Thank you all so much for the brilliant reviews in the previous chapter. We are extremely pleased that this wacky idea of ours is something others are enjoying. Normally each chapter would be a different year and country, but Paris turned out so long we split it in half. Enjoy!


Paris, France

December 2009


Ever since she'd met Harry Potter, Hermione Granger couldn't help but think about him when it rained heavily, the wind blowing violently and cold outside. It took her mind back to Vienna, to how excited and full of energy she felt in the presence of that man, but at the same time how comfortable and at ease she was with him, as though they had known one another for a very long time. Hermione hadn't the slightest idea where Harry was or even if he was truly a Secret Agent, but she liked to think he was, it made the idea of him far more thrilling and the sadness of not seeing or speaking to him more bearable, more comprehensible even. He was James Bond, 007, and she was a Bond girl and this was how Bond girls ended up when not violently sent to the grave by enemy hands.

Today was one of those rare days off, the sort that preceded busier and stressful days and so was necessary to replenish all energy. She'd need to be rather ruthless tomorrow if she wanted the BBC to approve and fund her new idea for a documentary series. Leprosy and all that it entailed weren't the sort of exciting or thrilling things people wished to watch or learn about on screen, but still she had high hopes. What she wished to convey was much more than the disease of leprosy itself, but actually, the story of humans at their best while at their worsts emotional and health-wise, and of course it did have the allure of Nazi occupation and World War II history which was all the rage in all possible marketing aspects. It got tiresome at times, but truly intelligent people had to know how to play their cards and Hermione considered herself quite intelligent. The kettle whistled, startling her, from the background of her tiny and admittedly cluttered house. She hadn't any use for a larger place and it had become even more full of 'useless rubbish' and memorabilia after her parents sold their home in Oxford two years ago, and there'd been many things she hadn't wanted to do without. Hermione considered them her precious little artifacts, the things that told the story of who she was and she hoped they would stick with her all through her life and beyond.

Hermione traveled a lot, stayed away from her little house in Wandsworth for a great amount of time every year due to her work, something she loved, but nevertheless, it gave her great comfort to have this place, even if at age 29 she'd quite outgrown it. Sure, it had a decent-sized living area with a small fireplace and French doors that led to a small rear yard that boasted a pear tree and irises that flowered during late-spring. Most of the living area was her bookshelves though, all painted a light shade of cornflower-blue and crammed with books, picture frames and trinkets collected throughout her life and travels. A few cardboard boxes were stacked in a corner collecting dust and they had been there for almost three years now. She had little use for a telly, so she didn't own one. A narrow Victorian archway led to a small kitchen with a round wooden table with three seats that hardly got used. Rickety wooden stairs covered by faded striped carpeting led to the upper floor which consisted of two small bedrooms and a bathroom. Her bedroom looked out to a long street of matching row houses, all decorated for the holidays already. The other had a view of the garden, which quite honestly wasn't much. She normally used it for work, hence the large wooden desk and shelf that took over most of the space. It was sentimental furniture, though disproportionate because it had been her grandfather's and he, in turn, had been a great author and playwright. Hermione hoped all his success and talent would somehow rub onto her, though she had no reason to complain, what with so many sales and excellent reviews, plus, the BBC seemed to continue liking her enough for producing more programs…

She had to admit it was a lonesome way of living though, not even a cat she had anymore, not since her darling Crookshanks passed away nearly a decade ago... It was the sort of company Hermione's lifestyle didn't permit. She couldn't exactly drag a cat or a dog to the windy hills of Scotland, or to hot, arid Moroccan deserts or even to secluded Greek plains or mountaintops where one could spend days on end without seeing a single other person, and on airplanes which just weren't the proper kind of place for animals too...

The kettle continued to whistle and she groaned, forcing herself to finally get up from her favorite armchair by the window to go prepare some tea. Other than making her think of Secret Agents and her short stint as a Bond girl, this sort of weather made her feel awfully lazy, but she still had a suitcase to pack for her trip to Paris this weekend and a lengthy phone call with her parents scheduled for 8 pm.

