I just saw this fic mentioned on a facebook page, so I know there's a lot of people reading it. My request is that you leave a trace here as well. Put yourself in my shoes: what would you do if your hard work received just one or two lines? (I've been about to drop this translation a couple of times. Don't worry, I'm translating at least till the reveal. But I'll do it much slower if I don't get reviews to actually motivate me.)

Bastet and other goddesses

Feet apart, shoulders at the same height, protectors over her ears, the right arm outstretched, its hand holding the gun, while the other keeps the first steady. The coach seems half restless, half pleased with her posture. Pleased, because he has taught her and Hermione is always exemplary and quick for a student. Restless, because she is a foreigner, and though strictly speaking she is allowed here, the employee hasn't missed that she's not exactly a guest.

But pleased because he likes her. Hermione has noticed it in the thousand ways he has been slightly too nice, a millimetre too close. The auror has registered it, not paying much attention. Merlin knows her life is a bit too crowded with romance.

She aims and shoots, hitting the dummy too far from the centre of the target. It's not that different from a wand, but it is different. Why English Aurors don't train with guns, she wouldn't know; she doesn't like to cause pain, but in battle there is always pain, and not always a wand to direct it properly.

Never mind.

She feels the burst of the machine every time she presses the trigger, and with each shot, some tension dissipates or adjusts to the appropriate muscles, to the stance; her body, adapting to the new tool. Another shot, and the recoil forces her to readjust. Another shot. Her ears don't suffer, but the burst still resonates through her bones. Another shot, and another, and another, in rapid succession. A kind of blind exultation, spreading through her body.

The next bullets don't miss.

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The dungeons, green-black, loom around them. Hermione and the girl walk through corridors filled with meandering and occasionally winged images, reptilian in any case. It doesn't help her peace of mind, a mind already rushing from a conspiracy theory to another; she even ponders getting the kids out of school, then tells herself she's being ridiculous. She watches Rose putting her ear against the third classroom door to assess its availability before daring peek inside and signal to her mother. Just as she's about to enter, the sudden appearance of a black cat makes her squeak, but it just takes a look at them and leaves the empty room first.

"Look, maybe I'm exaggerating," the girl begins, "but Anne is acting very strange."

Rose shifts from a foot to another, wringing her hands. Hermione hasn't seen that particular reaction except in cases of drastic drop in grades, and even then, only once –not that it's a common happenstance, Rose earning less than perfect marks. Anne isn't even that close to Rose, is she? The books levitate toward a nearby desk and fall with a loud bang and the youngest flinches and looks back, on edge. Eventually, she continues. "She runs off with… boys. Yesterday she was with one in the bedroom, and she wouldn't let me in" slight pink tints the girl's cheeks, revealing her suspicions, and Hermione quickly decides to forbid any extra contact between the roommates. The last thing she needs is her 13 years old having pregnancy scares.

"She wasn't like that, really," the daughter emphasizes vehemently. "And the boys ... I was coming from the Great Hall and I ran into a fight. I didn't quite understand, but it seems that Art had brought a basket from the kitchen and two boys were fighting over it."

"Arthur?"

"He just backed off. He seemed as surprised as I was. The whole school is going crazy."

Hermione scrutinizes her. The distress is real, and Hermione has a bad feeling. Rose has never been hysterical. Still, it doesn't seem rational to worry about quarrels and randy teenagers. Such things require no magical explanation. She puts an arm around the girl's shoulders and draws her close, resting her chin on her fiery –red and bushy- hair. Through the window she sees the wind shaking the foliage of the Forbidden Forest, spring colours in the middle of autumn. Hogwarts...

"I trust you" she says empathically. "How do you think we should act?"

"I dunno, mom."

"If you feel uncomfortable here…"

"Of course not! It's Hogwarts, mom! I've been wanting to be here since I have been able to want anything!"

"Still, if you feel unsafe…"

"No! It's just… It's weird, but not… Nothing like your stuff…"

Hermione swallows hard and looks into the girl's eyes before leaving it clear.

"I don't want you anywhere close to a troll or a psycho, Rose. Me and your dad… we were very lucky. The odds of you existing… Don't wait until you have to face anything remotely similar before calling for backup. Please. You still have the coin?"

