Disclaimer: Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you. Sorry, not a lot of China in this one, but it is a two-parter, so I'm hard at work on it.

Summary: TONIGHT! Hermione wears a pantsuit, Harry eats an egg, and Ron responds to a home invasion. Something, something, Piers Morgan is a wanker.

Midnight Blues

Part III: Murder is My Employment

11.) The Doorway Pt. 1
or,
This Must Be the Place

May 2, 2005

The door creaks open slowly, perhaps a habit Hermione has learned to keep from waking Lauren up late at night. I discreetly observe the brunette slip through the doorframe from my perch flat on her bed, which is now my bed, since Lauren is using mine, and I don't particularly fancy sleeping with a seven year-old girl. Hermione doesn't seem to notice me, doesn't expect anyone to be in her room.

And it shows when she kicks off her stilettos.

Wait.

Stilettos? Since when does Hermione wear those? Then I take a closer look and see many things different about the woman altogether. This is not my Hermione, who sticks to wearing comfortable jeans and Chuck Taylors; this alien is wearing a form fitting, high-fashion pantsuit. This is not the natural makeup-less Hermione of my memory, she wears smoky eye shadow and lip gloss; her hair is no longer reminiscent of an untamed lion's mane, but smooth, as if she has been bathing Sleakeazy's for the past three months.

This ultra-chic smokeshow barely reminds me of my bookish friend with a tendency to nag and a pretty face beneath all that nerdiness.

In other words, she looks nothing like the Hermione I remember. Hot as hell, even in the darkness of the room, but not my Hermione. She doesn't turn on the lights; she doesn't even look at the bed to make sure it's empty before tossing the blazer of her suit onto it and faces away, toward the mirror. Immediately she tackles her blouse, unbuttoning it, and I feel as though I should say something, just so she knows she is stripping for me. But, then again, after "vacation" I've had, I wouldn't mind the show.

Of course, my bravado is immediately retracted when her shirt comes flying back and lands on my head and Herms reaches for the strap of her bra. I feel compelled to say something at this point:

"Much as I'd love for you to unsnap that bra; I can't help but feel that would be an invasion of privacy," I drawl, and Hermione shrieks, whirling around and waving her wand in my face, which is still covered by her discarded blouse. That's cute; she thinks the wand could help if I actually wanted to hurt her. "Long time no see, Ms Granger, I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

I almost want to laugh at the cavalcade of emotions that stampede across Hermione's expression, most prominently in the eyebrows (side note: Has Hermione's always done that thing with her eyebrows? It's kinda bizarre.) The hilarity is only heightened by the fact that Hermione Granger is standing practically half-naked above me, holding me at wandpoint, with no concern for her modesty.

"Been doing work on the wardrobe? Gotta say I approve." I make a show of picking her shirt off my head and smile, the effect of which must be ruined by the eyepatch, but, hey, what're you gonna do?

Hermione's eyebrows settle and she takes in my ugly mug and my amusement quickly turns to butt-clenching terror when one chief expression settles on ol' Eyebrow's face over there. Anger, righteous, vengeful anger:

"Harry Potter, you miserable son of a bitch," she intones, her voice dangerously quiet. "Where in God's name have you been? Why didn't you tell us you were alive!?" She squints. "And what the hell happened to your eye?"

Why the fuck does no one ever take that in stride? You know, like: Harry Potter, you're a prick for being gone so long, where have you been, oh you have an eyepatch? I guess you lost your eye. I think it's pretty fucking obvious. I would never say that out loud, however, because I don't think being a smartarse is the best way to reintroduce yourself into your best friend's life, but my damn fool mouth doesn't follow my brain's amazingly sensible advice.

"Lily Potter was a nice lady," I blurt out.

Hermione's eyebrows furrow. "What?" She asks confusedly.

"I am not a son of a bitch. My mother was a good woman and you know it."

"Harry, I'm going to hit you."

"Fine, fine," I say, raising my hands in mock surrender with only a tinge of real fear. Having seen Malfoy take a punch from her and being on the receiving end of one of the infamous Granger right hooks, I can say with complete certainty that I do not intend to experience that ever again. "China. I've been in China."

"China?" She shrieks in a whisper, still aware of the squirt in the other room. "What the bloody hell were you doing in China?"

"Fighting the Kremlin's reach, spreading Democracy and Christianity, impregnating the locals and then leaving them high-and-dry... You know, being an American," I grin. And then stop grinning, when Hermione punches me in the arm, a strong thwack reverberating throughout the room. "Ow!" I rub my shoulder and glare at the brunette: "Fascist!"

"FASCIST!? We thought you died, you, you insufferable arse!"

"Clearly, I didn't," I drawl, which is not the way to appease Hermione, I figure.

As she hits my arm again (ow, by the way), the door bursts open, revealing Ron with his wand brandished. Hermione whirls on the new intruder, only to find Ron staring dumbly back at us:

"I... heard shouting..." he trails off awkwardly, looking between Hermione and myself. "Thought something might be happening."

I wave. "Hey, Ron!"

Ron finally seems to notice me, and his face breaks out into his trademarked boyish grin. "Hey, mate. Good to see you!"

"What are you doing here?" I question.