She was in the middle of a steaming mug of peppermint tea when her phone rang and 'Mummy' appeared on the screen. She pressed the green button and then put the phone to her ear.

"Hermione, you little minx! Lejla completely and utterly broke my heart! How could she do that?" Her mother cried out, clearly not bothering with niceties. Hermione rolled her eyes, glad because this meant her mum was actually reading the book she wrote set during the Bosnian war in the 1990s.

"How much do you hate me on a scale of zero to ten?" Cleopatra Granger took a second or two to think before responding.

"I'd say a big fat 8 at this point. What do you have against love actually working out?" Hermione chuckled as she rinsed her mug in the sink and set it to dry.

"Nothing, it just wouldn't be realistic to the story. It's war, it's famine, it's rape… these things happen."

"Please tell me this will have a happy ending, though… I wouldn't bear it if Zana never found her brother again, or if Lara was forced to stay in that rape prison the rest of her life..."

"Hmm, I think you'll like chapter ten, mum." Hermione could almost imagine her mother dead-panning for a second, her clever blue eyes going wide like a child making a life-altering discovery.

"It had better, Hermione Jean, or you'd never hear the end of your mother's pharaonic ranting!" She heard her father exclaim in the background. "By the way, darling, I'm at chapter three myself, and I think you did a fantastic job describing the beautiful maze that is Sarajevo… As you know, mum and I were there doing volunteer work that summer you spent with Granny in France."

"Yes, I remember quite well, dad. How are things at your end?"

"Oh, splendid! We just booked our tickets and hotel for Christmas and New Year's in Thailand with our friends! You remember the Tanners and the Dominguez's, right?" Hermione's heart sank at his words and the utter excitement in them as well. She could hear her mother scolding him in the background for letting the truth slip out.

"You're going to bloody Thailand? So the tickets I bought from London to Madrid and from Madrid to Menorca should go into the rubbish bin, then?"

"Darling…" Her father tried to interject, to no avail.

"Am I so terrible a daughter that you don't even want my company for the holidays? Couldn't you wait a few days after to go on your little trip to Thailand? I planned my entire schedule around visiting you both in Spain for Christmas, I've bought your gifts and written your cards already… I even got a new dress! Well, I appreciate the notice, mum and dad, you're both positively splendid" Hermione hung up before she could listen to any of their lame excuses, her heart racing and the familiar breathless feel of tears threatening to fall overcoming her.

Not even her mum and dad wanted her. How utterly fucked up her life had turned out… Hermione turned around, her eyes falling on a picture of her parents on their wedding day that hung on the wall. She pulled it from its nail and threw it halfway across the living room, where it crashed against the wooden floor, the glass shattering into hundreds of pieces. With angry tears pouring out of her eyes Hermione pulled her bright red coat from its hook by the door and opened it, marching in the direction of the local pub, the strong rain drenching her from head to toe, washing away any evidence of her tears.

As she sat on the shabby high stool of the local Irish pub, Hermione decided that the worst part of this whole ordeal was that she'd be forced to accept her cousin Fabian's invitation to spend Christmas with him in Paris. Any person would be happy with such a 'saving grace', but to Hermione, it meant the company of not only her cousin but also of a terrifying boa constrictor and being forced to eat fucking Vegan French food. Hermione loved her parents, really did, but right now she loathed the very thought of their big, frigid, selfish English arses. So, she downed what consisted of half a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey.

The following afternoon Hermione found herself seated on the Eurostar train headed for Paris. Only time could tell if the BBC would approve of her idea for the documentary series, and God how she hoped they did. In a day and age where leprosy was seen as a disease of the past, seldom heard of anymore, few people had the interest to know its true impact on people of the past. It wasn't something that attracted interest or attention like the Black Plague, nor was it a common trope in romantic literature, such as tuberculosis, to separate two lovers for all eternity… Even though leprosy did, in the cruelest and humiliating ways.

