told Jenny.
"Perfect, I'll collect some for when I do up your hair." Hermione just stared at her, and Jenny said, "For your solstice thing on Tuesday. That'll be the perfect time to debut your new look."
"Are you joking? These are the cattiest witches in England!" She realised too late she'd said "witch" in a Muggle setting, but no one even turned. "No, I need to be like Harry and look impeccable. That way no one can criticise me."
Jenny sniffed in derision. "That's not what a goddess would say."
"I'm not a goddess," mouthed Hermione, not wishing to be overheard.
"Not with that attitude you aren't. Come on, fake it till you make it."
She just glared and resumed scanning the shelves, not expecting to find anything. But one title caught her eye: The Sacred Virago. Annie had dubbed her "the Light Virago," which she rather liked, and—better still—the book was dedicated to "hedge witches everywhere." The contents looked promising, so she told Jenny she'd buy it.
They went to the front and made their purchases. Hermione had managed to forget about her hair, but she caught her reflection in a mirror by the door and was startled again. "I can't believe I went out like this!"
"That was just the start," said Jenny. 'Next we're getting lunch. Can we go to that French café near your parents' house? I keep thinking about those almond tarts your mum brought at Easter. You weren't there, of course, but I'm sure you know the ones."
Hermione did know the ones, and though she usually avoided public places near home, she agreed to go. She knew exactly where to Apparate, and within minutes they were seated.
"I don't think they're used to goths," said Jenny, smirking. Her hair was transfigured black, and she'd applied blood-red lipstick and copious amounts of eyeliner. "This is fantastic—I should go out like this more often."
Indeed, people were staring, and Hermione hoped no one would recognise her. But Jenny eased her nerves with lively conversation, and Hermione was gratified by her interest. She'd never quite healed from her lonely childhood, and moments like this seemed to help.
"Oi, check out Vampira over there," came a voice from behind. "And her mate, Zombie Apocalypse."
Hermione froze, and Jenny asked if she was all right. Discreetly motioning backwards, she said, "Someone's slagging us. Called you Vampira and said I looked like a zombie. No, don't look!"
Jenny craned her neck. "Oh, there they are." She pretended to bite her own wrist, then winked. "It's a shame you have a boyfriend, because one of them's rather fit. Looks a bit like Ryan, actually."
No no no no no! thought Hermione, horror-struck. She normally considered herself safe from her old classmates, since they'd all be at uni, but the holidays had just begun.
"Shouldn't you be in a coffin right now?" said another voice. "Or was Zombie looking for brains?"
Hermione desperately wanted to vanish—and she feared it might happen accidentally. "No, she has plenty of brains already," retorted Jenny. "But I have my doubts about you lot, slagging a pair of dangerous women like ourselves."
Sweet Merlin, is she flirting with them? thought Hermione. She was terrified it was her former classmate, Errol Reddington, but she was reluctant to turn around. Meanwhile, she kicked Jenny under the table, hoping to stop her, but it was too late.
The two young men approached them. "Dangerous how?" said Errol, and Hermione's cheeks grew hot. "Miss Zombie's the one who looks frightened." He frowned and said, "Hang on, do I know you?"
"No," said Hermione sharply. "And leave us alone—we're eating."
They were not, in fact, eating. So far they'd only been served bread and butter, which they'd already finished. Errol looked at the crumbs on their plates and said, "No, you aren't. And I'd swear I've seen you before—Justin, help me out."
Justin Sprague, another former bully, said, "Yeah, I see it too," but he couldn't place her either.
"Too bad she's taken," said Jenny saucily.
"By you?" said Errol, looking her over. "I'd buy tickets to watch that."
"She's my cousin!" blurted Hermione. "And for Merlin's sake, leave us alone!"
The pair started laughing. "Merlin? What kind of freak saying is that?" said Errol, then his eyes shot open. "Blimey, you're Hermione Granger! Justin, look! It's Granger."
Justin smirked and said, "Zombie incest lesbian—I never saw that coming! Where'd you go anyway? You disappeared after primary school."
"Boarding school, right?" said Errol. "That makes sense—it's all dykes there. But come on, I bet I could lure you back. What are you doing tonight?"
Hermione's horror was complete, and Jenny said, "Oh lord, have you got it wrong. For one thing, she has a boyfriend–"
"Errol, I thought you were her boyfriend," said Justin, laughing. "Remember that valentine? God, you were such a dick!"
"You both were!" spat Hermione. "Now get out of my sight!"
"Whatever, Zombie," said Errol with contempt. "Go fuck your dead boyfriend."
Hermione's Light magic was raging, and she feared sparks—or worse. But Jenny took over and said, "Piss off. She is so much cooler than you'll ever be. Not to mention her boyfriend could eat you for breakfast."
