If people were unhappy with Hermione last chapter, I'm pretty sure you'll be unhappy now as well. I have a feeling that asking those folks to be patient and let the story unfold will fall on deaf ears. But I still have hope... so be patient. Also, unless otherwise indicated, they will be speaking in French in this story. I will indicate if Hermione switches back to English, but assume from this point forward that all dialogue is actually in French.

The first year she had left Britain had truly been the hardest. She had been coming apart at the seams when she'd arrived in France and she had been so unbelievably lost. It felt at the time like everything that made her who she was had been set on fire and left to burn. Doing a runner the way she did had been a move made out of pure desperation and she wasn't yet sure if it had been a good idea or a bad one. But the one thing that got her through was her son; perhaps the only decision she made back then that was objectively rational and sane.

It had been seven years since she'd left. Much had happened in that time. She had just completed her Master's Degree in Art History. In January she would take up her new post in the Research Department of the Louvre while she worked towards her PhD. At the moment she was being mentored by one of the more experienced researchers who was helping her with her final thesis. The new post came with a huge pay raise. She was officially salaried. Beyond all that, the opportunity to study great works of art at close range was truly an honor. Right now they were examining and preparing to restore a recently rediscovered da Vinci painting and she couldn't be more excited.

The biggest change, of course, was her son... he had given her the purpose she'd been looking for. From the moment she held him in her arms her world had changed, titled on its very axis. He was born with his father's dark hair but with her olive complexion as if he'd taken a bit from both his father and his mother as some kind of compromise. He was beautiful and perfect... he was her everything. Nothing else mattered.

It would have been hard to juggle a job and being a student with a young son, but she was fortunate that little Rémi had no shortage of volunteers to watch him. From the gay couple that owned the bookstore Émile had once worked at to the majority of their friends (all of whom Rémi had blessed with the appellation of Tante or Oncle) and, of course, Madame Broussard, who Rémi regarded as a grandmother - going so far as to call her Mémé, a more casual word for grandmère. She was supremely grateful to Émile and Nathalie, who had taken her in and treated her like family.

From the moment she'd met Émile, she had thought of him as the older brother she always wanted. And she knew Émile felt similarly. He was the youngest brother in a family with four older sisters and he'd often told her how he wished for a younger sibling. Emma fit the role nicely. Not to mention Nathalie, who hadn't minded taking in another child, with the bonus of getting her own grandchild to boot. They'd given her so much while asking for very little in return (contrived two year marriage plan with subsequent hilariously amusing divorce notwithstanding) and were integral in granting her a new start.

Rémi had begun kindergarten this year, which had been hard for Emma personally. Sure, he'd been to daycare when he was very young and when he turned three she'd sent him to pré-maternelle, which was the French version of preschool. But this was different - It was the beginning of her realization that her son was really growing up.

She had visions of her time in primary school, which was not a happy experience. His father hadn't said much about his life outside Hogwarts, but from what little he'd told her he painted a very bleak picture as well. She didn't want that for her son. So she was terrified when she'd sent him off, worried about what would happen, if he'd be happy. There was no surprise he'd like school itself, he was her son, after all. It was just the making friends bit that made her anxious.

She needn't have worried. With his mother's smarts and his father's curiosity and knack for mischief - well, in short order he had a small group of tight knit friends. Those three traits were a very powerful combination.

The third day in school and he'd made a classmate quack like a duck for the whole rest of the day because he'd made fun of his new friends, Chloé and her twin brother Adrian who came from Quebec. They'd been doing rude impressions of them because of their accent. Rémi had asked them to stop and they didn't. Shortly thereafter, they were quacking like proper canards. Of course, no one could prove he'd done it, but Emma knew better.

From that point forward she didn't worry quite so much about him.

He went to L'Ecole Nationale de Magie which was a governmental run educational institution for magical children that was compulsory from age 6-10. It was comprised of 50 separate schools all over France. Emma hadn't even known it existed until Nathalie had told her about it. Émile had graduated from one when he'd been asked to leave Beauxbatons. Enrollment in any of the schools maintained by the Ecole Nationale required the student to be a citizen or a foreigner with full-time residency in France and fluency in French, hence why it was not advertised to outsiders.

After age 10, of course, a parent could choose to continue their education at a National School or they could choose to send them to a private academy like Beauxbatons or Hogwarts. Nathalie indicated that most pureblood magical families chose Beauxbatons. She had enrolled her son at the time because her ex-husband had said it was the best. It was where he'd gone and where he'd insisted his son would go.