When Hermione first came across the novel "The Island" by Victoria Hislop, she didn't imagine falling so deeply into the rabbit hole of human survival in the midst of disease. Her former projects had all spoken of war and the people who against all odds made a difference or pulled through those difficulties. Though the history of the Greek people who were exiled due to being victims of leprosy wasn't not a war story, it was much, much more than that and Hermione had a deep desire to share it all with the world.

She leaned against the glass pane of the fast train that would soon cross the English channel on the way to France, letting the cold surface relieve a bit of her migraine. She felt as though she'd made a fool of herself today at the BBC, dizzy, drunk, giggling like a madwoman when the subject was so important and serious to her heart. When she depended on their approval, funding, and good will to produce this large series that was her dream. She felt stupid, silly, she felt like an inconsequential teenage girl who hadn't been able to control her emotions and chose instead to drown in drink. This wasn't her at all, never had been. Hermione had never given herself time for this type of foolishness, not even at the height of her adolescence. She'd always been the serious, studious type, the girl that never got into trouble, never really went outside of her comfort zone. The good and obedient daughter, the straight-A student… She couldn't forgive herself for falling into those trappings at this day and age of her life. She was twenty-nine years old, not some irresponsible little girl. She'd gone against her very nature in the precise moment when she couldn't have…And goodness how she regretted it. Only time would tell indeed if she hadn't completely ruined everything.

Hermione's thoughts wandered to her cousin Fabian, her closest friend and the closest thing she had to a brother. They'd always stuck together despite their many differences and famous arguments. Fabian was just about everything Hermione was not. He was confident, fashionable, too charming for his own good and he'd inherited all of the good looks from their family gene pool. He had the perfect luscious and silky dark hair, mysterious blue-gray eyes the exact replicas of those of their movie-star grandmother, God rest her soul, and his smile was absolutely perfect and came so easily. Fabian was adventurous and carefree in a way that Hermione hadn't learned to be, never allowed herself to be, even if her lifestyle of constant traveling gave the impression of just those qualities. But no, Hermione was a planner and a worrier by nature… She didn't dive into projects or arrive in places without a plan, or better yet, without several different plans.

Fabian wouldn't bat an eye at her state this morning at the BBC, he'd say she was overreacting, for starters, and 'what was life without its trappings and adventures?', but Hermione wasn't like that, no matter how much she wished she was.

Despite this very truth about her nature, Hermione had to admit that there had been one day in her life, perhaps one of the happiest, where she'd allowed herself some respite and to worry not about times, schedules or the opinions of others, but rather a day in which the hours passed and she wished they never ended. A day where each step, each word, each second had been of surprise and of freedom, a day in a cold and snowy Vienna that many times felt more like the fabrications of her dreams. And she knew that all of that freedom and surprise were because of him, Harry, and because for once in her life she allowed herself to rest, to share with someone else, to lower her barriers… Just one magnificent, extraordinary, unforgettable day.

It was just after four when she arrived at the Gare du Nord in Paris, with an oversized backpack strapped on, on the verge of bringing her down under its weight. Hermione spotted her cousin Fabian immediately, and how could she not as he wore a fashionable burgundy-colored coat and waved towards her with perfectly coiffed brown locks and white teeth.

"Bunny! I missed you!" He cried out wrapping her in a tight hug which was typical of their family. Though Hermione had famously grown out of, or rather, managed to fix her large front teeth courtesy of mum and dad, the horrendous nickname had persisted through the years and it was all Fabian ever called her by. Despite their lifelong bickering, Hermione was genuinely fond of the idiot, disgusting vegan food, exotic animal kink and all.

"Trip went well, I hope?" Fabian asked, more out of politeness than desire for meaningless small talk as he in all his elegant glory dragged her out of the crowded and maddening station onto the streets of the city of lights.