The boys muttered a last round of insults before leaving, and it took all of Hermione's composure not to cry. "Wankers!" Jenny scowled.
"I knew this would happen," said Hermione dully. "Ever since I moved back home, it was just a matter of time. I only hoped Ryan would be here, or maybe my parents."
"But you got your loudmouth cousin instead, dressed like a vampire tart. I'm so sorry—I probably made things worse. Like making you come here in the first place ... do you want to leave?"
"No, that's all right. The damage is done."
Jenny looked at her with compassion. "I gather they used to bully you?" Hermione nodded, and Jenny said, "Well, you certainly got your revenge, turning him down like that."
"No, he was just making fun of me, like he did back in school." She told Jenny about the valentine Errol had given her, and how he and his mates had laughed when she thought it was sincere.
"That was ten years ago, and you've hottened up considerably since then. Seriously, you look amazing."
Hermione held out a bushy lock and said, "I look like a zombie. Why couldn't I at least look normal? They'll probably tell our classmates what I freak I am."
"Yeah, they might do, but you hit them where it hurt. And I know it wasn't fun, but you were pure fire! You barely raised your voice, but every word was a dagger, or lightning! You were like Circe, and they were the swine."
Hermione smiled in spite of herself. "You're really stuck on this goddess thing, aren't you?"
"Of course I am. This is simple career advancement for someone like you. You can't just hang it up when you're twenty—you need to keep going."
"Trust me, I have a long way to go," she said, sighing. "But who knows, maybe you're right—I've been feeling stuck, and this is at least something different."
Jenny's eyes lit up. "Does this mean I can do your hair for the solstice?"
"That's not what I said. But I'll see what Lydia thinks."
"What about Ryan?"
"Oh, I know what he'll think. I should ask Harry as well—he's become weirdly comfortable in that world."
To that end, they decided to visit Grimmauld Place after lunch. Hermione didn't know if Harry would be home, but she was unlikely to catch him in flagrante, as in the past. Although getting there was complicated, since she couldn't Apparate into the house, so they went first to her parents' house.
She brought Jenny to her bedroom, then down to the lounge. "Girls, is that you?" called Emily as they clambered down the stairs. "Oh! That's a new look!"
"Temporary," said Jenny, kissing her aunt. "But what do you think of Hermione? I did her hair—this was just quid pro quo."
Emily stared at her daughter. "Did you go out like that?"
"Yes," said Hermione, still embarrassed. "What's more, we ran into Errol Reddington and Justin Sprague, because the gods clearly hate me."
"Oh no! Are you all right?"
"I'll live," she said, sighing again.
"She was brilliant," said Jenny. "He tried chatting her up, and she shot him down."
Hermione shook her head. "He called me a zombie and thinks we're a lesbian couple."
"That too," said her cousin. "But Hermione came out the winner—she just doesn't believe me yet. What do you think of her hair, though? She's nearly agreed to wear it like that to her solstice party with 'the cream of wizarding society,'" she said loftily.
"Yes, it's very pagan," said Emily. "But Hermione, would you feel comfortable like that? I know how nervous you are around old-family pure-bloods."
Hermione explained they were going to ask Harry, and possibly Lydia. Next she Flooed alone to Grimmauld Place, unlocked the kitchen door, then returned and brought Jenny to Harry's back garden. "Sorry to keep you waiting—the security's a bit complicated," she said, leading her inside.
"Oh my god, this kitchen! Not a single mod con—good luck finding a buyer."
"It's not for sale," said Hermione, laughing. "And it has every magical convenience." She showed her the enchanted larder, which prevented food from spoiling, and brought her downstairs to the potions lab. "Harry never uses it, but it's really first rate."
When they returned to the kitchen, Lodie was there, all eyes and curiosity. And Jenny was the same—Hermione had warned her about house-elves. "It's nice to meet you, Lodie," said Jenny, kneeling. "Hermione tells me your father saved her life."
"Yes, miss. Papa Dobby was the bravest of elves."
Crack! Kreacher was there in a flash, ears pointed and baring his teeth. "Begone, Muggle!" he cried, and his fingers were poised to snap.
Jenny screamed, and Hermione flung herself between them. "No, she's not an enemy! You mustn't hurt her, nor any other Muggle."
There was a flurry of explanations, and a minute later Harry ran into the room, wand raised. "Who screamed?" he asked, looking around.
More explanations, including why Hermione's hair was so wild and why Jenny looked like a goth. "Jenny wants me to wear it like this to Calliope Nott's solstice revel, but that's a terrible idea, right?"
Harry was silent a moment. "Do you really want my opinion?" he asked.
"No," said Hermione irritably. "We came all this way just so Kreacher could try killing us."
"No, Miss Hermione," piped the elf. "Kreacher would only have killed the foul Muggle."