But in Madame Broussard's opinion, the National Schools were better as they taught combined history to show how intertwined both worlds really were, rather than solely teaching their students about wizarding history. According to her, they were far truer to the French Republic's values of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity than Beauxbatons, which upheld older, monarchist values that were pitiably antiquated and far behind the rest of Modern Wizarding France.

"Doesn't take a genius to see why those pureblood bastards preferred Beauxbatons to L'Ecole Nationale," Madame Broussard had quipped. "I don't know how they get away with calling themselves French; they are nothing but bourgeois aristocratic Bourbons with wands. It's ridiculous."

Of course, they weren't learning magic just yet. In the early years, the school taught them basic life skills like reading and math. There were physical education lessons, along with music and art - the only discreet difference between Wizarding France's education system and their muggle counterparts. It was all in all a very well rounded education (mainly meant to thumb their noses at the muggle world as well as the more Pureblood friendly world of Hogwarts and Beauxbatons). Emma was just pleasantly surprised that there was a government in the world, mundane or magical, that managed to have something resembling a sensible system.

It was the holiday season now and Rémi was on break for the next two weeks. Émile and his partner Radhi were hosting their annual family holiday get together that year and they were late, as usual. Emma was attempting to get herself together. She'd managed to get Rémi ready, fighting through a lot of whining and foot dragging on his part. He never liked dressing up. Nathalie had shown up moments ago and was keeping her son busy, who, as far as he was concerned, felt that all this lead up was silly adult nonsense.

"Emma, dear, does his hair ever stay down?" Nathalie called from the living room.

Putting an earring in as she shuffled in to answer without shouting. She paused and laughed at her adoptive mother. Poor Nathalie was attempting to tame her son's hair, and failing miserably. "No, it doesn't. You might as well quit while you're ahead."

"You know I don't like this word 'no'," Nathalie shot back with good humor.

"Tell that to Rémi's hair."

This elicited a giggle from her son. She smiled exasperatedly at him. He had a cowlick, just as his father had, and it was sticking up as bad as ever. She was sure he was making it stick up like that on purpose, the little stinker. He gave her his best smile.

"You shouldn't tease your grandmother, Rémi. Apologize."

He scrunched up his nose and pouted, eventually relenting when she gave him a sharp look of disapproval. "I'm sorry, Mémé. I should not use magic to tease you."

Nathalie knew better than to interfere with her grandson's punishment. She would easily forgive him, as always. It was a grandmother's duty to spoil their grandchildren, after all. But it was a mother's duty to teach their children right from wrong. Emma had strong opinions when it came to how wizards and witches used their magic. She felt that using them to bait or tease people was cruel, especially non-magical people. Nathalie agreed heartily. Her own family's treatment by the wizarding world made it clear to her that wizards thought they were better than those without magic. She approved of how Emma was raising her grandson.

Emma checked her watch, and cursed under her breath. "We're going to be late!"

"Maman, we're always late."

"Not always," And he giggled again when she stooped down to tickle him.

After some last minute scrambling, they all hustled down the narrow stairs of her apartment to Madame Broussard's car and driver, which was waiting for them in front of the building. They drove off, headed for Émile and Radhi's new flat in the 4th Arrondissement near the café he'd opened three years ago. It was doing well now and he had enough money to afford a much nicer place.

Emma still lived in their old one in the 19thArrondissement. Nathalie had encouraged her to move several times, offering to help out if she needed it. As grateful as she was to Nathalie, she had her own money now and no longer needed the support as badly as she had when she first came to Paris. Besides, Emma much preferred living here. It was a good apartment for just her and Rémi. They knew all the neighbors. There was no reason to leave. It was home.

Émile's new flat was a sleek, modern affair with a series of wide windows that let in light nicely. The sun had already set and all that could be seen outside were the dim lights of the city. It mildly irritated her that Émile had decided to decorate his flat almost completely in light colors. She and Radhi had told him that dark colored upholstery held up better, especially since there'd be six year old regularly visiting his home. And six year olds weren't known for their neatness, especially when eating. She supposed her friend would have to learn the hard way. It did look nice with all the festive decorations, though.

Rémi barreled into the flat, all smiles. "ONCLE ÉMILE!"

He plucked up his young nephew and swung him around. "It's my favorite nephew!"

