A/N: More thanks are due to my wonderful betas Christina Teresa, Seakays, and sunshyndaisies, who leaped tall buildings and fought humongous, evil creatures for days on end to help bring this to you...Wait--wrong story. Maybe it was that they managed to beta-read this and get it back to me while horribly busy. Ah well -- same thing.

Actually, I'd been hoping that my schedule and theirs would allow me to get this chapter to you as a little gift for whatever holiday you happen to celebrate this time of year. But I didn't make it in time for most of them. I know-- just think of it as that one tiny present you found while you were packing away the decorations, the one that you somehow forgot to open...

Hope it fits. ) NZ


Chapter 15

Wishful Thinking

Sleep was becoming a problem.

Between the tension in the air and the sporadic noises that awakened Hermione for the second night in a row, it certainly didn't feel like it ought to be morning so soon. Hermione stretched her entire body and tried to stay awake, purposely lifting her brows to keep her eyelids from dropping closed again.

Of course, it had been pretty late by the time she had crept back into her cabin the night before. She'd had to wait until the handler had left his burnt-out box of whatever that had been, and luckily, she had sneaked into the back of the lab building just minutes before the handlers had set out to get the dogs and release them in the guard runs.

The entire time that she'd been trapped behind the dog kennels waiting for the handler to finish his task, she had tried to think of a way to interrupt it somehow. But she'd been unable to think of anything that wouldn't also get her caught or make for some awkward questions about why she was there in the first place. She'd really hoped that the handler would either get bored or be called away by one of his fellow workers before the entire box had burned into cinders. But that hadn't happened and, checking it as best she could in the dark by poking around in the hot ashes with a stick, she could find nothing to disprove that all he'd done was get rid of some rancid food.

Hermione had had plenty of time to think as she stood there motionless. The Yeti's actions seemed strange, but they didn't seem to be anything that wouldn't fall within the range of normal reactions. Ordinarily, though, the Yeti were savvy enough about the warded fences not to just randomly charge them, unless they were upset and not thinking or new to the habitat. It was true she hadn't recognized the Yeti she'd seen last night, but she also knew that there'd been no new creatures admitted since her arrival.

But that Yeti had acted strangely compelled to charge the fence. It was as if it had felt it had to get through anyway, in spite of taking the chance that the wards would kick in. Either the Yeti had been motivated to try and get to the food, spoiled or not, or get to the handler (who would have deserved what he got after having an attitude like his, in Hermione's opinion).

The last two nights had been full of Yeti howls and yells, some aggressive-sounding, some sorrowful. Hermione had been so sensitive to the sounds in the night that even the droning of a Muggle airplane in the distance had awakened her.

She had so many questions that she wished she could just ask Dr. Null. But he'd been especially reserved over the past four or five days, so afraid for his position and reputation now, that he wasn't necessarily very open to queries and complaints. Also, she knew that beyond a doubt, Null trusted Dr. Voyde. But Voyde wasn't the one in charge...Hermione was almost sure...and she'd never convince Null of that--at least without showing him what he considered to be solid evidence'. Oh, Ron and Harry, you gits, why haven't you written? I need some help here and I know one of you two prats would know just what to do.

She peeked sideways at her alarm clock, the one hand of which had just clicked over to Forty minutes before the post and daily Ministry shipment arrives. Hermione sighed; so much for any hopes of going back to sleep for even a few more minutes.

Dragging herself out of bed, Hermione showered and dressed, then rushed over to the commons for a quick breakfast. Tea cup still in hand, she headed for the Post Room, which was little more than a cement floor with a tiny wooden shack built around it.

The Owls had already arrived and those with loose mail had simply dropped it into the bin and gone. Three Special Delivery owls were waiting on the tying post for their letters and small packages to be untied from their legs. But before she stepped anywhere near the cement pad, she checked the time: two minutes to go.

Hermione wondered if she'd have time to untie one of the Special Delivery owls and send it on its way, but she was afraid that in her current state of weariness she wouldn't get done in time and would again disrupt the Space Dislocation process. She'd interfered with the vacuum area twice by accident while first handling the supply shipments and had received a terse, automatically-generated Ministry form memo each time entitled: Space Dislocation for the Uninformed and Ill-Advised (Space Dislocation for Dummies, she mentally translated).