Rose pats her pocket reassuringly which does soothe her, though it would still be admittedly a long while between her being warned of a danger and getting to her daughter, but if there's ever another Chamber of Secrets… well, let's say there wouldn't be time to drain her entire life force, and it'd be almost funny if anyone tried, just to see his face as the full Golden Trio burst into the place. For good measure each member of the trio has asked their favourite ghosts, elves and portraits to keep an eye on the children. They are the Safest Five. Still…

"I've heard of a club?"

"A club" the teenager asks, not avoiding her gaze in the least.

"I have no more info" she can't tell her about the Ministry, even speaking about Luna isn't really appropriate.

There's silence. Rose probably senses she's not being given all the data.

"I don't get it. Do you want me to join or something?"

"No! No, Rose, not at all, I'm just curious."

"Well, I don't know, they haven't invited me. Should I ask Hugo?"

"No, I don't want him to worry. Or well... maybe… I don't know if it's good, try to stay out of it" the mother cuts; Hugo hasn't spent a month in Hogwarts. "Just… just keep your eyes open, okay?" She hesitates, but her previous reasoning doesn't hold up against the possibility of leaving the girl at Hogwarts without warning or shelter. "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but there was an attack near the Forbidden Forest. Oh, nothing serious," she assures her, trying to soothe the alarm she reads in the girl's expression, "perhaps one of Hagrid's pets –stay away from Aragog's children, please-. Just be careful. You and your cousins and your brother, stick together."

"All right. Are you waiting for Hugo?"

The auror stares at the clock.

"Probably. But I'll have to wait until the next class is over. Do you happen to know what comes next in his schedule?" The girl shakes her head. "All right, I'll just ask a professor or something. Get the message to him all the same, in case he needs a reminder. But you already have to run to your next class. I'm so sorry I kept…"

"Don't worry, mom" the teenager rolls her eyes at her. "It's not as if I saw you every day.

"Which one is it?"

"Charms"

Well, at least it's not Astronomy the lioness ponders, calculating the time it'll take her to get to the second floor.

"Flitwick knows I'm here. He'll let you in. Can't guarantee the points, though. Rush."

One last hug, and the girl grabs her books and runs to the door. As usual, she has not remembered her birthday.

Now with hours to kill before her son's next class, Hermione figures Hagrid might know something after all, living on the edge of the forest; few wizards know it like he does. And a visit is long overdue.

The cabin, from afar, looks inviting, perhaps because of all the green around it. The former student does not remember that much green having been there ever before. The cabin itself is covered in vines, crawling across the roof and down, all around the windows and inside through them. The door is ajar, but Hermione knocks anyway. As she awaits, she stares at the garden, whose giant pumpkins appear twice the size of her third-year ones.

"Come"

The place is a little different from the one she remembers. Her gaze goes first to the table, there's a silver frog on a rock in a basin of water; the liquid follows the animal's movements as if magnetically attracted to it. To one side, the traditional tin of treacle toffees. On the other side –Hermione has to look twice to grasp what she sees –a terrarium full of Billywigs.

"Hermione?"

A stare at the half-giant's expression, and she foresees bone crunching hugs with an accuracy Trelawney never had; with auror reflexes she places herself strategically on the other side of his furniture.

"So long, Hagrid." She smiles.

The man's eyes are suspiciously wet as he looks about to tell her how much she has grown in the last year.

"An' Harry?" he adds, looking hopefully at the door. They always come together.

"Back in America. We couldn't leave the Minister completely alone. Ron" she clarifies.

There is a strange, musical, warped sound, and Hermione starts, her hand flying to the wand holder until she traces its origin to the amphibian's open mouth.

"I've never seen a frog like that one," she mentions.

"Nor me, nor Charlie fer tha' matter. Luna says 's a lunar frog. " Hermione's skepticism fades as she looks at the animal again. "A lot o' life, around here, these days; as in spring, jus' better. Animals tha' nobody had seen in a long time, comin' out by the dozens. I'd swear I saw a Re'em the other day. A Re'em!" he laughs. "In Scotland!" Still the man's gaze strays once more to the door, before his hands like trash can lids make a gesture, inviting her to come closer. As she moves to oblige, Hermione's gaze wander to the basket that once belonged to the late Fang. Then she does a retake and immediately begins to retreat.