He giggled at that, he liked that his uncle said that even though Rémi knew he was Émile's only nephew. "Oncle Émile when do we open presents?"

"Straight to the point tonight, aren't we?" Rémi nodded, his eyes sparkling. "After dinner."

Rémi sighed dramatically, squirming out of his uncle's arms to go bother Oncle Radhi for candy. Emma pretended not to notice Radhi ruining her son's appetite with a bowlful of Petit Ourson. Meanwhile, Nathalie's driver had come up with the presents before he left for the next few hours.

"Happy holidays," she said as she greeted Émile. "The flat looks lovely."

"Thank you," he replied, helping her out of her coat. "I love your dress, darling."

"Of course you do, you picked it out, you prat," she teased, smacking him playfully on the arm.

They then sat down with him to catch up for a bit while Rémi was busy gathering together all his presents under the tree into one place. Nathalie went into the kitchen with Radhi to help in getting dinner together. Minutes later the doorbell rang once more as more guests appeared - Émile's older sister Marcelle and her new beau, Devon Weeks, an American born wizard. Marcelle was four years older than Emma and had been recently working in Honduras quelling an outbreak of Dragon Pox for Médecins Sans Frontièr's Magical Division. Her training as a healer was why Emma hadn't met Marcelle until her second year in Paris.

Much like her mother, Marcelle wasn't all that picky when it came to lovers; they came and went like the tide. Devon was probably the eleventh partner they'd met in the last three years. He was the best so far. He was gregarious, humble, and didn't judge the strange collection of people that made up this little family. She and Émile both hoped this one might be THE one she'd actually keep.

Meanwhile, Tante Marcelle had gladly taken over entertaining Rémi, who was getting restless and fidgety, giving him her cell phone to play with. Emma , with Émile's help, had charmed the phone so that it worked in an intensely magical environment, though it was a bulky utilitarian thing, which was good - Rémi had already dropped it on the hardwood floor twice.

Emma greeted the new arrival warmly, introducing herself. "It's nice to finally meet you," she said in English, which she'd rarely spoken in seven years. It sounded strange to her ears, and it took longer than she liked to remember how to speak her mother tongue. "How are you finding Paris?"

"It's been wonderful. We've got a few more weeks here before we have to leave. Marcelle and I were hoping to spend some time with you and your son. She's told me a lot about him," he said, looking over to where Marcelle was still entertaining Rémi. "He's a cute kid."

"Tell that to me in a few hours when he starts getting tired and cranky," she said, shaking her head genially.

They both laughed. Devon gave her a speculative look once things died down. "You know, I know it's crazy, but you look awfully familiar. The minute I saw you, I swore I'd seen you before but we've never met..."

Emma covered her shock, looking down as she played with her necklace. "Yes, that is a bit strange. It's just déjà vu, I suppose. Excuse me, I should go rescue Marcelle," she explained hurriedly, turning abruptly to collect her son and to effectively end the conversation to keep it from going in an uncomfortable direction.

Eventually dinner was served. It was typical French fair for a holiday feast. The main meal was goose served with stuffing made with chestnuts, shallots, and mushrooms. There were also roasted potatoes seasoned with herbs de Provence and sautéed haricots verts seasoned with garlic, salt and red pepper. And of course, lots of wine.

She helped Rémi put together his plate first, steering away from the stuffing as he didn't much care for mushrooms. And then she served herself. Emma carefully watched Rémi as he ate. He was old enough now to be a little more independent, but he still needed help with things on occasion. If there was a part of her former life she couldn't rid herself of it was the fact that she worried too much.

After dinner came desert, a lovely bûche de Noël that Radhi had baked himself. He'd made it chocolate flavored for Rémi, rather than something fancier like coffee or praline. As always, Rémi was delighted by the little miniature decorations on it and gave a silly little laugh when Radhi allowed him to eat one of the fondant mushrooms. She gazed at her son fondly as he nibbled on the cap of his faux mushroom, smoothing his hair gently. He looked up at her then and smiled brightly. She had noticed as he got older that the green in his eyes had become more and more prominent with each year. In that moment, he looked so much like his father it hurt.

Rémi was a very perceptive child and immediately noticed the change in his mother's demeanor. "Maman, are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied smoothly, as always unnerved by how observant he was.

"But you looked so sad," he insisted, his voice rising slightly in concern.

"You're just growing up so fast, that's all."