"There will be no killing!" ordered Harry, squeezing his eyes shut. "Let's sit down, shall we?"
They went to the sitting room, and Hermione asked for Harry's sincere advice. He took a deep breath and said, "I think it looks brilliant and you should wear it like that to the party. Or all the time, even."
"Ha!" cried Jenny. "Chalk one up to the foul Muggle!"
"All the time?" said Hermione, aghast. "Let's set that aside for a moment ... why were you reluctant to say that before?"
"Because you mightn't enjoy it—at least not at first. Honestly, people probably will judge you for it. Some of the witches will laugh behind your back, or say how nice it is how you're getting into the spirit of things," he said, in an exaggerated drawl.
Hermione winced at the thought. "Then why on earth are you suggesting I wear my hair like this all the time?"
"I have two words for you: fitted robes."
She understood perfectly. When he first showed me his new robes here at Grimmauld Place, he was revealing a whole new side of himself. And it was only the tip of the iceberg.
"Do you think it'll help my Light magic?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
"That all depends. Do you feel powerful, or just embarrassed?"
Instead of answering verbally, she allowed her hair to spark. Harry's mouth fell open, and she closed her eyes to deepen the experience. "Powerful," she said, her voice deep and resonant.
"And how will you feel if you overhear Esme and Charles slagging you?"
Her heart swelled with compassion. "That's just their habit—it doesn't mean anything. They'd only be saying it out of fear, and we can't all be Gryffindors."
"Excuse me, I'm a Slytherin," he said, and she opened her eyes to see him grinning.
"Does that mean you're being strategic?"
"Yes. You've been wanting a breakthrough, and Jenny's handed you one. Is there any chance you'll see Luna between now and then?"
"No, not until Thursday." Luna was back in England for the week, but she and her father were off on an expedition. "Are you proposing I wear butterbeer corks as well?"
"I can't really see that. But she has a knack for weird headdresses."
"On it," said Jenny. "We're thinking pine needles."
They gave Jenny a tour of the house, which left her gobsmacked. "And this room didn't even exist until a few weeks ago?" she asked. They were in the music room, which featured a grand piano, a harp, and a large mallet instrument—all of which could play themselves.
"It probably existed, but it must have been hiding," said Hermione. "Although we really should have suspected there was more—this house always seemed a bit shabby for a family like the Blacks."
"To be honest, I'm a bit nervous about that," said Harry. "I like the house as it is, and I don't want it turning into Malfoy Manor or something."
"'House Black will be reborn, greater than before,'" quoted Hermione. "You don't think the prophecy was talking about the actual house, do you?"
Harry went pale, and Jenny said, "The prophecy? Are we talking an Oracle of Delphi kind of thing?"
Hermione told her about prophecies, omitting the bit about marking Harry as an equal, to prevent awkward questions. But Harry was still downcast, and she asked if he was all right.
"This morning's Prophet," he said heavily. "I knew my luck couldn't last forever, and that they were bound to start slagging me again. I hoped it was enough to have Rita under control, but apparently not."
"Have you talked to her?"
"No, but she sent me a letter, which boiled down to, 'Sorry, love. I tried to stop it but Cuffe is in charge, and he wants to stir things up. Nothing like during the war, but enough to keep things interesting.'"
The article that morning was longer than Hermione had expected, with a detailed timeline of his relationship with Lydia, and a hint he might have slept with Alex as well. It also mentioned Helena, suggesting she'd ended things because she "saw the writing on the wall," and "didn't dare hope he'd remain loyal." And the tone towards Fiona was patronising at best:
"Her memories of a happy marriage may have deluded her into thinking he'll be as faithful as her late husband. But Potter is young—very young—and he's grown accustomed to getting whatever he wants. Let us hope, for Mrs Dunning's sake, that he only wants her, yet we urge her to open her eyes and lower her expectations."
"Harry, I'm so sorry," said Hermione. "I hope Fiona didn't take it seriously."
"No, not at all. She's been expecting something like this for weeks, to appease the Mothers Against Harry Potter crowd. But now she's off reassuring her relations—her in-laws in particular."
Jenny was clearly lost but didn't interrupt, and after leaving Grimmauld Place, Hermione filled her in. "There's no way Harry could have avoided cheating on Lydia—she literally ordered him to visit a magical brothel!"
More questions followed, and Jenny finally said, "Still, he's only nineteen. Do you really think he's ready to settle down?"
They were drinking tea at the Grangers' kitchen table. "Wizards marry young," she explained. "But he has a vow not to propose until he's twenty-one, so it's not like they'll marry anytime soon. And he was shockingly promiscuous for the previous six months, which I think made him realise how much he prefers a relationship. He was terribly loyal to Ginny, after all—if she hadn't ended things, I'm sure they would have married."