"Quite, yes." Hermione didn't know what else to say. She still had a leftover headache from last night's little incident and she didn't feel at all like herself. This was certainly not the state of mind she'd wanted to be in when revisiting Paris, which was such a wonderful and nostalgic place in her heart.

She crossed the avenue, right behind her cousin, mentally cursing herself for going overboard and choosing to haul such an inconvenient piece of luggage. When they passed the familiar Métro sign she couldn't help but pay more attention to their surroundings, normally they'd go down the stairs to get on the tube to the 5th where Fabian had lived for the past three years.

"Where are we going exactly?" Fabian smiled and waved his hand with a flourish.

"My new flat, of course! I thought my mum told your mum and she told you…" Hermione shook her head.

"Mother dearest hasn't told me much lately, to be honest. And how do we get to your new flat?" Fabian laughed and motioned towards the row of electric bicycles lined up against the sidewalk. Hermione immediately sulked, her lips setting into a frown. She glared at him. "You're fucking kidding me! I'm calling a taxi…"

"Come on, I only live ten minutes away, your chubby legs won't fall off!"

"Fabian, my legs are not chubby. Fuck you, you blasted perfectly-coiffed git!" Fabian smiled brightly as if to rub it into her wounded pride and unlocked his vélo. "Couldn't you be a normal person and call a cab for your only cousin who has come all the way from England?"

"Oh, you mean a two-hour long odyssey?" He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I am not paying twenty euros to get you to my flat that is ten minutes away… Besides, I think you'd rather like the name of my new dwellings…"

"It's not Hermione street is it?"

"Oh, heavens no! That dreadful curse of a name…" She punched his arm as per tradition and he snickered, unlocking her own bike. "You know what, just to prove how much of an amazing cousin I am, I'm going to carry your hideous bag for you. Let's just hope no one sees me, all right? Don't want to taint my spotless reputation for good taste!"

They cycled through the tan buildings of Paris with their wrought iron balconies, passing the quaint little cafés with their outdoor seatings, people coming and going in their winter coats, scarves and hats. They passed the ancient Hôpital-Saint-Louis with its splendid walled gardens and Hermione now had a good idea where they were headed. Just as Fabian promised, ten minutes later they were halting in front of a Portuguese pastry shop that seemed to have come straight out of Hermione's dreams. The façade was painted a bright green and little Christmas lights of gold color shone in the exterior. She smiled hugely at the smell of sweet custard and cinnamon, thoughts of past trips to Lisbon momentarily coming to the forefront of her mind. The sign read 'Pastelaria Don'Antónia' and she knew it had potential for being her safe haven this holiday.

When Fabian turned to look at his cousin, dropping her backpack on the ground by the gray door that led up to his apartment building he saw a smile of contentment on his cousin's face, her chest heaving from the exertion of bike riding and her cheeks rosy from the cold winter air.

"What's the street name?" She asked him finally, having missed the street sign at the corner from where they'd passed.

"Rue de la Grange aux Belles…" He pronounced it in perfect and clear French, emphasizing each syllable for Hermione's benefit.

"Hmm, those sound oddly like our family names…" A smile played at the corner of her lips. "I didn't take you for the sentimental gestures type, cousin." He shrugged and couldn't help but chuckle as he searched his pockets for his set of keys.

"I was in between two flats and couldn't decide, so I let the name decide for me. Nothing happens without a reason, Hermione… I learned that the hard way. We need to learn how to read the universe's message to us and believe it!"

"Hmm, did the universe tell you it was wise to get yourself a four foot boa constrictor snake and have her share a bed with you? Careful Fabian, the universe could be wanting to get you killed!" he tsked her snarky response and laughed.

"Oh, dear and beloved Hermione, one day you'll wake up and not know what hit you…" With that, he finally unlocked the door and led her to the two flights of narrow stairs against dirty and stained walls up to his apartment.