His little cheeks puffed out in indignation. "I'm not growing fast at all. I am growing just the right amount."

Emma laughed lightly, kissing the top of his head. He grinned, his eyes lighting up with childish happiness that he was able to make that strange anguished expression go away. His worry was quickly forgotten as they'd gotten to the part he'd been waiting for, presents.

Christmas in the Broussard household was a hectic affair that bordered on pure anarchy. It took Emma some getting used to. Her family, while religious, didn't take it to the extremes the Broussards did. Her father came from a very traditional Jewish family, which he'd long ago lost contact with due to their vast differences of opinion. Richard was far more progressive in his beliefs, which had deeply disappointed his own father. And the fact that he decided to marry a girl from a non-observant Jewish family who didn't keep strict kosher had been the nail in the coffin.

That didn't mean that Richard himself wasn't observant, and it certainly didn't mean that Helen was opposed to becoming more devout. He and Helen had talked it over before they'd gotten married. While they were still dating, they'd joined the oldest liberal synagogue in London on St. John's Wood Road. It had been the synagogue Helen and Richard had gotten married in. And when they'd been blessed with a child, the rabbi had come to their home had performed a Simchat Bat for their newborn baby girl. They observed all the major holidays properly and while they didn't keep perfect kosher, they tried.

The thing she remembered most from when she was young was that the holidays were always calm and laid-back, and very, very quiet. There was something relaxing about spending a night with her parents, having a nice meal and exchanging small gifts. When she was really little, they'd play dreidel together. Her dad would always let her win, while her mum was an amusingly ruthless player. And then, of course, there was the lighting of the menorah - her father and mother would sing together after lighting it. And the way their voices would mix together had always made her feel calm and a little sleepy. It was all very reflective, a quiet moment in their otherwise busy life.

Nothing at all like the holidays at the Broussards, who seemed determined to make it a semi-stressful production. She guessed it was because she'd never had a large family to impress, so her parents naturally were more low-key when celebrating high holy days like Rosh Hashanah. Or perhaps it was just some Christian thing she didn't understand; some need for ostentation that came from being Catholic that was, quite frankly, beyond her and always would be (thank G-d). She'd been too polite to even ask.

The only bit she liked was opening presents. When she was little, her mother had always forced her to open her Hanukkah gifts slowly so she could take pictures, which had always annoyed her. Each night, she had just wanted to rip into the gift given and just open it, but her mother was always insistent that she be careful about it. But with the Broussards, they grabbed presents higgledy-piggledy, everyone opening them all at once. There was a cacophony of surprised gasps and loud 'thank yous' as haphazardly torn off wrapping paper filled the air.

Her son ran at her full tilt, one of his presents in his hand. "MAMAN! MAMAN! DID YOU SEE WHAT ONCLE ÉMILE AND ONCLE RADHI GOT ME!?"

And he held out a broom just big enough for a six year old boy. She'd always been conflicted on participation in a Christian holiday with her son and this was one of the reasons why - horribly lavish gifts that she had a hard time accepting. There was no polite way to decline gifts given in this fashion, and she'd felt obligated in the beginning because of how much she owed the Broussards. It had been bad enough when it was the usual toys they'd bestowed upon her son but this...

Emma looked at the thing like it was a dangerous viper, frowning as she addressed her friend in English, "Émile, you shouldn't have. And I really mean it... you know how I feel about his kind of thing. He's too young."

"Oh, don't be like that, Emma. Let the boy have some fun."

"Where's he even going to fly it? We live in a flat on the fifth floor, for god's sake!"

"There's an Urban Quidditch league near Port d'Ivry. They have loads of free space where you can practice for a small fee," Marcelle commented helpfully. "Devon and I don't have any assignments until after the new year. We wouldn't mind giving him a few lessons. Right?"

"Yeah, no problem," he replied with a wide smile. "Haven't played Quidditch since college. It'd be fun, and I wouldn't mind teaching the kid some tricks."

Rémi didn't speak very much English yet so he had a hard time following the conversation but he did get the gist of it. They were trying to convince his mom that having his own broom was a good thing. "Please, Maman!" he pleaded, clutching his broom close. "Please let me keep it!"

"Oh, fine. But I'm coming after all of you if he gets hurt," she relented huffily as she eyed her brother in all but blood beadily.