"Weird," said Jenny. "Have you and Ryan discussed marriage at all?"
"We've skirted the topic but never talked about it directly. And I doubt he wants to marry too early, since he tries to blend with Muggles as much as possible. Which is fine with me—I'm not in a rush."
"Nan might be," Jenny laughed, "but don't let her pressure you. What do your parents think?"
"They'd definitely rather we wait. Fortunately, they like Ryan, which wasn't the case with Ron. It turns out they were terrified I'd marry him—which may well have happened if he hadn't ended things first."
Jenny studied her for a moment. "Why did you never date Harry? Or did you, and I just never heard about it?"
"We never did. Never even considered it, really."
"Never? Not even when you were twelve? Lord knows I had any number of crushes at that age, and he must have been adorable back then."
"Yes—and very short. I don't think he caught up with me until I was maybe fifteen, and by then I fancied Ron. And besides, all the other girls liked him by then."
"Aha!" said Jenny. "Now we're getting somewhere. Why did you decide you liked Ron instead of Harry? Didn't you say he was kind of a berk back then?"
Hermione had told her about fourth year, and how Ron had turned against Harry when his name came out of the Goblet of Fire. "Yes, he was rather a berk. But Harry needed a friend, not a girlfriend, and–"
"Another clue! You couldn't allow feelings to develop, for fear of leaving the Chosen One all alone."
"He wasn't the Chosen One until sixth year," countered Hermione. "And stop hounding me."
"I'm sorry, I was just having fun. I just find it odd that you're best friends with the wizarding world's biggest heartthrob but never had feelings for him. Which is fine, really, because Ryan is brilliant, whereas Harry seems like a headache and a half." Hermione began to protest, and Jenny said, "Not from his own side, of course. But because of the whole mystique."
'You're right—it's pretty overwhelming. And it probably is weird I never fancied him, but I'm sure it's better this way.'
Hermione felt all the more convinced when she saw Ryan that night; her hair was still in a wild up-do, and Ryan was enthralled. "That may be even better than seventies glamour model hair," he said admiringly. "It's the exposed neck, I think."
"Jenny wants me to wear it like this to the solstice party, and Harry agrees."
Ryan raised one eyebrow. "And what do you want?"
"Honestly, I don't know. People will probably judge me for it, or make cutting remarks. But look at this." She allowed her hair to spark, and his eyes widened. "I think it's what my magic wants me to do. Does that make sense?"
"For the solstice? Absolutely!"
She nevertheless wrote to Lydia for advice, and a reply arrived the next morning:
Dear Hermione,
Next time just come over, since I'd have loved to see your hairstyle. My Floo is always open to you, and Kammy will tell you if I'm receiving visitors. Anyway, it sounds divine, and everyone's a little wild on the solstice. I can't guarantee Esme or Calliope won't judge you, but they judge me all the time and I'm the happier for it.
In fact, maybe I'll do something similar. Not necessarily with my hair—mine is nothing like yours—but something pagan and primal. Together we can start a trend, and by this time next month even Charles will have twigs in his hair. I jest, but only slightly.
Do come over on Tuesday, six-ish, and we'll work out our outfits together.
Yours,
Lydia
Hermione's Light magic surged as she read it. "Ryan, I'm going all in. This is clearly what my magic wants, and if Lydia's there with me I'll be far less nervous."
"Er, do you want me to dress differently? Blue face paint or something?"
Ryan obviously wasn't keen on the idea, and Hermione shook her head. "No, one of us needs to look normal. And clearly it won't be me."
Indeed, she looked anything but normal, standing in Lydia's dressing room Tuesday night. Jenny had produced another wild hairdo, woven with juniper twigs and berries, and Kammy was busy transfiguring her gown.
"I want to see more skin," ordered Lydia, pointing at the triangular gaps down the front.
"It's midwinter!" said Hermione, looking down at the already generous gaps. "Everyone else will be swaddled in furs!"
"You said you won't wear fur, so you'll have to do the opposite. Don't worry, the amulet will keep you warm."
"I'm not worried about the cold. I'm worried about looking like a tart!"
"Goddesses aren't known for their modesty," countered Lydia. "And your breasts are far apart, so all they'll see is your sternum."
"And my navel! Kammy, cover that up!" Startled by her imperious tone, she added, "If you please."
The house-elf stared plaintively at her mistress, unsure how to proceed. "Fine, no navel," said Lydia. "But slit the skirts so her boots are visible, and a hint of bare leg."
Lydia, meanwhile, was dressed as a sort of moon goddess. Her hair was loose—Kammy had charmed it to billow somehow—and the blond was mixed with shining silver. Her eyebrows and lashes were also silver, instead of their usual light brown, and even her lips were iridescently pale. It was an odd look, and not conventionally pretty, but it made Lydia look otherworldly. And she too was underdressed for the cold winter night, warmed only by the pendant at her throat.