Standing in the doorway of the Post Room, Hermione decided to simply finish her tea and wait for the shipment to arrive. She didn't have long to wait. The change in air pressure that she'd come to expect gave way to a feeling that something was drawing her in and she covered her ears to help block out the noise. Looking toward the cement pad, she saw what looked like a rippling in the empty air, similar to the effect of heat coming off of the ground in the desert. Within one minute, the first box arrived, starting a chain reaction of rapid-fire changes in air pressure and the subsequent arrivals of more and more boxes.

The last box shipped always came with a small piece of double parchment attached, but the vacuum around that last box never settled until someone extracted the parchment by magic and completed the process. The receiver (now Hermione) then verified the box count, signed it, tore off the Trapperton portion, then returned the remaining parchment to the vacuum with her wand. Promptly the parchment disappeared and the vacuum settled, the delivery was now considered complete, and was ready for distribution on site. If no one signed off and completed the shipping process on-site, the Ministry shipping Department was notified.

Hermione wearily walked to the Special Delivery owls and relieved them of their burdens, giving each of them several bits of bacon she'd brought in a napkin from breakfast and sending them on their way.

Next, she began the process of sorting the mail for Trapperton. In her first few days of handling the supplies, she'd had to learn a spell to decode the encrypted runes so she could tell where and to whom to deliver the various supplies (just one of the things Hank had omitted teaching her the first day). Although all of the boxes had her name listed as receiver' once she began signing the shipping bills, there was always another name or area listed for delivery. She already knew that none of the boxes would be hers, since personal-post owls were allowed and encouraged to arrive later in the day, just like Dr. Voyde's food shipments for the Yeti. Hopefully, there would be word from her parents coming later on. Yesterday was one of those days she might have heard from Harry and Ron--had they had the decency to write.

Perhaps it was a sign of her weariness, her loneliness, the worsening tension and conditions at Trapperton, or a combination of all those things, but Hermione was finding herself becoming more cynical and depressed each day. She worked hard to maintain a decent attitude among the others because it was expected--and she'd always done what was expected of her, especially in a professional capacity. Besides, she was trying to motivate herself to stay constantly aware of all that was going on so that she could possibly spot anything else that could be hard evidence', not only to help Dr. Null, but to free the Yeti from whatever problems were befalling them in the habitat. She laughingly thought about her first day at Trapperton and all that Sharpe and Null had told her she would learn about teamwork'.

As she loaded the sorted groups of boxes onto the trolley and dragged it just outside the door, she noticed there was one tiny box left on the cement pad. How had she missed it? She didn't remember ever receiving anything so small delivered with the supply parcels--usually something like that would be carried by the owls.

Reflexively walking over to pick it up, she was immediately reminded of the Ministry warning memos. Without touching the box, she used her wand to turn it address-side- up. She could see that it was indeed addressed to Trapperton, so she performed the charm to decode the encrypted runes and saw that it had only one name printed on it: H. Granger. Rolling it around gingerly with her wand to check for other names, she discovered that there was very little weight to it. It felt almost empty; how could it be supplies? And who was it really supposed to go to?

The abnormality of everything about the box set off alarms in her head regarding the Ministry terrorism memos. She was nearly tempted to throw the thing away or give it to Dr. Null--but he was a scientist, not a politician or a policeman--and not the type to try and do anything about it. Plus, it was addressed to her.

Instead, she decided on another plan. Hermione moved the box to the middle of the cement floor and just in case, made sure there were no wandering mice or anything else alive hiding in the corners of the Post Room. Next, she stepped outside and walked all the way around the little building, making certain that no one else was close by.

Hiding behind the doorframe and leaning through just enough to be able to take good aim, Hermione incanted, The small flaps on the box popped open, but nothing more happened. Waiting carefully for several minutes just to make certain that there was no delayed-reaction spell of some sort, she soon felt just a bit foolish standing outside the doorway of the Post Room.