Just three days later, not too far from the quaint charm of Paris' 10th arrondissement, Harry Potter sat with a plate of fresh hot pain au chocolat and a cup of steaming latte, on the outdoor black and white table of a new trendy café along Boulevard Saint Germain. His striking green eyes were watchful and sharp, examining his surroundings anxiously, observing the locals going about their day. He was especially vigilant for any signs of someone seeking to attack him in the broad daylight. The nervous looking young man wearing a tweed suit who was just about to cross the street didn't appear to be an expert killer, nor did the old lady walking her Chow Chow seem to be in a hurry to blast him with a curse either. Harry knew he had every reason to worry, but he was certain for all the experience he had with British Intelligence that no threats imposed upon him here and now.

Despite this, he couldn't help the bit of paranoia slowly invading his thoughts. Just 48 hours ago he and his long-time associate Peder Kvistad were in Constantine, Algeria tracking down a defector from a wizarding crime syndicate known to have stolen numerous dark artifacts used against muggles. The network of informants that had shared them the intelligence were triple-checked and had been confirmed accurate. They had even received a fire message establishing the rendezvous at the gorge under the Sidi M'Cid bridge. But something had gone wrong, the defector had ended up floating on the Rhummel river, dead before they could reach him. Both Harry and Peder were then overwhelmingly attacked at the meeting point and had barely escaped. The two of them left Constantine separately and agreed to reconvene in Paris before leaving for the French Guiana where all investigations were leading them to. All of that had transpired three days ago, and tonight would have been the date of their departure to Cayenne. Harry hadn't gotten any word from Peder until yesterday when the fellow agent left him a message at his hotel informing him of a new lead and saying he'd meet Harry the next day around half-past ten in the morning at the café. Well, an hour passed and Peder was late. Harry couldn't help but mentally curse the Scandinavian for delaying things.

He was finishing his breakfast when the bald, lanky café server approached him.

"Monsieur, a man told me to give you zis," The server spoke in heavily accented English, handing him a small rolled note. Harry was a bit reluctant but he took the note anyway. "He also said to tell you zese exactly: la albatross did fullow, and évairy dai, fair food and plai, came to le marinair's 'ullo!'" The server spoke with a confused look on his face. Peder had always used poetry as codes in sending messages via messenger to confirm that it was actually from him and not from someone pretending to be him. It was somehow also his way to educate Harry with Romantic era poetry, a great hobby of his. He had known in advance that the code was to be from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

"Merci," He thanked the server who then left with a nod. He quickly unrolled the note, which at first was empty until it slowly revealed the words as soon as it recognized Harry's magical signature.

I shot the ALBATROSS.

Jungle fever is delayed until tomorrow. Use the other way to get there. Rubbish could be monitored. Will contact you there.

P. K.

To any outsider, the note wouldn't make the least bit of sense, but to Harry it was perfectly clear: their trip to French Guiana was delayed and Harry would have to make the trip by Muggle means because portkeys might be monitored. He quickly vanished the note, realising now that he had yet another day in Paris, to do what exactly, only Merlin would know. Harry was never the tourist type and frankly he was sick of the food. He even had to convince the Head of the Auror Office, Timothy Lazenby, to give him this assignment instead of vacation leave. Christmas was coming up and even though Ron and most of the Weasley men had warmed up to him again, Mrs. Weasley still hadn't. Even after a year since the break up and despite Ginny dating the famous Falmouth Falcons beater Carwyn Pugh for several months now, the Weasley matriarch was still very disappointed in him. Harry didn't expect himself to be invited to any of her famed dinners anymore and being alone on Christmas was just plain lonely. It was better to be occupied with a mission rather than mope about with a bottle of Ogden's finest.

As he sat there, waiting for an idea to strike him, his thoughts wandered to the previous Christmas in Vienna, when he'd met the famous Hermione Granger. He couldn't help but smile wistfully as he recalled her utterly wild head of curls, the passion with which she spoke and the bit of arrogance and self-entitlement that turned out to be quite endearing. They had been two very lost and solitary souls, but somehow, despite all their differences, they had clicked. In the 350-something days that followed, Harry didn't recall smiling or laughing half as much as he did when with her and he even found that he missed her endless ramblings and her appetite for food, that seemed to reflect her very appetite for life and living itself.