"Has Marcus seen you yet?" asked Hermione, admiring her flowing silver gown.
"No. He'll come here at seven, and we'll go there together. Dinner will be endless, of course—even Ryan should be satisfied—and be ready for a deluge of drinks. But pace yourself, because we won't start the ritual until half-eleven, and it's inauspicious to pass out first."
When Kammy was done, Hermione thanked her and gave Lydia a hug. "I'd never have the courage without you," she said. "But every instinct tells me this is the right path. See you soon?"
"Yes, at half-seven. Ta-ta!"
The Nott estate was in Hampshire, so Hermione met Ryan at her house, since both of their Floo paths went through London. Daniel Granger raised his eyebrows at his daughter's outfit, but Emily was thrilled. "Our little girl is a pagan goddess," she said fondly, and she took Muggle photographs to show their colleagues. "We'll say it's fancy dress."
"They're starting to wonder about all her fancy-dress parties," said Daniel.
"Hush, we had nothing to show them for years." Beaming at Ryan and Hermione, she said, "Have a good time, and don't let the snobs get you down."
"Thank goodness for Lydia," said Hermione. "I could never do this without her."
But when they arrived—a few minutes late, just in case—Lydia and Marcus weren't there. Instead they were met by a roomful of young magicals, dressed for dinner but nothing more. "Oh, how novel!" said Calliope Nott, her eyes wide.
Esme Selwyn, who was drinking champagne, actually started coughing. "Are you all right, my dear?" said Charles.
"Yes, of course," said Esme, obviously amused. "How lovely to see you both."
Calliope called to her husband, who was deep in conversation with a wizard. "Brandon, come here! Ryan Bellamy and Hermione Granger just arrived."
Theo's cousin registered surprise when he saw Hermione, but he seemed more interested in Ryan. "Bellamy, we meet at last. Captain of the English team! What an honour for our first solstice here at the manor."
He introduced Ryan to the other wizards, leaving Hermione alone with their wives. Mortified, she endured questions about her outfit and hair. "Is that a Muggle tradition?" asked Corinne MacDougal.
"Not exactly," said Hermione, wondering desperately where Lydia was. "It's a nod to pagan archetypes, which seemed fitting for such an ancient celebration. Er, are Lydia and Marcus here?"
"No, but I'm sure they'll turn up soon," said Esme. "It's not like her to be late."
But they still hadn't arrived when they sat for dinner, and to make matters worse, Hermione and Ryan weren't seated together. He was between two witches, and she was next to Nott, who mostly had questions about Ryan. "Does he only play Quidditch, or other sports as well?"
"He also plays football, but not right now since it's too cold."
"Football? With Muggles, you mean?"
"Yes—he's never had much luck persuading magicals to play, since you're all too attached to your brooms. And it's hard to picture most wizards in shorts."
"Except for Potter," said Nott. "Everywhere I turn, there he is in that advert. It almost makes a man tempted to start an exercise regimen! Although they sound positively tedious."
She laughed and said, "My father thinks wizarding gyms are the wave of the future." She described her indoor cycling class, and at first no one at the table believed her.
"You sit on a bicycle that doesn't go anywhere?" exclaimed Esme. "I thought moving those footpads made bicycles go. Or don't you move them at all?"
Hermione explained how stationary bikes work, which prompted more questions. "Can't you just use your wand?" asked Trevor Fawley. "I'm sure you could do it discreetly."
"There'd be no point," said Hermione. "If I charmed the pedals to move on their own, I wouldn't get any exercise."
"But you'd still be moving. Surely that counts for something!"
"Maybe, but not much. It's the effort that matters."
"Exactly," said Esme. "This is why wizards should live in a manor house, and not just a flat. My grandmother says it's good for the constitution, and Merlin knows she's kept her figure." She gave Charles a pointed look.
"Your figure is already divine," said her husband. "And do you really want to move, after all the effort we've put into the flat?"
Esme just glared at him and resumed talking to her neighbour. Charles refilled his wine glass and silently toasted his wife before taking a long sip. Nott had more questions about exercise, with a little too much emphasis on Ryan, and Hermione wondered what was going on between Esme and Charles. I'd ask Lydia, but she's not sodding here!
On her other side was Archer MacDougal, who was also drinking steadily. "Don't listen to those witches," he murmured, looking rather too often at her bare shoulders. "Yes, you look a bit feral, but that's what men like. The women may claim they're dressing for us, but they're really dressing for each other. Bellamy's lucky you have your priorities straight."
She inhaled sharply but didn't tell him off, knowing his father was on the Wizengamot. But she'd had several glasses of wine, which made her more candid than when she'd first arrived. "I'm not dressed this way for Ryan, although he fully approves. It's for my Light Arts practice."