Émile had been arguing with her about this for ages. She supposed it had to do with the fact that his family had a long history as broom manufacturers. He'd gotten his first broom at age five and had wanted to get Rémi one last year, which she'd absolutely forbidden. The sneak had gotten one this year and gave it as a present hoping to force her to weaken her resolve, and it had bloody worked. The look she'd given him meant there was a talk they'd be having later in their future. Once she was sure Émile would take with a liberal grain of salt. Having young men who didn't listen to her was apparently her burden to bear no matter where she was.

She turned and translated their conversation so her son knew he'd be able to keep the broom.

He promptly let out a little whoop of triumph and sat down in her lap, excitedly chattering about his new broom and how he could play Quidditch with his friends now. Again, she was struck by how much like his father he was, but this time Rémi didn't see the sad look that crossed her face. No one else but Nathalie caught it, though she said nothing.

By the end of the night, her son was exhausted, all his new toys scattered around her as his head rested sleepily on her shoulder. The car and driver had arrived but she'd not gone with Nathalie. Instead, she decided to stay over at Émile's because her son had pretty much already fallen asleep. It'd be too much effort to drag him and his presents up five flights of stairs. It wasn't the first time she'd done so, nor the last. Besides, there was a bit of holiday tradition - she and Émile had always spent Christmas day together with her son at the Champs-Elysées.

It started their first year together. Emma was distinctly uncomfortable with celebrating Christmas but felt discomfited bringing it up with Nathalie, as she owed her so much. Émile wasn't blind to the reason for her reaction but he also knew his mother could be stubborn to a fault. He had managed to get her to compromise. They'd come to her huge overelaborate Christmas Eve bash so that they could have the 25th to themselves to do whatever they wanted.

She'd brought changes of clothes as well as Rémi's blankie, which he couldn't sleep without. Carrying her son in, she carefully helped him out of his party clothes and into his jim-jams. She handed him his blankie and tucked him in, rubbing his little shoulder as he got settled. He looked up at her groggily, his expression was troubled.

"Maman..."

"Yes, sweetie?" He turned around so he was facing her, squirming a bit uncomfortably as he t. It was what he did when he wanted to say something but was afraid he might get in trouble. "You can tell me."

"In school, Madame Gagnon asked us to talk about what our families did for the holidays. Chloé and Adrian... they talked about doing stuff with their mom AND their dad. But... but their parents aren't married no more. But they still do things together and she asked me about my dad and..." He said this all in one hurried breath, tears gathering in his eyes as he trailed off.

Emma closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew this day would come. "You're wondering about where your father is," she stated, her voice remarkably steady.

He gazed up at her through his bangs and nodded, his eyes very large as he wiped away his tears. She had no idea how to begin. Truthfully, she'd been hoping to hold it off until he was a bit older but she should have known that he'd have questions way before then. Raking her hands through her hair, she clumsily crawled into bed. She rearranged the pillows and dragged Rémi onto her lap, burying her nose in his soft, dark hair for a minute.

"I'm going to tell you a story," she began, holding him close as she paused briefly to think. "Did you know that your mummy isn't really from France?"

He shifted in her arms to look up at her in astonishment. "You're not?"

"Nope. I was born here but when I was your age I lived in England with my parents. That's also where your father is from. See, we both went to the same school. You've heard of Hogwarts, haven't you?"

"Mmhmm. Madame Gagnon said it's one of the schools we can go to when we're older."

"Well, that's where I went when I was eleven years old to learn magic. It's also where I met your father. We were the very best of friends back then. And then... the war happened. Your father and I were part of a group that fought against Voldemort."

The little boy thought for a moment, his head resting limply against her shoulder. "Did my dad die in the war?" he asked very quietly. "Is that how come he's not here?"

It'd be very easy to lie to him, but Emma couldn't do it. Her son deserved the truth, or at least as much as she could safely tell a six year old. "No, he's still alive. He beat him... Voldemort. Your father and I and all our friends, we beat him."

"Then... then how come he's not with us? Is it..." he trailed off, curling in on himself a little bit in the same way his father would when he started blaming himself for things he had no control over.

"No, it's not your fault. It's mine," she sighed, resting her cheek against the top of his head. "After the war... your father was very sad. He lost many friends in the war, we both did. And... and, well, your father and I did something you're only supposed to do with someone you really love. Problem was I loved your father very much and while he cared for me... he didn't love me the same way."

"But... why not?" He said, almost outraged at the thought that someone didn't love his mom.

"Because love isn't so simple."