A gust of wind suddenly made Harry shiver from the cold, it was December afterall. He took another sip of the latte he had charmed to remain hot. Seeing that the old man on his left was done with his newspaper, Harry asked in the little French he knew if he could borrow it. Fortunately, the man was an Australian expat who knew as little French as he did and gladly lent him his copy of a local English-language paper. Harry began to scan the pages, mostly seeking to kill time, not paying too much attention to muggle news. He was about to return it back to the Aussie when a small headline in the entertainment folder caught his attention and he double-checked just to make sure he wasn't crazy.

Local Events, Friday, December 23rd 2009 - Author Hermione Granger launches her new book in Paris

Join us today at the Shakespeare and Co. Reading Room with world-renowned and award-winning English journalist Hermione Granger celebrating the release of her new novel, 'Milk and Honey: a tale of love and courage amidst the Bosnian war'. The reading and Q&A begins at 5pm and the Q&A at 6:30 pm. Book purchase necessary. Limited slots only. First come, first serve. The bookshop is located at 37 rue de la Bûcherie, in the 5th Arrondissement.

Hermione Granger. Harry couldn't believe it as he put down the paper. He felt his heart palpitate not because of the caffeine he'd ingested but from a wonderful, inexplicable feeling. Suddenly, even more memories of that last Christmas came to him again like a montage being projected from a film reel. Harry was transported to that Christmas Eve, the best that he ever had. The quaint cafés, their tram ride, 'visiting' Mozart, apple strudels, Christmas punch, and of course, the highlight: the hazel-eyed brunette who should've been one of those people he'd cease to think of but instead had been plaguing his dreams for a year. It wasn't until this very moment that Harry realized just how much he longed to experience those moments all over again, to feel what he'd felt when Hermione was with him. Somehow, she had become synonymous to that Christmas feeling he never experienced as a kid. Granted, they had very little time but it had obviously been special. Harry had been certain he would never see her again, but now it seemed like he was given another chance.

He looked at the time on his watch and then asked for his bill. There was still time to go back to his hotel, freshen up, and make himself look more presentable before heading towards Shakespeare & Co. A huge, almost indecent smile was now etched on his face as he left the café, all of a sudden looking forward to the rest of his day.

...

It never occurred to Harry that Hermione Granger could actually be as famous as she'd claimed to be back in Vienna, at least not until he arrived at a very crowded Shakespeare & Co at precisely 5:30 pm. He intended to arrive much earlier, but upon leaving his hotel, he'd realised he ran out of muggle money and so he had to rush into Wizarding Paris to have his Galleons changed to Euros. After that he'd gotten lost and it took him a while before finding the correct subway line that would stop near 37 rue de la Bûcherie. He wasn't the best of navigators without magic, and his lack of fluency in French only made matters worse.

Now, he stood in front of the iconic yellow and green shopfront with a photo of an ancient looking man in between the words 'Shakespeare and Co', a long queue of avid readers extending beyond the front. It seemed Hermione's books appealed to almost all ages, as he observed the amount of young adults, middle-aged and elderly people standing in line. The display at the front had a small poster of Hermione's book and the details of the event. After a good twenty minutes or more he was finally able to enter the shop, greeted by abstract mosaic tiles on the floor and a warren of narrow passageways lined by numerous shelves filled with colourful spines of books. It felt ironically just as cramped as it felt huge. Harry wasn't at all a bookworm, but he had already felt positively overwhelmed, curious to run his fingers along the spines and take in the titles, covers and words printed inside the tomes… Because he was clueless as where to begin, he approached the cashier area which was being manned by a tall red-headed woman.