"Is it now! Does it have to do with–" He stopped himself, but it was obvious he was going to ask about her libido.
"It's about connecting with my magic, and going deeper," she said frostily, and she felt her power stirring. Archer clearly noticed, because his eyes darkened and he took another sip of wine without looking away. Ryan must have sensed it too, because he turned to face her, and their eyes met. He still doesn't know me, she thought, for all she'd bared her soul. Not entirely.
She dimly wondered where that even came from, but it hardly mattered. Some combination of the wine and her sense of power had coalesced her magic—both Light and conventional—and she felt slightly outside of herself. In fact, she almost seemed to drift, seeing the scene from different perspectives. Archer MacDougal, for example, clearly desired her, but beneath it she sensed a yearning for his wife. Next, she observed the wife in question and felt her rigid constraints, which were entirely self-imposed. God, no wonder he's unsatisfied, thought Hermione. She was taught to be ladylike and never learnt when to stop.
Brandon Nott was also unsatisfied, poor thing. Unlike Charles Selwyn, who was clearly bisexual, Brandon was strictly gay. But his wife, Calliope, was gratified by the position he'd given her, and proud to be hosting a revel. Meanwhile, Esme could only see flaws. The china pattern was dreary, for example—what a pity they couldn't afford to replace it. And the rectangular table was so pedestrian—it should really be oval. And why on earth hadn't Calliope shrunk it when Lydia and Marcus hadn't arrived? Obviously they weren't coming—they were probably spending the solstice in bed. And what possessed Hermione Granger to dress like that? The only part missing is grass stains on her knees!
Ryan's perspective surprised her. He loves me, she knew, but he was also ... fearful? No, that wasn't it, but something felt off. Surely not shame, she thought, although he clearly still carried some, from having been raped and his years of accidental magic. Inadequacy, she realised. He felt inadequate, which was perfectly absurd, considering how accomplished he was.
No, I'm not, came the silent reply, which didn't match his cheerful exterior. He and Troy Fawley were animatedly discussing Quidditch, and to all appearances he was perfectly at ease. But in her expanded state Hermione saw more, and she wondered how to reach it, or if he even knew it was there.
Charles Selwyn, oddly, was falling. Not literally—he was male grace personified and hadn't yet drunk to excess. But at the table that night, as he conversed with Caroline Burke—pretty, but nothing to Esme—Hermione watched him fall through a bottomless void. She hadn't the slightest idea why, or what it meant, and she sent a tendril of Light magic towards him. But his falling continued, and she went back to observing the other guests.
Most of the women disliked her, which didn't bother her somehow. It's not about me—it's about them. She was almost pleased by how much they enjoyed scorning her, as if she'd made them an offering. Zombie hair and a weird pagan dress, which I'm sure they think is Muggle. She was still faintly mortified, but that only evoked her compassion. My little Gryffindor, brave and bold.
Her heart leapt at the sight of Lydia, who finally arrived, alone. "Where have you been?" exclaimed Esme. "And what on earth are you wearing?"
"Where's Marcus?" asked Nott. "Did something happen?"
"St Mungo's, and yes." The group pressed her for details, and she said, "He broke his ankle playing racquetball, and they administered Skele-Gro."
"What's racquetball?" came the question, and she let Ryan answer. "But why are you late?" asked Esme. "That shouldn't have taken long."
Lydia explained how he'd joined a Muggle gym, and that his partner, Scott, didn't know about magic. "Scott was maddeningly attentive and insisted on taking him to a Muggle hospital"—gasps of horror—"so he had to go through the entire process."
"Not … not an X-ray," said a trembling Esme, and Ryan had to reassure her it was safe. "But radiation!" she insisted. "It can destroy magic!"
"We're exposed to more radiation from the sky and our normal surroundings than from a medical X-ray," said Hermione, and she even provided the maths. Aspiring pagan goddess, and daughter of dentists, she mused, and she looked forward to sharing the joke with Ryan.
After Marcus was released—on crutches and in a cast—he took a taxi to St Mungo's. "That's when they finally called me," said Lydia. "I was waiting by the fireplace the entire time."
"You poor thing!" said Hermione, rising to hug her.
When they pulled apart, Lydia thanked her. "But I was worried about you here all alone," she whispered. "Are you all right?"
Touched, Hermione said she was fine. "More than fine," she added quietly. "I'll tell you about it later."
Next came questions about Lydia's appearance. "Why in Merlin's name are you dressed like that? You're practically a ghost!" said Esme, although Hermione detected jealousy as well.
"It's for the solstice, of course," said Lydia haughtily. "This is my offering to the gods of old, same as Hermione. Doesn't she look splendid?"