"Hagrid?" she asks, the voice trembling. "Is that a chimaera?"

"Eh?" A distracted Hagrid follows her gaze. "Ah, sure. A domestic one" he adds with an indifferent gesture.

"Hagrid," she calls again, her voice a little more cracked; her gaze never leaving the beast, that meets her eyes with her sand-colored, impassive ones, "that is classified with five crosses. It casts fire, and you still live in a wooden house."

" 's a domestic chimaera," Hagrid repeats slowly, as if talking to a child. " 's jus' a cat, see?"

The head seems to be halfway between cat and lioness, but the tail is quite Mushu-like, and Hermione wonders, once again, how safe her children are in this school.

"I'd never seen one in the Forbidden Forest" the big man continues nonchalantly, "but yeh know, no one knows it completely, an' these days anything may appear there," big hands move in the air, the fingers spread, illustrating.

"You must report it to the ministry."

"Oh, 's on'y temporary," the half-giant assures her with a nervous laugh. "She's small, an' was alone, the poor thing, someone might have hunted the mother. I couldn' leave it there ter die."

The tail spits fire towards the cat's ear; this one shakes it, not paying attention. Chimaera and witch stare at each other. Hermione notices the big eyes and the plump cheeks. It is a puppy. A dangerous one. Suddenly the animal rises to its feet and the auror steps back instinctively.

"Where are you releasing it?"

She sounds almost hysterical. She can't shake the images of Hugo in the Forbidden Forest stumbling upon a legendarily-sized chimaera.

"Motherless domestic chimaeras don' adjust ter the forest well."

"You're not releasing it?!"

"I had thought it'd be a good gift" he sounds hesitant.

Hermione's gaze shifts to Hagrid briefly before returning to the beast; it's enough to register a shyness that can't be a good herald. 'Oh. No, no, no…'

"Yer birthday… 's today isn' it?"

She bites the inside of her cheek, hard, barely controlling the impulse to tell him what she thinks of this particular birthday gift. The big man, obviously misinterpreting it, is smiling as if he was gifting her a Gringotts vault.

"I figured yeh'd love it. She's pure Gryffindor, she is" he nods, disregarding the Slytherin tail, though Hermione supposes no Slytherin would really consider taking home a beast like this. "Besides, she's adorable ain' she? Not as different from Crooks if yeh look at her properly.

Hermione looks at her properly. Whatever similarity he finds, she doesn't.

Finally, she finds in herself control enough to reason:

"Hagrid, I'm an auror. I have missions and training and…" she feels dizzy as she remembers the survival training the duet has been postponing the whole year, with the excuse of the kids; well, they're in school now, at any point in the next four months they'll find themselves kidnapped and taken to the wildness and she'll be alone in the forest with Harry and she cannot… must not… look forward to it, things being as they are… "I can't take care of a kitten, forget a goat and a dragon…"

"Oh, it'll be easy" his hands swing in the air, discarding. "Yeh managed Grawp. Minnie can' be harder. She's a smart one, she is. Leave food enough an' she'll even feed herself."

"Assuming she doesn't eat the neighbour."

"They don' like human flesh."

"The neighbor's rat."

"Well," Hagrid laughs, one hand on his bulging belly, like a strange Santa, "tha''s an issue with any cat."

"Or the neighbor's dog or cow. How big does one of these grow?"

Hagrid has approached the animal carelessly and is stroking the goat's back. The dragon narrows its eyes happily. Crazy. The thing fits in one of his hands, which isn't saying much.

"Her size is almost tha' o' an adult," he says. "Youth is on'y evident in the whiskers, see?"

"To secure permission from the ministry for a familiar like this one is a nightmare."

"Come on, it won' be tha' bad. How can they deny anything ter a Hermione Granger?"

Hermione is about to bark at him that being from the Golden Trio isn't worth much twenty years later, that she wouldn't use it to have a pet anyway, and that she certainly isn't going to use her marriage for this, but she holds back. She'd rather remove the monster from the children's environment without getting Hagrid into trouble. Even if she doesn't know what to do with it afterward. Sighing, she realizes that means she's leaving without warning Hugo or going back to check on Luna's case.

"Minnie?" she imagines a pink bow on the chimaera's timeless head. 'Bastet would be better' she figures, then shakes her head.