Hermione picked up a long stick and readied her wand, prepared to step inside the shack. She carefully snuck up on the box, hoping that any malicious charm inside wasn't set with a motion detector of any sort. She waved the stick over the top of the box and then carefully poked the tip inside, but still all it seemed to be was an innocent box. Easing her body up to it, Hermione peered inside, able to see a sheet or two of parchment with a very few words written on the top sheet. Angling her head awkwardly so that she could read the words, she could hardly believe her eyes. But she was no longer worried about any evil intentions coming with the box. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

Suddenly throwing herself to the ground next to it, she grabbed up the little box and reached inside to scoop out two sheets of parchment. She held her breath, reading the few words on the first one over once, twice-- then she clutched the parchments to her chest, trying to mentally process that they were real.

Finally able to catch her breath, she had only her brimming eyes to contend with now as she read softly to herself:

Dear H. Granger,'

Ha!

This time I found you.

Love,

Ron

All right, your turn, Wissle, the voice said somewhere in the distance, but Ron was too tired to notice that it had anything to do with him.

The wizard behind Ron nudged his arm. You going in now, Wissle--or what? Ron repeated in confusion, then jerked to attention when he realized they were reading his badge and they meant him. Oh, yeah--yeah. Sorry. He stepped into the Floo fireplace and turned to face the hall full of long queues of Ministry workers waiting to leave for the evening. Those who could Apparate home, like his father already had, usually did so. But those whose licenses were out of order for some reason (or the few who were too young, like Ron and a few of the business interns) still had to wait in line at the end of the day.

Ron reached into the pouch in his robe pocket and scooped out some powder to throw on the hearth floor. He clutched his closed box of motorbike parts tightly to him for safe-keeping. The Burrow, he said, taking care to enunciate clearly through his exhaustion; he certainly didn't want to end up anywhere but home. The spinning began immediately. Pulling in his elbows, he closed his eyes and fought the urge to yawn so that he wouldn't be inhaling a good portion of the huge cloud of dust whirling around him.

A few minutes later the spinning stopped. He reached up to wipe the dust from his eyes before opening them (really wishing he could just lie down and keep them closed for several hours instead). But in the end he managed to lift his heavy lids--only to think he was seeing double.

Darling, you're home! said two all-too-familiar voices in unison from two faces only inches from his own. He felt his body being yanked forward by the arms before he could even grunt a reply.

Here, dear, let me take that for you, George said in a high, saccharin tone, pulling the parts box from his grasp and setting it aside while Fred continued to tug at him.

Ron protested, trying to wake up and recoup his arms at the same time.

Oh, poor sweetums must be so tired. Come sit down, love, Fred cooed sarcastically, ignoring the protests and guiding Ron toward the old armchair in the living room.

Was it a long, hard day, sugar-pie? George asked, grabbing Ron's other elbow so that he was trapped between the twins.

Stop it-- Ron said.

Oh, I know-- it must be just exhausting, Fred said, getting ready to push Ron's chest.

George extended his leg behind Ron's ankles just as Fred pushed so that Ron fell awkwardly into the chair with a loud flump. Such is the life of a working man, Fred.Leave me alone! Ron complained grumpily, trying to squirm into an upright position.

George, do push that footstool over here, Fred directed. Your poor little feetsies must be just aching!


Both twins were reaching down for a leg to plop onto the stool when they heard an angry growl. They looked up to find themselves staring down the shaft of a certain fourteen-inch wand.

Don't touch me again if you know what's good for you, Ron warned through gritted teeth.

The twins looked at one another. they howled to mock him, again in unison. The two boys stood, grinning from ear to ear, then threw their hands in the air, palms forward in surrender.

Okay, okay, don't get your knickers all in a wad, Fred said.

We were just trying to help you relax after a long hard day at a real job, George said. What's that like, anyway?Don't worry, George, he can't really use magic on us, you know, Fred continued, the whole underage thing.

Ron was too tired and irritated to be thinking clearly. He'd become so accustomed to automatically using magic in the Shipping Department and in the shed that it hadn't even occurred to him he'd be in trouble with the Ministry for using it on Fred and George now. Might be worth it, a little voice in his mind whispered. But no, then he'd never find Hermione. Maybe Fred really had done him a favor by reminding him. He lowered his wand in disgust.

Of course, now we, on the other hand, can use magic whenever we please, George boasted.

