A/N: A bridge, if you will.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this so-called plot.

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PART IV

Suppers at the Burrow had a very literary feel to them. It had something to do with the size of the spread, the varied range of characters, and the flow of the conversation. Most of all, it was the stuff that was left unsaid – the in-between spaces – and Hermione, (who was so often a spectator during these meals, drowned out by the blearing Weasleyness of the affair,) rather enjoyed taking note of things, like a student of literature analysing a pivotal passage.

It was certainly very nice to see the hubbub resurface after the crushing silence that had the family in a chokehold for a year.

Over the cluttering of forks and knives, George's eyes twinkled with hidden mischief. His mind was clearly elsewhere, as he eyed Ron with worrying intent. His gold ear glittered, and Percy eyed that with mild disdain. And speaking of mild disdain: There it was again, flashing over Ginny's face when Fleur asked her to pass "ze rolls" without the obligatory please. When, from across the table, Angelina asked her something about the Harpies, Ginny's face immediately broke into a grin. Bill was cutting into his specially prepared steak with a prosaic calmness that almost jarred. Harry, Ron, and Mr. Weasley were deep in a conversation. Harry's eyes drifted, briefly, to Ginny as her laughter bubbled over the general din, but returned to Mr. Weasley when he asked a question in a very eager manner. Harry responded, and Ron made to add something – but was spoken over by Percy who'd unnecessarily decided to interject. Ron scowled deeply... then took a deep breath and helped himself to a large bite of food.
Presiding over all of this was Mrs. Weasley. She was like Mrs. Ramsey, beaming behind a tureen of exemplary (perfect!) Boeuf en Daube; her manner practically screamed 'Life, stand still here'.

XXX

"I ate too much," Ron groaned, barely out of the fireplace.

Hermione, Harry, and Ron had returned to 12 Grimmauld place after that hefty meal. The drawing room looked cosy, warmly lit by firelight and lamplight that pulsed in from the street outside. The Black family tapestry, plush and ornate, had been repaired; all the burnt-out names had been, (thanks to Bill,) restored. The once murky, olive-green walls were now a comely shade of sage green.

Sage. The word made Hermione's stomach flutter.

"You always eat too much," Harry said. He went over to one of the large, ornate glass cabinets that flanked the fireplace, and looked in thoughtfully. "Nightcap?"
"Sure," said Ron, flopping heavily onto the sofa.
"Okay," agreed Hermione, curling up on a brocade armchair.

Harry approached with a crystal decanter full of brandy. Almost at once, Kreacher sidled into the room with a tray full of glasses, as though he'd been standing in the side-lines, listening in. Hermione offered him her thanks, which he grudgingly accepted with a jerk of his head.

She settled even deeper into her chair, and looked at the fire through the little snifter in her warmed glass – dazzling, flaring, bronze. Snakeskins and vials of blood no longer sat on the mantelpiece; there was a porcelain pot full of floo powder, a decorative snitch, and plenty of framed photographs.

A sharp clang sounded at her left: Ron had thrown a fat, brown pellet on the coffee table.

"What's that?" Hermione asked.
"George thought he was being so slick, dropping that into my stew."
"What does it do?"
"Dunno. But tomorrow, Slattery is going to find out," Ron promised, and Harry laughed.
"And who is Slattery?" Hermione asked.
"A cunt."

Harry and Ron treated her to tales of the shambling linkman between the Auror office and the admin, and, eventually, talking about work led them to the inevitable realisation that they actually had to go to work the next day. So, it was decided that it was time to retire.

Harry and Ron trudged up to the second floor, while Hermione went across the hallway to the bedroom she had once shared with Ginny.
Full and drowsy, she looked around at her surroundings indulgently. Even though it was going to be her fifth night there, she was still slightly in awe of how different and beautiful it looked. It was redolent of a quaint boutique hotel room. The twin beds were gone, and in their place was a soft and large bed, upon which were beautiful chinoiserie cushions and bedspread. There was a loveseat, an ornate carpet, a huge gilded mirror – and everything was sparkling clean. Harry was surprisingly, (or unsurprisingly, considering his bleak childhood,) very houseproud.
However, it was probably very easy to be that way when you had a House-Elf working tirelessly to keep your house spick and span.