"You don't like it? You can always rename her..."

'Oh, other things I'd change...'

The half-giant's forlorn expression makes her sigh. But how to comfort him.

The chimaera leaps down from the old dog's bed and jumps onto the chair, the table, onto the sideboard –which creaks under its weight–. It approaches its reluctant mistress, paying no heed to her pathetic attempts to back away without fleeing. Sandy eyes fixate on brown ones with a kind of enigma. As with hippogriffs, Hermione tries not to blink. She vaguely acknowledges that, despite her panic attack - understandable considering the threat posed by chimaeras - the animal is much smaller than a horse.

The beast does have an expression but it's hard to read. All in all, it seems smart in that particular way of sphinxes. It also seems to her that the creature, despite Hagrid's affection, feels deeply lonely.

She doesn't want to like the beast.

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Sitting on the ground, her arms around her knees, Hermione studies the chimaera, while it chases its tail. Animal sport takes on a new meaning with a dragon for an appendix. Lying on its back, the creature raises its front paws towards the dragon, that comes mockingly close to reach and sticks its tongue out in a kind of animal laugh. The auror notices how the chimaera gradually changes colour, from the light brown of its ears to the vague green on the scales of its tail, the tone similar to that of a leafy sea dragon.

Her stomach clenches, conflict suffocating her again. She's supposed to be with Harry on the other side of the world. Her partner needs her. Thinking of what might go wrong at any given second makes her want to throw up. Permanently. Panic attacks come in waves. But how was she supposed to ignore the –additional- dangerous presence near Hogwarts, near her children that are so far from reach? Now she's stuck with the thing. What to do with it? Travel? It's hard to get the permission even for a familiar, and this one is not even registered as hers.

'Enough' she resolves, and by sheer force of will she puts herself under control and sets to actually solve what preoccupation alone won't.

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Ron utters a muttered protest as his cloak tangles around him. Duham, who just finished hanging hers, stiffens, quite obviously stifling an eye roll and a shake of her head, as she raises her wand to help her employer. Harry looks up from the drink he's pouring each of them.

It has been a long day, all the longer because he has had so much to ponder. Now with permission to recognize the basilisk in the room -the flirtation, the possibility of something else- everything in his routine has changed, or at least his vision of it has. He has become more aware, more careful, as his mind prepares to make a life-changing decision.

Duham.

The possibility seems so foreign. The very idea of someone in his life outside of Ginny and Hermione, seems out of orbit, and dangerous as an asteroid on the loose. The implications on all of his personal and work relationships, on his public persona, the media impact, are almost endless, to the point that he has had to lay foundations even to deliberate about it. His relationship with Hermione… Frankly, there is nothing he fears more than to destroy it. It's too precious. However, this could be just the thing to save it from her conscience and his... though had he had a saying he would have preferred Duham to be less into their circle.

Still, how could someone so similar to his Hermione come from anywhere but their circle?

They could work, he knows. Everything is there: the protectiveness, the mutual admiration. And it gets noticed. The foreigners, less familiar with the speculations surrounding the Golden Trio, have fabricated their own, and Harry hasn't missed the looks he and his trainee get as they walk together: tender smiles from the secretary, mischievous looks from the aurors his age, gestures of spite or envy to one or the other. Bottom line: they are assumed to be a couple and make a nice pair, on top of it, whatever the particular subject's reaction to the fact.

And the sexual attraction is undeniable. His latest dream flashes in his mind: the thin, curvy, slippery teenage body writhing in his arms, eyes closed and lips parted with pleasure; his own hands tangled in brown locks… An electric current runs down his spine, and the wizard turns, hiding his reaction. Chemistry? That's not even close.

But a teenager, he is no longer, and prudency prevails. This simply cannot go wrong. Harry is not a one-night-stand kind of guy, and Duham's heart must be protected as well, it's not just Hermione having his head if he doesn't: his conscience won't let him alone either. He must be sure of his own motivations.

They almost miss the floo.

"Harry, Ron."

The redhead crouches in front of the fireplace and Duham, behind him, raises her hand in greeting. It takes the auror a bit longer to return his thoughts to the hidden drawer of his mind where they belong; when he kneels by the other pillar, in the place instinctively reserved for him, his eyes are clear and his expression neutral, though he can see Hermione noticed the lapse.

