A/N: The Lakes of Patagonia? One of my favourite spots on earth. If you're ever lucky enough to spend time there in the summertime, you'll see why. If any of you readers are lucky enough to be from there yourself, just know that I'm jealous!

5: The Second Portkey

It took twenty-four minutes for Luna's bronze globe to do its business.

Hermione had cuddled up on the chaise lounge with a half-dozen pastel-coloured Puffskeins, nursing a cocktail that Luna had whipped up with the papaya juice and a little whisky, just waiting for everything to be taken care of. Then the globe began to rattle and shake, and after a minute or so, the top half swung open to reveal another one of the travel cubes.

Picking it up gingerly, Luna pressed it to her forehead. 'You'll need summer clothes, Hermione. Include some rain gear or an umbrella, too, and make sure to pack your swimsuit. One warmer jumper for evenings, maybe one or two smart dresses, but otherwise, pretty casual.'

'Where am I going?' Hermione asked. She wriggled out from the pile of sentient fluff and handed Luna her empty glass.

'I told you,' Luna replied with a light laugh, 'I honestly do not know. You'll find out before I do.'

'So you know what the climate is like... how?'

'Listen,' Luna whispered. She pressed the cube to Hermione's forehead.

Nothing.

Hermione waited for a moment, just in case something was going to happen.

It didn't.

'You see?' Luna asked, placing the cube in Hermione's hand and wrapping her fingers around it. 'Summer clothes. Summer and rain.'

Hermione just nodded. 'Er... yeah. Sure, Luna. Now when does it leave? How much time do I have to pack?'

Frowning, the blonde asked, 'It didn't tell you?'

Hermione shook her head.

'Hmm...' Luna hummed. 'How odd. It told me it was leaving at 10 o'clock, so that gives you thirty minutes or so to go home and get ready.'

After a whirlwind packing session, Hermione grabbed the cube and felt the the magic pulling her body through space. Before she had time to contemplate where she was off to, she felt herself land in a dark, quiet room.

Groping in the dark, she felt a door handle. When she stepped out into the light, she saw she was in a hotel corridor. She followed all the signs in Spanish to find the reception desk, where a kindly older gentleman demonstrated great patience with her lackluster language skills. He gave her a room key, a booklet of maps, information about a musical concert later that afternoon, and instructions that she should head to the dining room before the breakfast service closed.

She followed the room numbers up two flights of stairs to her suite, still uncertain of where exactly she was.

When she arrived at #31, she pushed open the door. In the entry stood a bicycle with a woven basket and a small silver bell that made a satisfying brrrrrring! when she tested it out. She dropped her bag on the bench and continued inside, where she was greeted by a wall of windows framing an jaw-dropping view of a deep blue lake, far larger than the Black Lake at Hogwarts. On the far side of the lake stood a volcano, perfectly symmetrical and capped with snow. In the background stood more volcanoes, much smaller for the distance, and as she glanced around the lakeshore, she saw a handful of little villages and resorts here and there, the occasional sandy beach. Everything was lush and green, and Hermione couldn't wait to get out and explore it all.

Her stomach growled.

So she decided to follow the receptionist's advice to snag something to eat. The dining room was on the ground floor, with half the tables inside and the other half outside on a veranda facing the water. It was almost empty, so Hermione grabbed a table on the lakefront, setting her handbag and a shawl down on a chair. She went back through the buffet, plating up eggs and grilled vegetables, a small cup of blueberries.

When she returned to her seat, a waiter approached her to take her beverage order. "Te gustaría el café, el té o el mate?" he asked.

'Mate, por favor,' she replied, delighted that she still remembered the basics of the language. She'd had mate on a previous trip and loved everything about it: the earthy flavour, the gourd it came in and the little silver straw for sipping, the slight buzz of energy it gave her for hours after consuming the stuff.

Nibbling on her breakfast, she opened up the packets of information, making decisions about what to do first. The first map was simply labelled "Los Lagos"—the lakes. Well, yes, she thought. Obviously. The second map was much more helpful, as "Patagonia chilena" was printed in enormous type over the whole thing. So she was in South America, then.

It seemed that the afternoon concert was held in the next village over, which was a doable distance by bike. There were waterfalls on the map, too, but Hermione wasn't sure if she was up to a bicycle ride of over thirty kilome—

Fuck.

All she could see was the back of his head, but she was certain it was Snape. Sitting at the far end of the restaurant, black hair just longer than his shoulders, a few greys sprinkled here and there.

Damnit, Luna, she thought, silently cursing out her friend.

Staring out at the water, but facing the east. A white Oxford shirt, rolled up to his sleeves, slim grey trousers. Thankfully Snape hadn't noticed her, so she still had the opportunity to run for it before—

'Mate, signora,' the waiter said, bringing her drink as loudly as a herd of stampeding guanacos. Snape looked over and—

Her breath caught in her chest.

It wasn't him.

She let out a sigh she didn't even know she was holding.

Thank fuck, Hermione thought to herself. Relief washed over her like a physical caress.

The stranger noticed her looking at him, so he lifted his mate gourd in a kind of salute, smiling at her.

She grinned, lifting her gourd in response.

And they exchanged a sort of a conversation through their eyes alone, wordlessly agreeing that the land around them was beautiful, that the sunshine was inviting, and that they were lucky to be there.

Convinced she was blushing like a school girl, Hermione looked away, trying to occupy herself with her plans for the day lest she do something interminably clumsy in front of a handsome stranger, like drop fresh salsa down her blouse or spit her mate across the table. She'd never done terribly well with men, and her nerves were known to get the better of her when they were acting up.

It had been a good long while since she'd been out on a date.

After all, the last man she'd been out with was Viktor, back when they were still doing their on-again, off-again dating from afar. Well, it was more like intermittent shagging. And this man at her boutique hotel looked a great deal like Viktor: unconventionally attractive, with sort of a largish nose but intelligent eyes, skin markedly paler than most of the other people she'd seen at her hotel thus far. He was probably ten or so years older than she was, but he was lean and fit.

Merlin knew she needed a distraction from dwelling on Severus Snape and his overwhelming disapproval of everything she touched. It was depressing beyond belief that even as an accomplished Potioneer and researcher, with numerous publications to her name and multiple life-saving potions in circulation at St Mungo's, Snape still thought she was beneath him. There had been moments in their work together when Hermione had convinced herself that he was seeing her as an equal, when he seemed to be looking at her and seeing someone he respected. She'd even convinced herself that she caught him smiling at her once or twice.

But their working environment had grown so tense in recent months, with Snape snapping at her whenever she started a new project. At least she had O'Reilly with her now in the lab; he was always encouraging her and supporting her decisions, and he was eager to run any of the assays she'd designed to help her out. He'd technically been hired as the lab assistant for both herself and Snape, but nobody would blame a person for avoiding Severus when he was in a mood.

She took another sip of the bitter drink, reminding herself that she was here for this very reason: to stop thinking about work and to take care of herself for a change.

Maybe this Chilean man could be her holiday fling.

And when she looked up again, he was already gone.

A/N: Someone's in denial. Also? It's fascinating for me to run two stories at the same time to see how differently people respond. For the record, more people prefer "Dirty Gertie" with a Severus-in-a-bingo-hall than this one with world travel and angry naked arguments in saunas!