She went into the charmingly antique bathroom to splash some water on her face and brush her teeth. Then she slipped out of her clothes and into sleepwear, and plunged into the cushy bed.
Ginny had been rather miffed when Hermione had decided against staying at the Burrow, but the last few days had been very nice. Light and cheerful, she had written over her previous memories of being in that house, with those two boys.

Men. They were men now. And she was a woman.

No – And she yawned widely – She would delay that assertion for a little while longer.

(Just a few hours ago at the Burrow, she had asked Mr. Weasley how she might go about securing a portkey to Melbourne. He had smiled and said, "Well, you could submit an application to the Department of Magical Transportation. OR, you could just tell me to get it for you and I will happily do so.")

She would hold on to being a girl for now. Her final thoughts, before she fell asleep, were of mum and dad.

The next morning, she woke up at seven, and spent half an hour just lolling in bed. Then, still in her pyjamas, she went downstairs for coffee and toast.

In the kitchen, a cauldron was bubbling away in the fireplace. The pots and pans hanging from the ceiling were thoroughly polished. She looked up and had multiple warped reflections look back down at her.

Kreacher was standing at the counter, preparing breakfast for Harry and Ron. As always, he ignored her and left her to her own devices, but deigned to push the butter dish towards her, once her toast was ready. She sat at one end of the long wooden table at the centre of the room, and she thanked him. He grunted. Around her coffee mug, she smiled to herself at that; Kreacher was impressively obdurate. It had been easier to get Draco to –

"Morning," Harry groused, dragging himself unenthusiastically into the kitchen.
"Hello," Hermione grinned, "Didn't sleep well?"
"Not particularly. Fix me one of your obscenely sweet cuppas, will you? I need it."
"On the double!"

He got lost in his breakfast. Hermione dived into the Prophet.

Minutes after Harry left, Ron tore into the kitchen, shoelaces untied, wrestling an arm into his rumpled robes. He snatched a bacon butty off the table and ran right back out.
"Later, 'mione!" his voice trailed after him.

Hermione helped Kreacher clear up the table. His desire to insist she let him do it all by himself warred with his aversion to speak a word to her. She magically rounded up the dirty dishes and floated them into the sink, and Kreacher mutinously lifted and put them back down, inches away from where she'd set them. It was a jolly good game, and once it had been concluded, Hermione shot him a broad smile and wished him a very good day.

XXX

People passed her by in clusters of two, four, five, seven... and nobody gave her a second look. The slightly tweaked glamour that she had cast on her face to render it as non-specific as possible, was working. She was especially grateful for it when Ernie trundled past her, as she was leaving Gringotts with a nicely replenished moneybag.

It was a beautifully warm day, and Diagon was full of life. Bright summer light was glancing off the walls and shop windows, so vivid and white that it enhanced the colourfulness of the alley.
Hermione strolled along the line of shops with her hair high up in a bun and her beaded bag swinging jauntily by her side. Her next stop was at the Apothecary, from where she picked up a set of basic, essential potions and ingredients. She got helplessly detained at a seedy, ramshackle second-hand bookshop, wedged in the alley next to the Menagerie. She left with a battered third edition volume of Argo Pyrite's treatise on Alchemy. Not more than twenty steps later, an ancient witch in a crochet shawl lured Hermione over to her tiny kiosk where she sold pretty little amulets and charmed trinkets.

"'Ave a look 'ere, me luvly. This wee bauble promises wellness. And this one 'ere, right... imbued wiv a shield charm. And this one's got an anti-cheatin' charm, if you've got a lover ter keep an eye on. And 'ere, beauty spell pendants! Oi? 'Ow about bracelets wiv cheerin' charms, then?"

She kept a vice-like grip on Hermione's wrist, only letting go once she'd purchased two wellness bracelets. They were pretty enough, with small rainbow-coloured glass beads that seemed to glow. Hermione reckoned the weak magic would be good for a week, if that. She'd give one to Ginny and one to her mum.
Her final stop was at Fortescue's. It was absolutely bursting with people. Hermione stood in the long queue for a full fifteen minutes. The man behind the counter looked a lot like the late Florean, though younger and stouter; a brother or son, perhaps. She bought two big tubs of ice-cream, (buttered pecan and caramel apple,) and shoved her way out of the little shop.