"Just got back from a double date with Herms," Ron points a finger toward Hermione, who is moving toward her dresser, probably to clothe herself again. See, just like I thought. Of course they'd get back together. Even if they make each other completely unhappy, they can't stop; it's like a trainwreck on videotape, rewinding and crashing on and on into chaos.

"So, the Romione ship sails again? For clearer waters, I hope?" I can't help but jab. Hermione hates that term so I make a point to use it as often as allowed.

Ron blushes and looks meekly at the floor; Hermione sighs exasperatedly and answers for the two: "Honestly, Harry," she chides in her swottiest voice. "Do you think we'd do that again? Ronald went with his date and I with mine. We're friends. And stop that! Romione is an atrocious name."

"Uh-huh," I drawl with a mocking zen-like nod, about as close as I'll ever get to Luna. "You'll excuse me for not knowing; I've been out of the loop and you two do have a tendency to break-up, make-up, and shag like there's no tomorrow."

"And moving right along," Ron coughs. "Where have you been?"

"China," I jauntily reply with an accusing smile. "Thanks for looking for me. Cunt."

"Well, I would have looked for you if I had known where the hell you'd gone," Ron retorts in faint mocking exasperation.

Hermione sighs, having thrown on another intensely stylish and intensely un-Hermione v-neck, and crosses her arms. "And that's an exceptionally roundabout way to bring us back to the original question: What were you doing in China?"

"Fine, I'll tell you," I reply. "But you first have to answer a question of mine: what are you wearing and why?"

Hermione looks down and flushes. "When she came back, Tracey Davis decided she wanted to be my best friend," she says, as if that's supposed to explain everything. At my prompting (read: a blank look), she sighs and explains further. "And as Tracey's first act of being my best friend, she went out and bought me an entire wardrobe—without even checking my size, mind you! Then, she tricked this dunce—" she points at Ron, who looks apologetic. "—into inviting Lauren and I to a restaurant in Diagon Alley for dinner with the Bill and Fleur, whereupon she broke into our flat, went through my wardrobe, and burned what she didn't like. Which was everything."

I cast a pitying glance. "No more Chuck Taylors?"

Hermione hangs her head. "No more Chuck Taylors," she commiserates. "I haven't had the time to go shopping since."

"Well, at least she got you clothes that look good on you," I offer, but am rebuffed by Hermione's furious and indignant glare. "Wow, I'm sorry I annoyed you with my compliment."

"Shut up, Harry; I answered your question, now you answer mine," she growls.

"Fine, has Ron told you—?"

"Yes," Hermione interrupts. "But he didn't tell me about the eyepatch."

I grin. "Of course he wouldn't, that story reflects very poorly on him," I smirk, and Hermione shoots me a questioning glance. "Basically Boyo over here got brainwashed by a Chinese bloke on a power-trip, proceeded to stab me in the back like some kind of drone-slave, and then I was tortured for two weeks. A Blood Mage with a really poor attitude cut my eye out."

Ron looks apologetic; Hermione, however, looks shocked:

"Are your lives really so horrible?" She asks, her tone astonished and her eyes bright, her hand immediately seeks mine in comfort. "That you would sit here and recount mind-control, and betrayal, and torture like yesterday's news?" She squeezes her hand, the fleeting pressure is familiar, calming, somehow.

I meet a steady cinnamon gaze, and for once, I don't know how to respond. No witticisms, no drawling. Hermione's right; pain is a constant companion to the mercenary soul, and Ron and I have been immersed in it so long that it's become unrecognizable, a parody of itself. And she would know a few things about pain, deep inside, I knew she's being reminded of her own torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. A rush of fraternal protectiveness for Hermione and uncontrollable rage for the rest fills me when I think of that woman.

Lestrange. Now there's a name that sets my blood a-boil: murderer of Sirius Black and Molly Weasley, torturer of Frank and Alice Longbottom, and Hermione too. My godfather, my surrogate mother, and my best friend. God knows what else she'd done before. It seems almost unfair that bitch escaped from her crimes all those years ago. But it had been a bit grimly amusing at the time, to watch Voldemort face when he realized his most faithful supporter had fled a losing fight.

Hermione's a strong woman, that I have been made aware of too many times to count, but torture isn't something a person can throw off easily. It's horrifying, it's rape of the mind, body, and soul. And I know that sometimes, in the dead of night when the only thing left is the darkness and herself, Hermione can still feel Lestrange's knife. I want to say something, but I don't have the words, and instead settle for running my hand up her forearm to where I know those acidic cuts lay, and run my hand soothingly over scarred skin.

Ron is kind enough to steer the topic away. "So you went to China, then? What went down there?" His question breaks me from my soliloquy on Hermione's torture, and I'm glad. The mood just dropped into a deep, depressing hole. We could use a little levity.

"...and then Robards lay there, staring at the sky," I say, coming to the conclusion of the story just as the sun begins to rise over the horizon; I take in Ron's enraptured expression and Hermione's no-longer snarled curls hanging down in a curtain over her face. "I don't know what he saw. Maybe he saw the men and women whose lives he destroyed, maybe he saw hell, but I'll never forget his words: 'The horror! The horror!'."

Ron leans back. "Wow," he says in awe. "That's a whale of a story there, Harry. What'd you think, Herms?"