Some of the wizards agreed too readily, and Esme said, "Yes, very original—both of you. Although you must have been a sight at St Mungo's!"
"I was. In fact, I think I was photographed—shall I warn our parents?" She'd already helped herself to wine, and she bit into a ripe strawberry, looking utterly unrepentant.
Esme blinked, and Hermione could tell she was using Dark magic to control her emotions. "I think that would be prudent," she said, her eyes narrowing.
After what looked like a silent battle of wills between the two sisters, Calliope said, "Poor Marcus—such an ordeal!" and everyone echoed the sentiment. They spoke of his sister Vanessa's upcoming marriage to Terence Higgs, and the conversation returned to normal. Wine continued to flow, but Hermione stopped drinking, as Lydia had advised. I'm not at risk of passing out, but a pagan goddess mustn't stumble whilst walking through the woods.
At half-past eleven, everyone but Hermione and Lydia bundled into cloaks. Despite his threats to wear an anorak, Ryan produced a heavy woollen cloak which made him look shockingly wizardlike, without his usual hint of Muggle. "I love you in that cloak," said Hermione, taking his gloved hand into her bare one.
"It belongs to my cousin," he admitted. "One of the pure-bloods, in fact."
"Is it wrong that I find you so attractive in traditional wizarding clothes?"
"Honestly, I feel the same about your earth-goddess look. How are you doing by the way?"
"Not bad. I think I had a bit of a fugue state, even."
"Like Harry?" said Ryan, surprised.
"No, nothing like his. My own version, apparently."
Their hosts led them through a pair of French doors, and the group began to walk into the forest. At first there were giggles and drunken chatter, but soon the only sound was their footfalls. There was no snow, but the night was cold and gusty, and Hermione felt its bite even with her amulet. Yet she wasn't cold, or if she was it hardly mattered, since it was all part of the offering.
The path narrowed, forcing them to walk single file, which was perfect somehow. It was dark within the forest, and they navigated by Lumos. Hermione allowed her hair to spark, and when the path widened she detected a faint glow from Lydia as well. Nothing like Harry's—it was more like reflected moonlight, only the moon was hidden by clouds. And Lydia's allure had returned, much more subtle than at Harry's party. Last time she inspired lust, thought Hermione. But this time is far more tender.
They finally reached the clearing, where twelve fires had been lit. Hermione supposed a house-elf had prepared them, but for once she didn't mind—she could feel the elf's magic and welcomed it. There was also a table with a large flask of ritual potion and a quantity of empty glasses. Calliope used her wand to fill them, and everyone took a glass.
"To the old gods!" declared Nott, raising a toast.
"To the old gods!" repeated the guests, and everyone drank.
Hermione and Ryan stood with Lydia as they waited for the potion to take effect. No one spoke, but Lydia seemed glad for company, since everyone else was paired off. Hermione could imagine how scared she'd been when Marcus didn't turn up. In fact, it was probably a new experience for her, since she'd barely been touched by the war and had never had to worry when someone was missing.
Hang on, yes she did, thought Hermione, recalling how Harry had returned late from the Boudoir. Her heart ached, realising Lydia must have feared a repeat, and that she'd probably spent hours thinking Marcus was either dead or cheating on her. You poor thing, she thought, grasping Lydia's hand. Lydia turned and beamed at her—literally—and they held hands until the potion took effect.
This must be what the Imperius Curse is like, thought Hermione, raising her lit wand. She didn't need to think about where to go, since the potion was guiding them, and together they performed a silent dance. Her hair was sparking brightly, and she somehow experienced the dance as both a participant and observer. An offering to the gods of old, in thanks for our magic.
After the dance was complete, they lit a large fire in the middle, using flames from each of the smaller ones. "To the new year!" said Nott, breaking the silence. "And to dreams come true."
One by one they expressed their wishes for the new year, and Hermione was moved by how candid people were. And she knew it was unforced, since she no longer felt the influence of the potion—it was all from the ritual itself. More than one couple wished for a baby, and several people wished for ongoing peace. Charles Selwyn was a bit disappointing, wishing for "another year of domestic bliss with my beautiful wife," and Esme expressed something similar, prompting Hermione to wonder whether they were fighting.
Hermione had to stifle a grin when Lydia spoke, since she was clearly awash in Light magic. "I love Marcus and my family—all of you, really—and I wish you your heart's desire. And for peace in wizarding Britain, and throughout the world—Muggles too. And Esme, my sister, my oldest friend ... I want you to be happy in every possible way."
Esme looked touched and didn't seem to detect her sister's Light magic. And Hermione might have missed it as well, if she hadn't known better. Between the fire and the moon, which was finally visible, everyone was aglow, and Lydia's blond good looks explained the rest.
Next was Ryan's turn. "I have so much to be thankful for," he said, squeezing Hermione's hand. "And my wish is to always be worthy of it."