Once Hermione had left the main shopping area, her stride slowed. She leisurely ambulated down a narrow strip, watching burly men wearing thin white vests and a layer of sweat, move in and out of workshops. She cut through the park rather than around, admiring the summer splendour. It was full of laburnum trees, laden with their vibrant, pendulous flowers. Neatly trimmed shrubs lined the criss-crossing pathways, intermittently interrupted by elegant green benches. There was a small pond in the centre, all but covered in pink water lilies. Theo and Draco's building loomed above it all like a giant monolith.

The door to the flat once again greeted Hermione cordially, and told her that Theo was expecting her in the kitchen.

And indeed, he was in the kitchen, setting a plate of sausage rolls and bottles of butterbeer on the table.
"Hermione!" he beamed, "Just in time!"
"I brought ice cream," she replied with an answering smile, "Is Luna coming?"
"No," Theo said peevishly, "Xeno has carted her off to visit some distant cousins. I wasn't invited."

They talked about Hermione's upcoming trip as they began to eat and drink, and Theo promised to visit for a couple of days, with Luna. Barely five minutes after, Draco walked into the kitchen.

"Oh, you're back!" Theo said pleasantly, "I thought you'd be gone all afternoon."

Draco was very dapper in navy-coloured robes, (which he took off and draped over the back of a chair,) with a light blue shirt and dark trousers underneath. He had a brass pitcher in his hand, that he set down on the kitchen counter, before taking a seat and seizing a bottle of butterbeer.

"Wasn't much of a crowd at the Ministry today," he shrugged, "And father wasn't feeling very conversational."

It was the first time Hermione was hearing his voice since the night on the astronomy tower. Gone was the delicate, deceptive softness, and lost was the rushed, helpless candour. He sounded steady, affectless, and composed.
He took a long swig of his drink. His hair was tidier than usual, loosely pushed back and – oh, but she spoke too soon. He ran his hand through it; pale fingers carded through fair locks that gave way like he was combing through a viscous fluid. His fringe broke free and fell over his forehead.

"When's that for?" Theo asked, and Hermione turned to see him gesture towards the brass pitcher.
"Six in the evening," Draco replied.
"Today?"
"Yes."

The pitcher was dented and scuffed, and completely unadorned. It looked extremely out of place in the swanky kitchen.

"Is that a portkey?" Hermione asked.
"It is," Draco replied, sparing her a fleeting glance.
She took a moment to properly formulate her question, and then: "May I ask you both something? As two capable, relatively intelligent young men who were born and brough up within the magical community?"

Theo shifted in his seat and he grinned with absolute anticipatory delight.

"Go on," he urged.
"What on earth is the deal with portkeys? A lumpy old pitcher? Seriously? Last time, I got a spatula and a silly little hat. It's so absurd!"
"It's to keep muggles from acciden–" Draco began.
"Oh, shush," Hermione intruded with a wave of her hand. He looked offended and it was adorable. "I understand if you have to hide one outside, in a public area. Then, of course, it ought to be fittingly disguised. But for private and personal use? Why does it have to be sodding kitchenware, or suchlike objects? Portkeys could very easily be small and convenient, like coins... or... or specially designed tokens, or even pieces of parchment, like tickets."
"You make a good point," Theo said with contrived gravity, even as his mouth twitched.
"It's barmy," Hermione scoffed and shook her head.
"Will this be the first great evil that you'll irradicate as Minister?" Draco drawled with acrid sarcasm, "No more cumbersome portkeys – the world will, once again, be a better place, thanks to Granger."

She gave him a congruously scornful look in response, though it wasn't in the least heartfelt. She held his gaze as she took a sip of butterbeer, wondering if he'd fixed the lighting in the kitchen specifically to flatter his face.

"I just might," she said tartly, "And it will be a widely appreciated move."
"Right."
"But, I shall make one exception."
"Will you now?"
"Yes. You."
"I feel so special."
"See, you will receive frilly bonnets – floral ones – every single time. And they will have to be put on to be activated."
"That's a tricky bit of magic."
"And I – um, I – I am a very capable witch."

She had stuttered because his dour visage had given way to an arch, playful smirk. It tricked her mouth into quirking upwards too.