Ron glowered at his two brothers. Who let you two in, anyway? Wait--we must be having something really good for dinner.Oh now Ronnie, we paid for our meal already, Fred said. We had to listen to Mum for at least an hour going on about you working at the Ministry at a real job, just so you could earn money for parts for that motorbike.And how you had such a spiffing idea for surprising Harry for his birthday... George's brow furrowed. But wasn't his birthday -- ?

Ron grimaced. Yeah, yeah, it was a couple of days ago. But he already knows his present is coming late--I told him at Arabella's.At Arabella's? Arabella Figg's? Fred asked. Well, now, aren't you just the little wizard about town?

Ron tried to come up with a brilliant retort, but it just wasn't in him after working all day. Plus he still had lots he wanted to finish tonight, if he could somehow summon the energy. There was only one thing for it--he leaned his head back and yelled. Ginny! Giinnnny! Fred and George want you!

The kitchen door swung wide and Ginny's head appeared. Nice try, Ron. I'm helping Mum with dinner--oh, yeah, and Dad's out here talking to us, too--so that won't work either. Ron muttered in defeat, looking up to see Fred and George elbowing one another.

So, we were wondering-- Fred started.

Yeah, we were wondering-- George agreed.

Since it's still here--And we don't know how much longer it will be--And Mum knows about it now--So we don't even have to whisper any more--Can you show it to us?Right now?We've only ever heard about it, you know--The stuff of legends--we're not even sure it's real--But if we could touch it--

George opened his mouth to finish Fred's sentence, but Ron held up his hand. Okay okay...okay. I'll show you. But-- Ron held out both hands now to his brothers. You two got me down here--now you two can get me up.

Fred and George each grabbed one hand and pulled, lifting Ron out of the sunken chair. Ron walked to the table where George had left his parts box and picked it up.

We'll be back in a bit, Mum, Ron said as the three brothers tromped through the kitchen.

Going out to see the motorbike? Arthur asked, sounding as if he was trying to keep the eager tone out of his voice.

Molly's head snapped around from where she'd been standing over the stove orchestrating a group of steaming pots and stirring spoons. She nearly knocked the mixer askew with her elbow where it had been whipping cream on the counter, but Ginny rushed to catch it in time and set it aright.

Enjoy yourselves, Arthur said dejectedly, acknowledging his wife's glare.

And don't be too long, boys! Molly admonished.

Ron held the back door open for Fred and George to pass. But as he waited he watched an entire conversation take place between his mum and dad, though not a word was spoken until the end. An accepting, yet hopeful look floated from his dad to his mum; a stern stare returned from his mum to his dad, but softer than the previous glare; a charming little questioning head tilt crossed from his dad to his mum; then came a momentary rolling of eyes from his mum.

Molly sighed. Oh, go on, she said, softly hitting her husband on the shoulder with the dish towel. Thank Merlin it won't be here much longer.

Arthur scrambled from his seat, obviously wasting no time in case his wife might change her mind. He quickly tossed his work hat and robes from his lap into his chair, then hurriedly headed for the back door where Ron still held it open. Stopping short, he rushed back to his wife, kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her quickly, then turned and started out of the door again.

Weird, Ron thought. But it got him what he wanted!

Ron followed his dad down the path into the back garden. Fred and George were already nearly halfway to the shed, yammering on to one another about something Ron couldn't hear.

The four Weasley men's visit to the motorbike was sufficiently full of ooh's and aah's to make Ron feel quite proud of what he'd accomplished. Ever since that evening of his mum's discovery, he really hadn't been able to share his progress with anyone, since Arthur had been reluctant to set off another calamitous discussion' by visiting.

With the addition of all the new parts he'd earned from Leo and installed on those long summer nights in the shed, the motorbike now appeared to be, on the outside at least, beautifully and gloriously complete. Although Ron knew that there were still a few other parts and assemblies to be refurbished and replaced within, the exterior of the motorbike glinted and sparkled like new. It could probably pass for one of those in one of Leo's magazines, he thought proudly.

So--who helped you? George asked.

Yeah, surely little Ronniekins couldn't do all this by his lonesome, Fred agreed.

Ron glared at his brothers, who turned to their dad.

Don't look at me, Arthur said. I've been on restriction until tonight.

All of them laughed, having been in precisely those same circumstances with Mrs. Weasley many times in their lives. They were all aware that their father was a man who chose his battles with their mother wisely and let the other issues slide.