"Uh, bonsoir!" He greeted. "...er...parlez-vous anglais?" He knew his French wasn't good but he tried. Good thing the cashier understood his butchering of their beautiful language and was kind enough to even smile.

"Yes, I do, sir. How may I help you?" The red-headed answered in perfectly pronounced English.

"I was hoping to attend Hermione Granger's event? I'm aware that it started a while ago..." He casually pointed at the poster on the front display.

"Ah yes, she just wrapped up the reading and Q&A and will be starting the book signing. Let me check first, Monsieur, we should still have some copies in English." She said, leaving her station to find one. It only took her a couple of minutes to get a copy and then hand it out to Harry. "That will be 16€, Monsieur."

Harry counted his muggle money before handing it out to the cashier. "The signing is held at the Reading Room, just go through there." She gestured towards the back.

"Ah, splendid, thank you!" He replied, getting his change and following her instructions. He felt overwhelmingly excited suddenly, as it dawned on him that they were once again in such close proximity, that just around the corner he would come face to face with her again. As there were still at least twenty people queued in front of him he decided to try and busy himself by reading the synopsis at the back of the book, becoming amused with the fact that Hermione had written a romance book. Harry didn't know what to make of it to be honest, he'd expected some non-fiction book about a certain untold historical event, something uncomfortably dense and academic, but it seemed like she had written something much more enticing, if also depressing. He opened the first few pages, out of curiosity, of course. It was the usual title pages, which he skipped, until the dedication page just before the start of chapter one caught his eye. A smile dawned at his face upon reading her words and realizing they were meant for him, Harry, of all people.

To James, my favorite Secret Agent and the apple strudels of Vienna.

Minutes later, a man who seemed to be an employee directed him to the last part of the line. Harry craned his neck, trying to take a peek of Hermione but the room was small and she was entirely crowded by chattering fans. He decided to just relax his almost stiff neck muscles and to keep on waiting until it was his turn. The wait was excruciating, though, so he decided to dive into the book.

Half an hour later, there were only two people in front of him. While he had been lining up, he took the liberty of skimming through a few pages, the contents of which made even a more liberal and sexually experienced bloke like him turn red. He chuckled to himself, hoping he'd be able to tease her mercilessly once his turn came.

"Next, please!" Someone announced and Harry realized he was the one being called. The suspense of it all made him squirm. It had felt like the time when he was called to take his N. E. W. T. s. He approached the small table where a bearded, gray-haired man was assisting Hermione. The man took Harry's book and passed it to her. Harry didn't see her face yet as her head was bowed down, focusing on the page that was opened for her. She then angled her face a bit and it let him study her profile. She still hadn't looked up at him. Her brown hair looked longer and less bushy than the last time he'd seen her. Her lovely hazel eyes still looked the same but there was something in them... He could see a spark of upset and disappointment. Something was wrong and it seemed like only he had noticed. Perhaps he could ask later when they weren't surrounded by people, if she even had the time, that was.

"Bonsoir, ça va? Would you like a dedication?" Hermione finally spoke, breaking his observation. Her voice was too polite, it didn't sound natural to his ears, or rather, like the Hermione he remembered from Vienna. She was playing along with the black felt tip pen she was holding with her right hand, tapping it on the page. Harry grew silent for a bit, suddenly feeling silly and starstruck. He had indeed practiced what he was going to say but it all immediately evaporated from his mind. Suddenly, remembering her dedication, he cleared his throat and said, "If you could please write 'To 007, I owe you some pastries. From Hermione… Moneypenny."

"Excuse me, what–" She'd finally looked up and upon realizing it was him, gasped loudly. The man beside her was asked if something was wrong and if she needed a break but she blatantly ignored him, as she stared at Harry shaking her head. And there was that shine again, in her eyes, little specks of gold swimming in brown. Her eyes scanned him from head to toe as she rose from her chair, a part of her not believing it was him. Harry just grinned at her, crinkling the corners of his emerald eyes from behind his glasses.


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