"I will travel a lot. A LOT. Do you intend to spend the majority of your term fixing portkeys for me?"
"I will hire and train someone to do the job."
"I see," he grinned. His eyes darted around her face and she felt it grow warm. "Great use of the public's money, that."
"Don't worry," Theo interposed, and she turned to him with a slight jump, "Hermione, I will fully fund the 'Put Draco in a Bonnet' initiative for as long as necessary."
"Thank you!" Hermione beamed, and gave Draco a look of triumph.
He divided a sneer between the two of them.

With the food and drinks put away, Theo doled out some ice-cream, in (ridiculous) crystal bowls. Hermione favoured the caramel apple flavour; the generous swirls of caramel in particular. As the boys went in for seconds, she broached the primary cause she'd wanted to raise.

"Theo, does the man who found you this flat deal exclusively with toffed-up, spendthrift sort of people?"
"No," Theo replied, "I believe he'll be alright with the prudent, middle-class variety, too."
"Well, that's brilliant. Could he find me a place then?"
"I'm sure he could."
"I'll be back by the end of the month," Hermione said, "If you'd let him know...?"
"Will do, darling." Then Theo chuckled. "Living with Potter and Weasley driving you spare?"
"I reckon she's used to it," Draco quipped, "And all three of them are intolerable in their own way."
"Get stuffed, Draco," she snapped, "And no. Living with Harry and Ron has been lovely. Harry has a beautiful, comfortable home. I just really want a place of my own now–"
"Ah, so they kicked you out!" He jabbed his spoon in her direction.
She glared. "They did not. Harry said the room is mine for as long as I want, and–"

He licked a bit of caramel along the curve of his spoon and her stomach twisted into a knot. She turned to Theo quickly and basically squeaked – "What would it cost to rent a place around Diagon?"
"Steep." Theo was smirking.
"Okay. Then... elsewhere, I suppose..." Hermione looked into her empty bowl. That seemed safest.

But the grating sound of a chair being pulled back had her looking up again.

"Going to pack?" Theo asked Draco as the latter collected his robes and pitcher.
"Yeah."
"Don't forget to pack the blackcurrent conserve for Narcissa"
"I won't," he rolled his eyes.
"Have a good trip," Hermione murmured.
He accepted, with a nod. "You too."
Then he left.

Hermione watched as Theo collected their dishes and deposited them in the sink, which immediately filled up with soapy water all on its own.

"Er... An automated sink?"
"Posh, huh?"
"Obscenely so. Theo... weren't you supposed to go visit Mrs. Malfoy too?"
"I'm going next week, before coming to you."
"Oh."

He crossed his arms over the table and gave her a very pointed look. He continued to give her a very pointed look for some time, as she awkwardly moved her bag from her lap to the table.

"What?" she flared when it got too much to bear.
"You managed to cheer him up."
"Pfff." Her fingers reflexively clenched around her bag.
"You did," he sang blithely.
"Didn't look like he needed cheering up," she muttered.
"He did."

Theo's grin was stupidly wide. It was bad enough that Hermione's cheeks were undoubtedly scarlet at that moment... she didn't need to match Theo's stupid grin. But god, she so wanted to. Her jaw was quivering with the outright need to fucking beam. Somehow, she fostered remarkable control over her facial muscles; she bit her lip and kept the grin at bay.
Although... it was Theo, after all. He probably saw right through her.

"You charming, funny little thing," he said with much affection.
She huffed a laugh, expelling some of her pent-up-need-to-grin energy. "What do you have planned for the rest of the day?"
"Fuck all."
"Would you like to see the other side of London? We could go to the cinema... walk around... make a trip to my favourite bakery..."
"Yes," he shot up at once, "That sounds fantastic."

XXX

A delightfully hilarious French film, a slow and dilatory walk from Soho to the National Gallery, a bus through Strand and down Waterloo bridge, a stroll along the Thames to watch the city get lit up...

It had been lovely.

Finally, they took the underground to Camden, and walked over to the tiny, homely bakery that looked and smelt exactly like Hermione remembered. She picked an assortment of confectionary to take for her parents, and some for Harry and Ron, after which she stepped back and grinned as Theo engaged with old Mabel behind the counter, ordering a laughably vast selection of cakes and pastries.
She moved to look at the display rack, to admired the decorous birthday and wedding cakes. A distressed, spotty young shop assistant was attempting to reason with a very frenzied woman while she shoved a magazine in his face.