Hermione, all thoughts of Bellatrix Lestrange forgotten, lifts her head, the curtain of hair falling away from her face. I resist the urge to grin at my success; no longer is she dwelling on ghosts of things long past because the expression on her face is utterly apoplectic, and she makes her displeasure well-known by shoving me hard.

"Harry James Potter, you complete and total arse! Can you not be serious for more than two minutes at a time or are you utterly incapable of refraining from making a buffoon of yourself?" I burst out laughing; Hermione throws a pillow at my face. Ron, bless his soul, looks utterly confused:

"Uh... am I missing something here?" He asks dumbly, causing me to laugh harder and Hermione to sigh in fond exasperation:

"This prat here just wasted the last two hours of our time retelling Heart of Darkness with himself and the Blood Mages as the main characters."

"Cart of whatness?" Says Ron in his typically incorrect style.

"Heart of Darkness," repeats Hermione. "It's a muggle book. Harry just wasted our time."

"Sorry?" I ask, not feeling sorry at all.

Hermione glowers. "Oh, you'll be feeling sorry if you don't tell us exactly what happened. And the truth, this time, Potter!"

"Alright, alright, Jesus Herms, don't get your knickers in a twist." I reply, "You'll probably not understand a thing until I tell you what happened when the Avengers over here transported back to England without me..."

As I finish my recounting of snapping the Blood Mage's neck, Ron stares disbelievingly and Hermione has a hand clamped over her mouth in shock:

"But, but she was dead!" She exclaims. "Are you sure it was her?"

"Yeah," continues Ron for her. "It could have very well been anyone in Polyjuiced form."

"Think about what you're saying, Ron," I snark, "why in Merlin's name would fucking anyone Polyjuice into Hannah Abbott of all people? Literally three people in the world know we were engaged; two of them are in this room and one is an Auror Commander with the English Ministry."

"Merlin," recoils Ron. "No need for third-fucking-degree!"

"Ronald!" Hermione admonishes.

I continue over them. "Besides, I know for a fact it is Hannah because of the rest of my little tale, which, if you're interested, we can actually get around to telling!"

Ron glares at me. "Well, maybe if you didn't waste our time with Apocalypse How for two hours..."

"Apocalypse Now, Ronniekins," I correct primly, exchanging a grin with Hermione over Ron's obvious cultural retardation. "Welp, I think I got to Shangri-La about a two-and-a-half months ago..."

February 14, 2005

The trek down the mountain had been perilous, but I was eventually able to scale down with some comfort. The road from the mountains to Shangri-La was impossibly idyllic; a green, green road stretched out from there to the city, running alongside a small lake, and far beyond. The problem was that Shangri-La seemed to be a hostile city, as beautiful as it was. The Blood Mages retreated inside the walls and were meeting a man by the name of Chamberlaine. I had no idea the kind of back-up they had there. Not to mention, even if I managed to skirt notice, one glimpse from Hannah and everyone would know I didn't apparate back to England.

So, the best idea was to play it safe. When I reached that little lake on the way to the utopian city, I bent down and surveyed my face in it. My hair had grown wild and long, the beard with it; I saw a face, set in a hard, angular lines with one eye covered by a strong, three-pronged piece of stitched leather. It nearly frightened me how alien I looked to myself. I wouldn't call myself ugly, but there was a certain hardness to my face that hadn't been there prior to leaving England. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, I guess. Such a shame, then, that I could only get used to my new face for a minute before changing it.

Black hair was changed to a lighter, chestnut brown, in fashion after Hermione hair color and a single green eye was turned to Ron's cerulean blue. I combined that with a few glamour charms to give the appearance of a muggle in his late thirties (or a wizard in his mid-fifties), and soon, I barely resembled Harry Potter but for the eyepatch, which would be a dead giveaway, but I couldn't do anything about it; I couldn't very well grow another eye.

Besides, I determined the hood of my robe (which I had also transfigured to look more travel-worn and battle-scarred than it had prior) would do a good enough job of concealing my face, though I really did need to get it dyed again. Ugh. Black and red. Utterly tasteless.

The gates came upon me quickly, and they were a sight to behold. Though it was already open, I could tell the gate was round and heavily decorated with murals of animals, humans, and nature all acting in harmony, it resembled more a work of art belonging to a museum than a door to guard one of China's most heavily-populated wizarding cities. I think you mentioned it to me once, Hermione, The Gate of Infinity, a doorway to earthly paradise. It lived up to the name.

Flanking either side of the gate stood two guards, wearing long, flowing tunics and light leather armor above it. Down past the gate, I saw all kinds of people scattered about a sprawling utopia of waterfalls, greens, and charming cobblestone paths. But it wasn't just humans, I saw small gnomes running wild, dwarves with their axes and beards, and every once in a while I was sure I caught the ageless look of an elf.

It was like I stepped from one world to another.

"Hail stranger," the guard called out in a trilling language I'd never heard before, but somehow could understand. "From where do you come and why have you traveled to our humble city?"

"I'm a traveler," I replied in English, and the man seemed to understand as well. "And I've spent far too much time out in the cold, braving storms. I would simply like a bed to sleep in and a meal to eat."

The guard sized me with piercing blue eyes and a searching look. His companion, a sullen-looking man dressed in similar tunic and furs, glanced the other way as the first did so. Perhaps he found something in my stare, perhaps not, but he eventually stood aside and beckoned me enter the city.