Other things take precedence, though:

"I can't be there at midnight," the lioness says succinctly, "I'm sending Edgard with Hunter to take over. International Magical Relations is already working on it..."

"We can manage alone."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," Hermione protests, "how are you going to be alert for thirty-six hours straight."

"You know what a diplomatic nightmare it'll be to send someone else," Duham intervenes. "Let us deal with it, it won't be the first time."

"For you, it will," the auror scolds.

"Hey, I can protect myself!" All eyes focus on Ron, making the colour of his skin match that of his hair. "Until you arrive, I can."

Hermione presses her lips in a line, her gaze moving from one to the other, doubtful.

"What happened?"

"Hagrid," she summarizes, rolling her eyes. "He picked up another lost cause" and after a pause, she realizes she has no words for this and steps aside instead with a: "You'll not believe it".

The others cross a gaze and both males simultaneously dive into the magical fire, so there's smacking (added to the nausea) and Ron's head comes through cursing. Harry feels acutely the lack of a hand to rub his forehead, until Hermione's profile, her skirt, the knees coming out of it, the reminder of Hogwarts, simply become too distracting. His partner is looking away from him, to something to her back, but before he shakes off the stupor and thinks of following her gaze, Duham's head emerges from under the other two in time to yell in chorus with Ron:

"A domestic chimera!"

Now following everyone else's gaze, Harry sees the feline sprawled across the carpet like a royal with whiskers. It manages to look childish and elegant. Occasionally, as if by accident, it raises a paw and tosses aside a ball of yarn. He doesn't see anything peculiar about it until its tail spits fire.

"Tell me it's not a Skrewt," Harry pleads.

"No, these are smart," Ron explains excitedly. "They used to be the legendary Wizarding Kings' familiars. Worth a fortune, even when they weren't endangered."

"The domestic chimaeras are amazing," Duham interrupts, "and incredibly rare; I had never seen one. Can we keep it, Mia?"

"Still, it's a four crosses," the older sister continues, with a disapproving look. "I couldn't leave her at Hogwarts, with the kids" she emphasizes the last word, looking at her husband in such a way that it might just as well blow a hole in his forehead.

"Please," Ron begs, "come on, they are genius! Perfect to protect the family..."

Harry withdraws from the flu, hoping to at least travel back without new bumps. A second later, Ron's neck regains its owner. Between them, Duham comes out, missing Ron's chin by millimeters.

"Okay," Harry interjects, once Hermione's head has reappeared in the fire. "Have you asked Charlie about the options?"

Hermione nods and adds:

"There doesn't seem to be a refuge for these."

"How did you know of these and Hermione didn't?" Ron interrupts, looking from a sister to the other.

"As you yourself said" the auror justified herself, "domestic chimeras are virtually extinct, so books favour speaking of the most common kind, as to alert people of them. That if you see one, run."

They all focus on the youngest sister, who shrugs.

"Always liked magical creatures."

"Did you ask at the Ministry?" Harry goes back to topic.

"I was there until closing time, filling out paperwork," she explains, pissed off.

Bureaucracy, available in all worlds.

"What if you leave her with your parents?"

They all look at Ron as if two extra heads had popped out of his neck.

"They don't have magic, Ron," the auror explains patiently, "how are they going to deal with such a dangerous magical creature?"

"Mom and Dad are tough," Duham joins. "They'll love it."

"Hermione" Ron insists, "they're domestic. They don't hurt the master's family."

The auror looks as if she was about to scold him, but she restrains herself.

"Your opinion is duly noted, Ron," she returns diplomatically, "let's get back to the matter at hand."

"Don't come till you're ready," Harry concludes. "We can handle this".

And yet, minutes later, it becomes apparent that they can't.

"Absolutely not."

"I'm not asking for your opinion," the redhead replies.

"I'm not asking for yours. You know very well that if Hermione was here, you wouldn't dare bring it up."

"You're not the boss here, Harry. Not anymore."

The Minister is leaning into a defensive, almost animalistic position, in response not so much to the -understandable- insistence of who is not only his escort, but also his friend, as to the old resentment regarding his fame. Harry has enough experience to realize that there is no way around this. How he wishes Hermione wasn't on the other side of the world. He doesn't have her cold blood.