"You see this? David and Posh's wedding cake – this is what I want! Exactly this!"
"Miss, you can't be serious!"

Then, with multiple paper bags in hand, they wandered into Regent's Park, encountering a few late evening stragglers... till, ultimately, they took cover behind a thicket of trees, and disapparated.

XXX

She almost hurtled right into Ron as she stepped out the fireplace.

"Gah!" she gasped and stumbled sideways. He was zipping up a new jacket over a surprisingly un-faded Chudley Cannon's t-shirt.
"Sorry."
"Are you going somewhere?" she asked.
"Yeah," he muttered. He looked at her then looked away. "Out."
"Okay, what–"
"It's a date."
"Oh."
Furtively, from the corner of his eye, he gave her a piercing stare.
"With... er, Verity?" she ventured.
"No."
"Well..." she held up the two paper bags she was holding, "I've brought tons of goodies, in case propriety prevents you from eating your fill."
He didn't respond to her grin... not really. It was a half-smile-semi-grimace sort of thing.
"I should go."
"Yes, of course. Have a wonderful time."

He whooshed out of existence, and Hermione watched as the flames turned from orange, to green, to orange.

"I reckon he still wishes it was you."
Hermione spun around. Harry was leaning against the wall by the drawing room door, watching her ruefully, with a tumbler of whiskey in hand.
"A bit," he added with a shrug.

That was an awful thought and she had no idea what to do with it. There wasn't really anything she could say or do about it. So, instead, she moved towards the coffee table and set the bags down.

"Harry, do you drink every single evening?"
He shrugged again.
"Harry..."
He pulled an impish, teasing face at her. "D'you want some?"
"No, thank you," she replied, wondering if there was any point in chastising him when he was already well into it.
"Is there any treacle tart in there?"

Well, alright. If that's how he wanted to play it. She'd bring it up some other time. Maybe tomorrow.
He was grinning... and she'd had such a wonderful day...

"You'd throw me out of the house if there wasn't."
"You bet."

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day...

"I can't believe it's my last month in England and you're going off on a holiday."

The Weasley orchard smelt cloyingly sweet, like fruit and heat. Bees flitted and darted around, leaving a low, continuous buzz in the air. In the dappled sunlight, the trumpery wellness bracelet on Ginny's wrist looked dazzling... iridescent. She raised her arm into the air, scattering colours across her face, and plucked a cluster of cherries from a tree.

"I'm going to see my parents. And I'll be back well before you leave," Hermione told her.

(Oh, and by the way... do you think Harry's grown a bit too fond of tippling?)

"When?"
"End of the month. And you leave on the..."
"Fifteenth of August."

(Listen, Ginny... I'm a bit worried about Harry...)

"Plenty of time. We'll be able to celebrate your eighteenth birthday," Hermione smiled weakly.
"Ho hum," Ginny carped.
Hermione stopped walking and leant against a tree. A bee buzzed right by her ear. "You aren't excited anymore?"
"I am." Ginny also stopped. She popped a cherry in her mouth and wrinkled her nose. "Bletch. Sour."
"You don't sound excited," Hermione pointed out.
"I'm... slightly... scared shitless."
"Ah."
"You aren't going to try and buck me up?"
"No," Hermione replied plainly, "You already know you're bloody good at Quidditch. Feeling a bit nervy before a big move is normal... no point in telling you not to be."

Ginny smiled. They resumed their walk, leaving a trail of cherry stones in their wake. Hermione just couldn't seem to talk about Harry.

XXX

Hours later, the two girls returned to the Burrow, with a little basket full of fruit, much to the delight of Mrs. Weasley. She put the kettle on and laid the table for tea, chattering loudly about the robust yield they'd been blessed with that year.

Amid a tuck-in of cherries, blueberry lemon pound cake, and scones, Mr. Weasley leapt out of the fireplace.
"Percy will be a bit late today," he announced as he kissed his wife on the cheek, "Kingsley is stuck in a meeting with the MMD. Oh, Hermione. This is for you."
He handed her a slightly frayed jute sack.

Her portkey to Melbourne was a long-handled shoehorn. Her portkey back was a ceramic pepper mill.