"What about the Cannons winning the cup?" called Nott, to general laughter.
"I'll take it," said Ryan. "But only if we have as much fun as every other year I've been on the Cannons."
"Can't you be more specific?" joked Troy Fawley. "I can't bring that to my bookmaker." Ryan was persuaded to make a wish for the English team as well, and everyone was smiling when Hermione's turn came around.
"I wish for magic," she said. "Not just what I have, for which I'm profoundly grateful. But all of you grew up with magic, so you never witnessed what I did, which was for old limitations to suddenly fall away and for an entire new world to appear." She looked at the group and saw interest rather than scorn, so she continued. "I know I have other constraints—creativity, for example—and I'd love for those to fall away as well. And I wish for the courage to embrace my true self, and no longer be hindered by old habits and fears." With these words, a cloud of sparks leapt from the fire, which she took as a good omen. It wasn't the only burst of sparks, and several months earlier she'd have called it a coincidence, but that night it felt perfect.
After the ritual, they all walked back to the manor, and when the path was wide enough Lydia and her sister held hands. Hot drinks awaited them in the drawing room, where Lydia pulled Hermione aside. "Could you see it?" she whispered. "I don't think anyone else could."
"Yes, and so did Ryan, once I pointed it out. But I don't think anyone else noticed."
"No, Esme hadn't a clue. And believe me, I didn't tell her—I don't want to say anything until it's well under control. That was the first time I've experienced Light magic since Harry's party, you know."
"Why do you think it happened tonight?" asked Hermione, who had several theories.
"The ritual, maybe? I was hoping something might happen—that's why I dressed like this. But I completely fell apart waiting for Marcus, and by the time I turned up, I was a perfect wreck, as you saw."
"Actually, you looked fine. Which is remarkable considering how worried you must have been."
Lydia took a deep breath. "I was scared I'd lost him. I'm sure you can guess what was I was thinking, that he was either dead or ..." She trailed off, closing her eyes.
"I'm so sorry I wasn't there to tell you he'd never do that."
"I know, and I feel awful for even thinking it—he's nothing like Harry, after all. But oh, those two hours! They were absolute torture!"
Hermione might once have rolled her eyes at the hyperbole, back when she thought Lydia was just a spoilt aristocrat. But looking back, the worst pain she'd experienced during the war wasn't the torture from Bellatrix Lestrange—it was when Ron had deserted them. "Lydia, I know this sounds absurd, but that may be why your Light magic reappeared. Mine first started after a series of disasters, including Ron breaking up with me."
"Really?"
"Yes. Davina says sometimes the old self has to crumble before the new one can emerge."
"It crumbled all right, or I did," said Lydia. "I was literally in a heap by the fireplace. Kammy insisted on bringing the chaise longue, and I just lay there, miserable. It was bad enough having the story with Harry come out this week, but for it to happen again, and to have to tell my parents? I'd sooner die!"
Hermione hugged her, and Lydia closed her eyes again before changing the topic. "So, that was my evening," she said, dabbing a tear. "And how were you? I'm so sorry to throw you to the wolves unprotected."
"It wasn't that bad, actually. I mean yes, it was exactly what we expected, but somehow it didn't matter. And I think my Light magic deepened as well."
Cracking a smile, Lydia said, "Does this mean you'll keep wearing your hair this way?"
"I make no promises," she began, but Lydia shook her head.
"The Ministry Ball," she declared. "We'll get ready together, and Kammy can do your hair. Not quite like this—no twigs, for example. But we're starting a trend, and together we'll torch all the rules." She glanced at the other witches in the room and said, "By the gods, you'd think they were eighty! My gran has more spirit than they do."
The next morning, Lydia's photo was in the gossip column, and the fashion observers went wild. "Ethereal, tear-streaked beauty!" raved Reginald Hem. "Otherworldly magnificence!" said Xanthippe Codmopple. "The most convincing evidence yet that Lydia Travers is a luminary in her own right, and the most captivating witch of her age."
She was the talk of the Ministry that morning, and even Luna said something on Thursday when Hermione saw her. "I was very impressed by that photograph of Lydia Travers. And so were you, apparently—is that why you unleashed your hair?"
For a moment Hermione was annoyed, both by the suggestion she was copying Lydia and by Luna's use of the word "unleashed." But her irritation vanished as quickly as it arose, and she said, "The more I get to know Lydia, the more impressed I am. And yes, she encouraged me to wear my hair like this, but the real credit goes to my cousin."
"It's good for your magic," Luna declared. "I never liked seeing it all tied up, when clearly it wants to run free."
"My hair?" said Hermione, who was wearing it in an unbound, chaotic cloud.
"That too," said Luna, and Hermione merely smiled.