"You may pass," he nodded with conviction, speaking in that strange, musical language of his. "There are several inns in the city, however, the closest one is located just east of the Rhuinduin Square; it is called Goshmâr. You will not miss it."

"Thank you," I said, but did not intend to take his advice. Let me tell you something, Herms, the closest inn is never the inn you want to go to when you're trying to remain inconspicuous, as it's the most likely to be visited by your enemies, right Ron?

So, anyway, I passed by the strange guard and his silent companion into the town, and there I saw things you people wouldn't believe. Stone buildings stood like monoliths, vines growing down them like an old romantic painting, the sun shone down with the calm grace of a breezy morning, the rushing sound of many waterfalls could be heard in tandem with strange and otherworldly music emanating from seemingly nowhere.

I took one step and immediately bumped into something, earning a disgruntled shout from somewhere below me. I looked down to find a goblin waving his fist at me with righteous anger:

"Watch where you tread Adamspawn," He seethed in gobbledygook, but again I understood him without having ever known the language before. I stared back in consternation and nearly lunged for the little cunt when the prick decided he'd bare his sharp teeth at me.

Of course, I didn't, I'm trying to keep a low profile, after all. But could you blame me if I did?

The goblin moved, evidently convinced he had cowed the human into learning his rightful place, but I shrugged and continued on, turning a corner where I passed a true-to-life dwarf barbershop quartet singing a bawdy song about ale, mining, and a dwarf-woman's arsehole.

I'm seriously not even fucking kidding here.

I spotted a few humans here and there, laughing and shouting joyfully along with dwarves and playing along with an equally dirty song concerning Quidditch players' goalposts. And, as entertaining as that was, I had a Blood Mage and a Spear to find, and I didn't know if I could do it alone. What I needed to do was find a way to contact Boris. And that would mean I'd have to find the nearest Lodge. He did always say that there was a lodge in nearly every major city a criminal working under him could find; of course, I now know the lodges are a place for British M.I.7. agents, but that was beside the point.

Ron, do you remember those rings Boris gave us when we first started working for him, to use them to locate a lodge if we were ever in trouble? Yeah? Well, thank fuck I brought that with me.

So I fished the ring from my—

Ron yawns. Loudly.

"I'm sleepy and this story is really boring compared to the last," he says whilst rubbing his eyes.

I give him an incredulous look. "It's been five minutes!" Even though I, too, am exhausted, I figure I must protest a little bit because the last two months have been anything but boring for me.

"Sorry mate, I'm knackered. Tell the rest tomorrow at Bill and Fleur's."

"Bill and Fleur's?" I ask confusedly. "Why would I tell it at Shell Cottage?"

"Because we're going there for dinner tomorrow, or technically, later today," says Hermione as though it's the simplest thing in the world as she pats my leg. "Lauren's taken your room for the night so you can sleep here; I'll take the sofa."

Ron's goodbye was short and sweet, as it always was, though punctuated by a loud yawn this particular time. Soon after, the flat is empty and devoid of Ron's warming presence. Hermione pushes me into the pillows and gets up:

"I'm going to take a shower before going to bed," she smiles. "I expect you to be asleep by then."

"Yes mother," I nod resolutely, but not without a smile. Hermione looks down at her fingers for a scant few moments, as though internally debating something, before looking back up. Our eyes meet for several seconds, and then she springs towards me, wrapping me soundly into one of her famous hugs:

"I'm so, so glad you're back, Harry," she says into my shoulder. "We missed you so much."

"I know," I whisper back, "I missed you too. And Ginny must be out of her mind."

Hermione pulls back from the hug and cringes. That does not look good. But, hey, even if Ginny cheated on me during my extended Asian safari, I can't really bring myself to care. Ginny should be with someone who appreciates her, not me; I'm about as ungrateful and unappreciative as they come:

"About Ginny," the brunette starts. "I know it looks bad, and I was angry when she first told us, but you mustn't be too harsh on her."

"Ginny's got a new squeeze?" I deadpan. "Good for her."

"Good for—what?" Hermione asks, looking confused, which isn't a natural state for the brunette I am sure.

"Hermione, I disappeared for three months or so months without even consulting her beforehand. Of course, it was only supposed to be a weekend, but that's no excuse. She didn't even know what Ron I do for a living. If Ginny had done the same to me, you'd better believe our relationship would be over by the time she got back." I give her a Gallic shrug and lean back into the fluffed pillows.

Her response is a surprised look. "You're not angry?"

"Oh, I'm fucking livid," I return in a chipper tone. "But it doesn't change the fact that what's done is done and I'm just as much at fault for being an inattentive boyfriend as she is for not waiting for more than two weeks to jump in someone else's bed."

"It was not two weeks," Hermione rebukes mildly. "But that's very mature of you Harry."

"You say that like it's a shock. I'll have you know I'm very mature."

"Are you now?" Hermione's raised eyebrow is telling.

"Absolutely. I'm so grown-up," I titter in my silliest Kentish schoolgirl accent, drawing a giggle from Hermione. "And what is this I hear of double dates, Miss Granger? Is there anyone I should meet?" Hermione's smile turns demure and she pushes me into the pillows, for real this time.

"You'll find out tomorrow, now get some rest," she says.

"Why so secretive? Will I not like the guy?"