She wanted to be able to hold them out to Draco and cry, "Behold!"
There were two possibilities as far as his reaction was concerned: She could picture him grudgingly amused, with an involuntary smirk, involuntarily saucy. But she could also picture him rolling his eyes, telling her to get over silly fixations. In that case, she would tell him she had a bee in her bonnet and would he like one in his? He would sneer at her, lean forward, wet his lips and say –

"More milk, Hermione?"
What?
"In your tea, dear. More milk?"
Mrs. Weasley's kindly face loomed in front of her.
"Oh, no. This much is enough. Thank you."

It was nine-thirty PM, according to her watch. She was ready an hour before the shoehorn was set to carry her off. She had foregone dinner, anticipating the sumptuous breakfast spread dad would have waiting for her.

The stairs outside creaked, and she stealthily looked through the crack in her door. It was Harry, going into the drawing room. She gave him a few minutes to get settled, then slipped quietly out of her room and, after casting a weightless charm on her feet, dashed up the stairs.

Light and muffled sounds oozed out the gap under the door to Ron's room. She gently rapped on it and waited. It opened a crack and Ron's head emerged. He blinked in mild confusion.

"Is it time for you to leave already?"
"Not yet, Ron. I just wanted to talk."
"To me?" His confusion deepened.
"Yes. Harry's downstairs. It's... it's actually about him."

Ron moved aside and let her in. His room was as anarchic as she'd expected - quidditch posters clashed horribly with the ornate wallpaper. There was a leaning tower of clothes on his armchair, and on his dresser was a tank with a very large, very old frog.

"What about Harry?" Ron asked.
Hermione clasped her hands and bounced on the balls of her feet. "I'm worried about him."
"Right," Ron grunted, as he sat on the corner of his bed, "You noticed the drinking."

Any amount of perceptiveness from Ron surprised her, no matter what. She sat on the edge of the bed, too, keeping a befitting distance between them.

"How long has it been going on?"
"Erm... I'd say about three, four months. It wasn't daily at first, but..." Ron dragged a hand down his face. "He wasn't sleeping. At all. I'd hear him thumping about the house at all hours. Drinking helps him go to bed."
Hermione stared down at her knees. "What about sleeping draughts?"
"I think he tried those, too, but... I dunno. He seems to prefer whiskey."
"We can't let him carry on like this, Ron."
Ron sighed and hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "What can we do, though?"
"Have you tried talking to him about it?"
Ron nodded. "A couple of times. He just takes the piss out of me. Tells me not to be a wet blanket, like..." he trailed off.
"Like me," Hermione completed for him.
Ron twitched shamefacedly. "He doesn't mean it in a bad way."
"Sure."
"He says a lot of shite when he's drunk. But he's never, like, miserable..."
"Still..."
"Yeah. I know. I've been thinking of asking Bill to talk to him."
"Why Bill?"
"He had a bad spell, after Greyback; Scotch, straight up. Didn't last long, or anything, but for a while there, he was pretty wonky."
"I had no idea," Hermione breathe.
"Yeah, like I said, it was short-lived. But," Ron gave her a bemused half-smile, "Bill's on top of it all, in'e? People listen to him. Maybe he'll get through to Harry."
"Maybe."

Ron stood up and stretched, pulling his arms behind his back.

"Let's go down," he said, "He drinks more when he's alone."
Hermione nodded and got to her feet.
"Got all your stuff? The portkey?"
She showed him her beaded pouch, and it made him chuckle.

"Hullo!" Harry greeted gaily, when she and Ron entered the drawing room. "Firewhiskey?"
Hermione declined at once. "Harry, in less than an hour, it'll be seven-thirty in the morning for me."
"You're no fun," he chided, "Ron?"
Ron flashed a quick look at Hermione, then shook his head. "Nah, mate. I'm good."
"Oh, bother," Harry huffed with a satirical grin.

"I was thinking," Ron ventured, "While we still have Hermione here, we should get her help with the Tinworth burglary spree."
"Why not?" Harry agreed with zeal, "Like the good old days – the three of us uncovering something sinister."

A piddling, petty thief was hardly sinister, nor remotely interesting, considering their track record. In addition to that, the fact that most of the good residents Tinworth didn't think to fortify their windows with intruder charms, really took the fun out of the 'uncovering' aspect.

By the time Hermione pulled the shoehorn out of her bag, Harry was polishing off his second drink.