(A.N.) Okay, I suck so much for not updating. And this itself is not much of an update. Really, this is the first three pages of a much longer chapter, but the rest still needs work. So for now I'll just post this as a little interlude. A quiet moment between the tense end to the last chapter, and the madness that will kick off in the next one.

Thanks for sticking with me even though I'm just the worst. :D


The problem was that everyone thought they were being sneaky.

They watched the Potter man every waking minute of his life. They saw everywhere he went and everyone he spoke to, and then they watched those people too. All in the belief that they were narrowing down the location, and would soon be able to sweep in and claim their prize before anyone else.

Delusions of superior intellects kept them from realising that everyone else was doing the same thing. The moment one ship made a move, there would be twenty more behind it.

Things were reaching a fever pitch. Everyone was growing impatient. Soon there would be no more little recon excursions. Soon they were all going to try their luck, make a move, and then run into each other. And that was when the real trouble would start.


Hermione had a secret, one even those closest to her had no idea about: Sometimes, she still rode the bus to work.

Not the grandest of revelations, true. But on the other hand, a grown witch taking muggle transport over floo powder or apparition would probably be cause for concern in the magical community. And yet, especially on mornings like that one; cold, dreary, and with the thoughts of a huge blowout with Harry playing on her mind; Hermione cherished the return to simplicity.

She was the only one at the bus stop that morning, and so it was hard to find something else to occupy her mind and stop it from turning back to the not-so-simple subject of Harry. She was at war with herself, she supposed. The part of her fiercely loyal to Harry chastised her for the way she'd acted the night was she to know there wasn't something going on with these strange lights, she'd ponder? Maybe Harry was right about everything?

And yet she knew Harry. She knew he'd never adjusted to normal life. If these theories were coming from Ron or Ginny, she'd like to think she'd be more open to considering them. But Harry had never stopped expecting things like this to happen, expecting his life to be one big battle. He'd been waiting for something like this. That, more than any strange lights of talk of aliens, was the thing that fuelled her scepticism, the awful thought that perhaps he'd even been longing for it.

Footsteps brought her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to see a man crossing the road and approaching the bus shelter. She scooted along the bench to give him room to sit down, but the man merely approached the timetable and examined it.

He was young gentleman, with glowing blonde hair and a frowny face. He stepped back towards the curb, peering up and down the street in puzzlement, before pulling a stop watch out of the long, beige coat he wore. He frowned at this too. And though she was pretending not to watch him, Hermione saw him turn to her.

"Excuse me?" he said. "Would you happen to be waiting for the five-past bus?"

She was more than happy to answer. The only thing that stopped her was the peculiar sight of a stick of celery, pinned to the man's coat. This knocked her off topic for a few seconds, but when she saw the man raise his eyebrows strangely, she swiftly collected herself and fought off a blush.

"Oh," she said quickly. "Sorry. Yes, I am. The five-past eight?"

The man did his frowny face again. "No," he said sadly. "The five-past nine."

He moved to pick up a discarded newspaper on the bench next to Hermione, as she checked her own watch.

"Oh," she said again. "Well, no then, sorry. You're a little early."

"Actually, I'm late," he said. "I wanted yesterday's bus." Upon her look of confusion, he helpfully held up the newspaper, pointed at the top of it, and gave her a pleasantly defeated smile. "Wrong date."

Hermione gave the man a polite, and maybe slightly restrained, smile. The man tossed the paper back onto the bench and looked to be on the verge of walking away, when something stopped him. His eyes had lingered on Hermione, until all plans of leaving were abandoned, and instead he took a step towards her.

"Rebellious or despondent?"

"I'm sorry?" asked Hermione.

"Well, someone like you waiting for the bus, it's sort of one or the other. You're either going against the grain or eager for time to think."

"Someone like me?"

The man nodded casually. "A witch."

Hermione sighed. The strange clothes began to make sense. "Sorry. Are you one our lot then?"

"Oh, no. I'm afraid I'm no Wizard."

Hermione frowned. "Then… who are you?"

"Aha," said the man, sitting down next to her. "Why is it that I rather think you were sitting here asking the same question of yourself?"

Hermione, entirely bewildered, simply stared at him. So he smiled again.

"Since I'm 25 hours later for my bus, it looks like I'm stuck here till I come up with another plan, so I might as well serve some use. What's troubling you?"

And if it were any other matter, Hermione wouldn't have spoken up. But, truth be told, she really did need to get some of this off her chest. So…

"It's my friend," she said awkwardly. "Harry. He's… making things very difficult for himself and is too wrapped up to see that I'm trying to help him."

The stranger nodded. "I'm afraid I know the feeling."

"You've had friends with the same problem?"

"No, I was the friend with the problem," said the man with grin. Hermione chuckled. There was something about that smile, and those shining blue eyes. "Is he putting himself in danger, your friend?"

Hermione considered this. "Not physically. But mentally, he's not doing himself any favours. And I'm afraid he's going to do himself real damage."

"Maybe he needs to," said the man with a shrug. "No matter how much you want to help him, from experience I can tell you if someone is stubborn enough, letting them fall on their face is the only way to help."

"That isn't an easy thing for me to watch happen."

"Of course not. But in the long run, you're probably doing what's best."

"And until then?"

The man gave her another of those dazzling smiles. "Well, personally I've always found the Beach Boys to work wonders in times of great distress."

Hermione laughed. "The Beach Boys. I'll have to remember that."

The sound of her bus coming down the road brought her to her feet. When it had stopped, she halted for a second on the step, turning around to give her strangely helpful new friend a genuine smile.

"Thanks for listening,"

The stranger gave her a reassuring nod. "Brave heart," he told her.

The Doctor watched her bus drive down the street and out of sight, deciding that pleasantly serious conversations with humans he'd never met before were amongst his favourite things. As he walked away, he made a wish that all worked out well for the young witch and her friend Harry.

…and then he stopped suddenly.

A witch? An intelligent, brown haired witch with a stubborn friend named Harry?

He turned back to the bus shelter with a guarded gaze.

"I wonder," he said quietly. "What are the odds of that?"


End of Chapter Six