"Quiet," Hermione shushes me. "It's time for bed."

"I won't like the guy, will I?"

"Don't ruin the moment, Harry."

"Or, wait, is it even a guy? You know I don't have a problem if you're into that kind of stuff."

Hermione smacks my arm lightly in mock-indignation. "Lie down and stop being crass."

"'You should take the bed; I'm used to sleeping on hard surfaces now, I'll take the sofa," I protest.

"All the more reason you should take the bed. Now shut up and sleep," she says, and kisses my forehead.

"Alright then, I guess," I say, letting my head hit the pillow. "Night Hermione."

"Goodnight Harry," she says, getting off the bed and heading toward her dresser. I hear a bit of shifting around and spot Hermione carrying a pair of what look to be pajamas to the loo nestled in the corner of the bedroom. She flips the light on and shuts the door behind her; the sound of the shower spray lulls me to sleep.

And a little girl's voice pulls me from a dream involving trekking through jungles with Ron, a tree with leaves of dangling eyeballs, a man with an ugly smile and white robes, and Hermione in a St. Mungo's Healer's robes sometime later. I peek open my one good eye and spot Lauren's face about half-a-foot from mine:

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!" She exclaims.

"Mmhmm?" I mumble sleepily as I try to get up, but bloody hell the wear and tear of the last few months hit me and I can barely stand. I must look pitiful to Lauren: a one-eyed man trying vainly to stand just slumping back down to the bed like an invalid.

"Miss Hermione is making breakfast," she mumbles upon seeing my haggard form. "I was wondering if you could make it instead—if you're okay, I mean!"

Hermione making breakfast is a powerful trigger warning, and makes me momentarily superhuman; I spring out of bed and take Lauren by the hand to the kitchen where Hermione is predictably failing at making an omelet. She still looks as perfectly coiffed as she did last night, despite being completely at her wits end with the eggs, and, hoping to relieve her of this tragedy in the making, I playfully bump her out of the way:

"Step aside Herms," I drawl, "let the Maestro work his magic."

Hermione looks affronted. "Hey! I was almost finished with that!" She says with a shake of her head, long brown curls flying with it. "That was Ronald's; yours was to come next."

"Ron's coming?" I look down at the nearly charred omelet and sigh. "One day I might teach you how to cook to save your life, but this, dear woman, is rubbish." I take the skillet she was working with to the trash bin and chuck out the omelet. "Sit at the table, you two. I'll actually make something for all of us that's edible."

I relish in Hermione's indignant squeak at the insult and Lauren's hyper-excited clapping.

Ron ate breakfast with us and then gave me the odd order of procuring alcohol for the get-together at Shell cottage, but I was far too tired to care, so I went back to sleep and woke up a few minutes ago.

Hermione, Lauren, and I meet Ron later at his now-shared flat with George, right above the latter's Diagon Alley branch of WWW, which has been rebranded as 3W since it's the 21st Century and I guess hyper-brevity is in vogue now.

"Everyone else is already at Shell Cottage," Ron says, leading us into the flat where a man and a woman await us. The woman is a blonde and reminds me distinctly of Daphne Greengrass, so I assume they're related, and the man is around my height with long dirty blond locks and piercing blue eyes. The shadow of beard grows around his face but doesn't look like much more than peach fuzz. He looks familiar but I can't place him.

"Harry Potter," Ron starts by way of introduction, pointing at the woman first and then the man, "Astoria Greengrass and Jacob Marlow; Astoria and Jake, Harry Potter."

Ah, these must be their dates. "Nice to meet you," I say, shaking hands with both.

Marlow nods and Astoria smiles. "Likewise," she says, though she gives the eyepatch a lingering look. Hermione dutifully pecks Marlow on the cheek and Ron wraps an arm around Astoria.

"Are we ready to go?" Asks Hermione, nodding at the overlarge fireplace. "We'll go two at a time. Harry, take Lauren, you two should go first."

Seeing no problem with her request, I stick out a hand to Lauren, who smiles and grasps it with her own. I lead her to the firepit and open a small urn of what looks to be ashes on the mantle, allowing the girl to take a handful and then scooping out my own. I let her enter the fireplace first:

"Now say it clearly: 'Shell Cottage'," I say, nodding to Lauren to do the same.

Hermione has told me she doesn't like flooing very much so it's no surprise to when she shakily exhales: "S—Shell Cottage."

And then she's off.

I enter into the fireplace quickly and follow after her, coming out in Bill and Fleur's living room, where Lauren pats the floo powder off her jeans. The second she sees me emerge, Lauren returns her hand to my own and says:

"I haven't been here before, Mr. Potter," she sounds nervous.

I smile back and crouch down to eye level. "Don't worry; there are two other kids just your age. Hermione said you met Bill and Fleur, did you meet their daughter Victoire?"

Lauren nodded vigorously. "Mmhmm! She's nice!"

"Well, she lives here. And you'll meet my godson, Teddy. You'll see, you'll have lots of fun."

"Okay," the little girl says, her fears somewhat allayed.

A loud crash echoes from right around the kitchen, causing both Lauren and I to whirl toward the source of the noise in alarm. Standing there are two women I didn't want to see until Ron and Hermione were here protecting me: Ginny Weasley, looking predictably beautiful in all but countenance, which is stone cold expressionless; and Gabrielle Delacour, a recent graduate of Beauxbatons, with a worried look on her otherworldly face that only served to enhance her fresh beauty. At Ginny's feet is a tray of tea cups, all spilled and cracked.