"You have a death wish or what?!"

"I am perfectly capable…!"

"… totally hostile place!"

"… major reasons…!"

"What reason can…?!"

"Enough!"

The voice is similar enough to Hermione's –and they are conditioned enough to respond to this one- that they do shut up and turn, heads slightly bent, towards the young woman who doesn't seem at all intimidated by two male fighters twice her age and several times her superiors.

"Minister," she says, head held high, "I have no idea of what's in your mind. We are perfectly capable of standing in attention for a couple of days, and we can't rest with you out of the residence" Harry's about to smile his 'I told you so' when she adds: "But you are right in that you are the boss. We trust you to behave as such..."

"Duham! I'm not letting him go by himself…!"

"Auror," she addresses him, her voice softening, "we need to trust the Minister to know what he's doing."

As Harry leans towards his apprentice, the Minister leaves the room slamming the door. Duham throws himself in Harry's path, effectively obstaculizing his chase.

"Enough," she says.

"What are you doing?! We can't let him go alone!"

"We cannot kidnap him. We're supposed to trust him."

"Can't you see he's going to his death...?"

"He's a war veteran as well."

"Twenty years ago, he happened to be in a war! He hasn't trained a day!"

"We have to trust him."

"I'm flooing Hermione."

"Don't you think she has quite enough to deal with?"

Harry tries to pass her, but she steps in his path once again, putting a hand to his chest.

"That's enough, Harry," she repeats.

He looks at the door, already knowing it's too late.

"I know it worries you," Duham adds. "But he'll be fine. Really."

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The ham is slightly green, and there's no time to defrost the meat.

"What do domestic chimaeras eat anyway?" she asks herself aloud as she looks to the creature.

According to some texts, it can answer. Hermione highly doubts it. But if it did, she can't think of a better motivation than food to bring it out. And apart from looking into her eyes enigmatically, the chimaera doesn't respond at all. Another confirmation that data regarding domestic chimaeras seems to come entirely from the realm of the mythological. She's sure a whole hippogriff cannot fit in that stomach, for example. A part of the scholar is ashamed of the itching of her fingers, eager to grab a blog and write down a full study of the creature's behaviour.

Sighing, she opens a can of meatballs -and cuts herself in the process- and rummages in the cupboard for a plastic bowl. Being alone is a rare enough happenstance, she can't remember the last time it happened, so she can't be bothered to cook. Usually, she'd much rather enjoy the luxury of extra time. Now she's simply exhausted and slightly sick. She pours the entire can into the bowl and sets aside a portion for her. Only then does she grab the wand in her left hand to awkwardly cast the healing spell. The burning of the wound anchors her. She returns, a plate in each hand, and...

"No! No, no, no!"

The chimaera is eating something that moves. If it's a mouse or an insect, Hermione doesn't want to know. Whatever it is, it's on her sofa, expertly immobilized under delicate claws that somehow manage to look as the hand of a lady having a cup of tea with her pinky raised.

"Bastet!" She shouts, anguished, not knowing what order to give next. The chimaera stares at her, sphinx-like, sandy eyes focused on her. Serene. Hermione's gaze is drawn to the paws; she still cannot distinguish what's it eating. "Bugs are not food!" She yells, frustrated.

The animal swallows the remains of whatever she had been consuming, before approaching the bowl the woman left on the floor, smelling snobbishly, and turning its tail towards it.

Hermione would scream in frustration, but she's supposed to be the adult.

"Too good for you, princess?" she asks.

The chimaera is licking (cleaning?) its paws. The auror magically wipes the couch several times before letting herself fall on it with a sigh and reaching for the book on the coffee table. "Myths and where to find them" is one of the few books including domestic chimaeras she could locate in such a hurry, untrustworthy as a source but quite amusing if read as fiction; she's past that and on a chapter regarding chaos elementals. Without taking her eyes off the book, she attacks her plate.

She's trying to ignore as much the creature as her worries, which explains that upon returning to the kitchen she's almost surprised to find it under the sink. Does she want to know what it's licking off the ground?

Then she remembers it anyway: her own blood.

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What do you think of Bastet? Should we keep her? And what of Harry? Where do you think Ron went?

Review, please? Even a smiley would make my day.