"Is this one of those things where you say I'll understand when I'm older," he grumbled, looking up at her with a pout.

She gave a short, soft laugh. "No, not really - I mean you will, but I think you're smart enough to understand most of it. My point is... if you could choose who you loved, it'd make things simple. But you can't. Your father didn't love me the way I loved him, and neither of us should be mad at him for that." She paused for a moment, looking out of the window at the city lights. "Your father loved someone else and he decided to marry her. I won't lie to you, it hurt me a lot but I was never angry at him. But I couldn't stay... it hurt too much. So I left. But when I left, I made a mistake..."

"But you don't make mistakes!"

"Oh, yes I do. I've made lots of them." She went silent for a bit, mastering the tears that threatened to fall. With a soft sigh, she continued as if she'd never stopped. "When I left, I didn't know I was pregnant with you," she said quietly, carefully running her fingers through his tangled hair. "And once I did know... I made the choice not to tell your father. See, he's... he's very, very famous. Everyone in the wizarding world knows his name. If I'd said something... there'd be a huge scandal and there are plenty of people out there who hate him... people who would use you to get to him. I thought if I kept it secret, it'd be better, safer. I thought I was protecting you, but... now I'm not so sure. Sometimes, I think it'd be better if I had told him. But then I think of all the negative attention it'd bring to me, and, more importantly, to you-"

"But Maman... we can just go tell him!"

"No, Rémi, it's not that simple..."

"YES, IT IS! GROWN UPS ALWAYS SAY STUFF LIKE THAT. BUT IT IS THAT SIMPLE!" he shouted, losing his temper just as his father often did, quickly and without warning. "WE JUST GO AND TELL HIM AND YOU SAY YOU ARE SORRY AND THEN I CAN HAVE A DAD LIKE EVERYONE ELSE"

"RÉMI, STOP! JUST STOP!" she shrieked sharply, instantly quieting the boy. Emma had hardly ever raised her voice to him and it was so jarring that he started to cry. "Oh, I'm sorry, Rémi. I shouldn't have shouted. Mummy's so sorry..." He struggled against her at first as she held him and cried, but eventually he relented. And then she pulled back and held his little face in her hands, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "Rémi, this is all my f-fault. And I'm so s-s-sorry. I... I-I've tried so hard to p-protect you and all I've done is h-hurt you. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Maman... Please don't be mad! I'm sorry, I shouldn't have shouted," Rémi replied tearfully, more responding to his mother's upset than anything else. It scared him.

Emma shook her head, kissing his cheek. "No, I hurt you, Rémi. I shouldn't have lost my temper. You don't have to apologize because NONE of this is your fault... I'm a grown up. I should know better. Okay? You did nothing wrong." She didn't say anything for a long moment, looking at her beautiful, perfect son, whose life she'd made so much harder than necessary. Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, she curled her pink around his and held it up. "When I was little, we used to make 'pinkie promises' to let someone know we really meant what we said. So, I'm gonna make a 'pinkie promise' with you."

"Pin-kee proh-meese," Rémi repeated, testing the unfamiliar English words on his tongue.

"I promise that when you are much older, you and I will go and find your father and tell him together, okay?"

"Really?" he whispered, a hopeful look on his tired little face.

"Mmhmm. Really," she confirmed, hugging him close. "Would you like me to tell you about him?"

He nodded, his head bumping into her a chin as he got comfortable. "What is his name?"

She thought for a moment. "James. His name is James." It was the only lie she'd told that night.

"What does he look like?"

"A lot like you, actually."

"He does?!" he exclaimed excitedly. He looked like his dad; the thought made his heart beat a thousand miles a minute.

"Yup. Would you like to know how we met?" He gave another little nod, again bumping her chin uncomfortably. "The very first time I met your father, I was looking for a toad that a boy named Neville had lost..."

I put this one at the end for those who've gotten to the end of this chapter, hopefully. As I said in the note on the first chapter, this story is about a Hermione who happens to be Jewish. I've tried very hard to depict a blended religious family. I was nervous because it does show Hermione as a Jewish person participating, however unwillingly, in Christmas... and I know that's a sensitive subject. I tried my very best to handle it as carefully as possible, but I know not being Jewish myself... I might not have gotten it right. I really hope I have. As I said in my original note, lived experience trumps research. I did my best to research everything, but I know I'll mess up. Apologizing in advance... I'm sorry if I fucked it up. Please PM me with any corrections you think might help. Thank you!