"Ginny, mon amie, what was that?" Echoes Fleur's voice as she steps out the kitchen and takes in the scene; tea spilled all over her floor and the absentee Potter in the living room with a little girl and an eyepatch.

And I, never being the kind to understate anything, say: "Hiya! Long time no see."

Three things happen at the same time: Ginny whirls on her feet, furious, and stalks back into kitchen; Fleur laughs in that entrancing way of hers; and Gabrielle rushes forward, capturing me in a hug that could give Hermione a run for her money and planting kisses all over my face:

"Oh, mon dieu!" she exclaims, showering me in kisses, Lauren recoils in shock at the the teenager's behavior and I'm too dazed by the Veela magic to do anything. "We thought you were dead, 'Arry! We were so worried!" Each kiss on my cheek or forehead leaves a pleasant burning sensation behind and I relax into the touch. Am I an arse for taking advantage of a girl with a crush on me like this? Probably. Do I care? Not really.

Hey, she's eighteen, I'm not a weirdo for enjoying this so stop looking at me like that.

Fleur, still laughing, comes over and attempts to pry her blubbering sister off of me as Hermione and her boyfriend come stumbling out of the floo. Ron and Astoria soon follow and the first thing Ron does is bray with that donkey-like laugh of his at Fleur vainly trying to pull Gabrielle off of me.

When she succeeds, Fleur's introduction is more gracious. "Welcome home, 'Arry," she offers a hand up and pecks me on either cheek when I'm fully vertical.

"Thank you Fleur," I smile. "And I'd love to catch up, though I think it would be best if I had a conversation with Gin first."

"I would agree," is Fleur's pithy reply. I shoot her a glare and she offers a demure smile, shooing me off. Hermione leans in to my ear:

"Break a leg, absentee-boyfriend-man," she teases.

Feeling suitably 'unmanned', I enter the kitchen to the sniggering of the forming crowd in Shell Cottage's drawing room. Entering into the stone kitchen, a heavenly scent wafts from Fleur's stovetop, with what appears to be coq au vin simmering in the pot. At the small breakfast nook where we often sit when Ron, Hermione, and I come to visit Shell Cottage for brunch is Ginny and, rather unsurprisingly, Dean Thomas. Do you know those emotion charts you get in primary school or at children's psychiatrist offices? The ones that display happiness, or sadness, or fury? Well, if there was ever a real-life display of unease, it's Dean Thomas facing Ginny Weasley's former boyfriend:

"Harry," he greets rather stiffly, giving the eyepatch a wary look.

I play up the unassuming boyfriend bit. "Hey, Dean! What're you doin' here?"

And Ginny? If she was on the emotion chart, she would be somewhere between offended and guilty. "You know what he's doing here, Harry," she intones quietly, looking for all the world like she's about to cry.

Deciding levity's not the way to go, I nod. "I reckon I do."

I sit down at the table next to a bowl of sweets, a simple white bowl filled with Cadbury Creme Eggs, probably from this Easter past. I pick one out, unwrap it, and eat it with great ceremony, relishing the taste.

"What happened to your eye?" Ginny asks, concern seeping into her voice though she clearly does not want it to. I give her a chocolatey smile and return:

"I fell down some stairs."

Ginny is not amused. "It's always jokes with you. Jokes to distract from the truth; that or flat-out lying. Isn't it amazing what you learn from second-hand sources? That I'm dating a hired killer? That he left us behind to go hunt down some Chinese Dark Lord? And then got his damned fool self stuck in Siberia?"

"I may have omitted some things but I never flat-out lied, as you say," I drawl. "And I'm not a hired killer. Mer-cen-ary. Is that so hard to pronounce?"

Dean looks at me hard. "Harry, don't be like that. If I didn't know you personally, I would be obligated to hunt you down and turn you over to the Ministry."

I am unimpressed. "You could try," I let the threat hang.

Both man and woman stare back, unsure of what to say next.

"'Sides, it'd be very illegal to arrest me right now."

They still seem to be at a loss for words, so I make it easier on them:

"Well?"

Gin looks to Dean, and I can tell a united front is about to rain shit on me, so I don't let them take control of the conversation.

"You know what? I don't care. You're right Gin. It doesn't really make up for anything I've done to you," I say. "Which is why I won't make a fuss. Enjoy the dinner."

"Wait, that's it? That's all—"

"Harry, darling!" Calls a familiar voice in the most sickly sweet tone she can muster. I turn to find Tracey standing by the stove, dipping a delicate finger into the coq au vin and sucking on the wine sauce.

"Who invited you?" I drawl.

"Such hostility!" She sighs dramatically. "And here I thought our romp through Siberia had endeared me to you."

"Siberia endeared you to me about as much as crystal meth to an Interpol Agent. If only you had said 'fine, Harry, let's go, this place is fucking crazy', I'd still be a man who could toss you a delicious candy." Tracey looks questioningly at me whilst Gin and Dean sit rooted to their seats, still completely surprised at how easily the whole ordeal was. To answer Tracey's glance, I snag another Cadbury Egg and toss it to her.

It sails right behind her into the coq au vin.

I sigh in disappointment and stand to leave the room as Tracey fishes for the Egg, Ginny and Dean bolt for the living room first, leaving me behind with the brunette. "Ah, but if I had said that, we wouldn't have the spear right in our grasp."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I caution.

"To be sure," the brunette laughs. "So will I hear of your exploits in Shangri-La from the horses mouth or do I have to beg?"

"Depends on what your idea of begging is."

"Oh, saucy Jack!" She grins and pokes the bridge of my nose with the finger that had just been in her mouth.

"What's Boris told you?" I say exasperatedly, but it comes out more as a whine than anything else.

"Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that, something about an Abbey priest. Nothing too major." She lingers on the last word. "So, will you tell me?"

"Well, at least I don't have to catch you up to speed," I grumble. "I'll tell it when Hermione and Ron beat it out of me. Make sure you're there then, cause I sure as shite ain't telling it twice."

"Ron and Hermione? Oh, I assure you more people will want to know."

"So?" I ask. "Fuck them. They weren't involved; Hermione only gets to know because I know she'll break my arm if I don't tell her."

"Oh, they were involved."

What? Who else could possibly—"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes."

"Oh, you didn't."

"I didn't," Tracey smirks. "Your saintly friend Miss Granger deserves credit for that."

"Hallo, Mr. Potter," Sophia Mercier greets with a kiss on either cheek, leaving me feeling cold and rigid compared to the warm and boneless feel of Fleur or Gabrielle's kisses. It's not altogether unpleasant, but different, reminding me of what allowing the succubus to 'steal my seed' might have felt like.

"'Lo, Sophia," I return unenthusiastically. "What brings you and your pet werewolf out of the night?"

"Don't be rude, Harry," Tracey admonishes as Mercier gives me a thin-lipped smile and Lombardi remains predictably zen. "Hello Sophia, Andrea."

"Salve," greets the werewolf with a nod as Mercier turns her crimson eyes and a fuller smile upon the MI-7 agent. "You still look like shit," Lombardi continues, lightly ribbing me.

"Oh I think it adds to my appearance. Makes me look ruggedly handsome," I say, tapping the patch.

Lombardi gives me a leery look. "Well they did say you were a dreamer."

And then he steps off, following Tracey and Mercier like a little lapdog. A good man and a good fighter, but fuck if he isn't whipped. I turn to survey the foyer of Shell Cottage and note that, in my absence, the crowd has grown much larger. Bill, Tonks, and Percy seem to have materialized from nowhere along with George. Lauren gestures animatedly with Victoire and Teddy nearby Fleur, who awkwardly chats with Ginny, Dean, and Daphne Greengrass (who was probably invited by her sister, I reckon). The newcomers crowd and bombard me with questions as to my absence until Fleur breaks them up and ushers them away from me. I give the Frenchwoman a grateful smile, which she returns with such breathtaking beauty that I don't stop staring even after she's turned away.

"Did you bring it?" Ron whispers conspiratorially, having sidled alongside me in my distraction.

I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah, I did, but why are you being so secretive? We're adults."

"Tori doesn't like me drinking, so I have to do it on the sly," He winks surreptitiously.

Who the fuck's Tori? Oh, right. Astoria.

"So what'd you get?" Ron chatters on amicably. "Firewhiskey? Dragon's Blood—?" His voice drops to the seductive whisper only a raging alcoholic can have when speaking of liquor. "Not Aberdeen?"

"None of those; Rye."

"Rye? Rye whiskey? That's muggle shite! I told you this morning to get Dragon's Blood if you could, and Firewhiskey if the DB was too expensive!"

"I didn't have time, okay? I picked up some at a liquor store in Birmingham with Herms before we left."

"Hermione knew?"

I shrug. "Yeah, I assume so, why does that matter?"

"She always gave me shit when I went out and bought liquor, but of course she doesn't say a damn thing to you. She always was a pushover concerning you."

"She just loves me more than you," I deadpan, "now what do you say to getting drunk before dinner?"

"Amen," said Ron. "Lemme just get George."

Of course, before either of us can leave, we run practically headfirst into Hermione, who regards us with a smile that promises pain, and her boyfriend, who just looks harried, which I've come to expect of anyone dating our Hermione. "And where exactly are you two going?" The brunette asks sweetly.

"Out for a walk," I lie simply.

"Nowhere at all," says Ron nervously, and then, when hearing me, he continues: "out for a walk. Yeah, out for for a walk along the beach is all, innit?"

"Is that so?" Asks Hermione in a teasing manner. "I think I'd like to join you two on this walk. Make sure everything is on the up-and-up."

Ron quails. "No, no, that's not necessary! Not necessary at all!"

Idiot. He's all but guaranteed Hermione interrupting our precious drinky time.

As if reading my bloody mind, Hermione's eyes narrow. "Well, now I know I'm coming along, if only to keep you two prats from getting into too much trouble." She exchanges a soft glance with her boyfriend Whatshisname (he really hasn't made much of an impression, has he?), who then promptly fucks off.

As we make our way to the back door, I can't resist a jab. "You've trained your boy-toy well. He's so undemanding it's like I can't even hear him!"

"Jacob is flexible. Unlike some people," Hermione spears a sideways glare at Ron, who sneers back:

"Inflexible? Me?" His voice registers with barely disguised incredulity. "Are you drunk?" He laughs and turns to me. "Did you hear that, Harry? I'm inflexible! Hermione Granger called me inflexible!"

I snicker along with Ron. "You've to admit he has a point."

Hermione purses her lips and tsks in that school-teacher way of hers that reminds me of McGonagall at her most stern. It was enough to cow Ron and I from ganging up on her in a game of insults back at Hogwarts, but let's face it, we've all done some growing since then.

When she realizes neither of us are unnerved by the McGonagall stare, Hermione huffs exasperatedly. "Oh, piss off, you two." She's the first out the door, Ron and I following behind with matching grins.

It's good to be back.

"What? Afraid of a little buzz?" Teases Ron, waving the flask in which I brought the whiskey in front of Hermione's face. The waves rock gently in front of us. It is a surprisingly gray day in France, and yet somehow that enhances the beauty of the environs, like I'm in some faraway dream, away from whatever bitter reality I'm to awake to.

Hermione growls. "Get that thing away from me."

"Poor 'ickle Hermione," sings Ron in the most deliberately annoying falsetto. "Can't have a drop of alky, cause then she'll do things she regrets!"

"I just don't want anything to drink before dinner," Hermione shrugs away from Ron, stomping across behind us and around me, effectively using me as a buffer between herself and Ron, who hands me the flask.

I take a swig. "I seem to recall a rather eager drinker a few months ago. You got bladdered and told me about how 'I know you more than anyone else in the world, Harry Potter'." I finish in a mocking impression of Hermione's voice.

She smirks back: "And I recall you raging against the night, but I don't judge you for it."

I snatch the flask from Ron and take a long swig, relishing in the warmth of the whiskey. "What's the matter with a little pre-dinner drink?" I ask to Hermione's ire:

"If I drink from that wretched thing," she begins in an commanding tone, "you will tell me what you've been doing on the other side of the bloody world."

I hand her the flask, and as she sips, I reply: "Certainly. I was going to tell you anyways."

She coughs and sputters her last swig of the whiskey. "Vile drink," Hermione grimaces as she hands the flask back to me. "Satan's very own."

"Well," I shrug and drink from the flask again before tossing it back to Ron. "Some do say he's the hero of the story."

Hermione and I exchange looks but not words.

We walk for a time, and then come across a discarded log on the beach, how it got there is anyone's guess because I don't see a forest anywhere nearby, but there it is. And here we are. "This looks as good a place as any," I say as I collapse on the sand next to the log. Both Ron and Hermione agree, settling down on the beach as well.

"It's been three months, right?" I ask. "Feels like longer."

"Felt like years," said Ron with Hermione's reassuring nod in tandem.

"Lots of change," I say. "By the way, Ron, your sister and I are done."

Ron shrugs. "Didn't really expect any less. Merlin you should have seen her at the beginning: on her high horse about me leaving you behind with a crowd of Bloodies, and then she goes and starts seeing Dean in about a fortnight's time. Hypocrite."

"Hush, Ron," chides Hermione. "Don't speak ill."

"Herms is right. I had no right to be dating Ginny in the first place. And frankly, I honestly couldn't care less about her and Dean. Now, about China?"

"Oh, yes," says Ron without much enthusiasm. "Do tell us your fascinating story about finding a Lodge."

Hermione hushes him again and looks to me to start. "Thank you, Herms." I say. "Now, the Lodge. It didn't take me long to find the Lodge with the help of Boris's ring..."

A/N: I hadn't meant to get so side-tracked with the post-China plot, but there was a lot of housekeeping to do before I could go into the next act and it's been long enough since you've seen any canon characters besides Ron and Tracey (of which only Ron is fleshed out in canon) and the China act is very Harry-heavy, with Hannah being about the only other canon character in the picture at that point. So, you got a taste of the new normal: Tracey thinks she's Hermione's best bud, Ron's dating Daphne's younger sister, Team Werepire are now full-time Weasley family friends, Harry and Ginny are finally out of their zombie relationship, etc. There will be Shell Cottage moments in the next chapter, but it will mostly be in Shangri-La.

Chapter Notes:

Harry's already spoiled some of the deets about his China sabbatical during this chapter, look out for them.

I find it hilarious that Ginny and Dean were actually prepping this huge debate as to why Harry should leave Gin alone and Harry doesn't even give a shit because he's still reeling from Hannah. On the other hand, I'm worried that Gin might have come off rather poorly in this chapter, which was not my intention at all. If you think it was mishandled, don't hesitate to call me out on my bullshit.

B. Lestrange: I think I forgot to mention it in the first chapter, but since Molly got iced by Bella, the crazy bitch is still out there somewhere crucioing tourists in Costa Rica or running some sort of pureblood torture-fetish brothel in Bangkok or something. But something seems cosmically wrong about letting her be whilst Harry and co. exist in this world. Take from that what you will.

Gabrielle Delacour still has a crush on Harry from canon, which continued into this fic.

Apocalypse Now is a film adaptation of Heart of Darkness for people that don't know set during the Vietnam War instead of on the Congo River. I'd assume Harry and Ron would've seen the movie by that point in their lives.

Next chapter: China, William Granger, Luna Lovegood (she's back!), Harry practices his babysitting skills when Hermione goes on a date.

Until then!
Geist.