Nah--just kidding, little brother, George said. We've even stopped by the house a couple of times when Mum said you were out here working. Though we did think maybe you were really out here snoozing instead, one look at this says you weren't.Yeah, really nice work, Fred agreed.

Ron said. You mean the two of you actually skipped a chance to come out
here and wind me up?Do you know how hard that was? Fred asked.

Yes, well--everyone must grow up sometime, Ron my boy, George said in his best wise man' voice. We are still putting up a fight, but once in a while...But I don't know, George. Coulda been worth it to let him finish this. Harry doesn't know it yet, but he is one lucky bloke, Fred said, rubbing the tips of his fingers over the smooth new black leather seat. Just smell it! He took a deep breath and released it with an appreciative .

Aside from his one earlier denial of having anything to do with the motorbike's refurbishment, Arthur had been silently circling the motorbike slowly since the four of them arrived. He squatted down occasionally to see it from a different angle and peered closely at some detail from time to time. I can't believe this is the same motorbike you started with, Ron. This is one beautiful machine.So--don't keep us in suspense any longer, George said enthusiastically. Start er up!

Ron cleared his throat. Erm, yeah...well...that's a bit of a problem. all three admirers said.

Well, it should run--I think, Ron said uncertainly. I mean, most of the parts that were broken have been replaced. We still need to replace some old working ones with newer ones, but I think it's together enough to run. It's just that-- the three voices asked again.

As far as we can tell, there's no key, Ron explained. Leo from work has got his brother checking all over the place for a key to fit the ignition assembly on a motorbike this old. Not only that, we're not sure if it should be a normal key or something-- magical. Arthur said. Good point. I don't think I ever knew way back then, either. Don't remember seeing it or Sirius ever saying...Well, plus, Ron continued, I've owled Professor Lupin. He's checking around Grimmauld Place for me. But that's a bit of a job in itself, hunting something as small as a key in that huge old house.Maybe when we move over there in a couple of weeks, you'll be able to look yourself, Arthur suggested. We'll probably have to take this along to get it to Harry anyway.

Ron shrugged dejectedly. I was hoping we'd have it up and running by then, though.Well, don't worry, son, Arthur said, clapping Ron on the shoulder. It may turn up either way, between Remus and your friend at work.

Ginny appeared at the front of the shed. Mum's going to have a kneazle if you all don't get in there soon!

Ron sat wearily on the edge of his bed, trying to summon the energy to stand up again, throw on his oily old T-shirt, and head out to the shed. He really had wanted to re-work that fuel gauge connection tonight. It was still rather sticky and unreliable; possibly the one thing worse than running out of fuel somewhere on the expressway was running out of fuel at an altitude of a thousand kilometers somewhere over London. He wanted to make sure that his best friend's public nickname never went from being The Boy Who Lived to The Boy Who Fell to Earth.

Dinner had taken longer than usual, what with Fred and George's usual non-stop conversation regarding the booming success of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Then Hedwig had arrived soon after the dishes were cleared with Harry's response to Ron's letter about finding Hermione. Harry, of course, had been relieved that they would at least be able to keep some track of their best friend, or perhaps even get to her in an emergency, though he did mention that just heading for the south of Scotland probably wasn't going to do the trick.

And now Ron had time to work--but there really wasn't much energy to draw upon. He'd been out in the shed late every night this week, had even been up early on the weekend to finish his chores so that he could get some more work done on the motorbike later in the day. He knew that he and his family would be getting ready to move to Grimmauld Place in a few weeks as his dad had promised Professor Lupin, and he'd promised himself that he'd have everything complete on the motorbike by then.

Thinking back to the looks on the twins' faces made him smile to himself. They really had been impressed with the motorbike. Even though they hadn't seen the mess it had been before he'd started working on it, they were still amazed by what a beautiful machine it had become. His dad had been truly in awe. I know it looks ten times better than it did when I started, Ron thought. But they were really surprised I could do something like that. I guess it must be harder to judge how something's improving when you're working on it little by little, rather than just being hit with the difference all at once like Dad was. Maybe I do know what the hell I'm doing.

Grinning broadly now, Ron threw himself back on the bed, arms flung over his head, legs still stretched to the floor. The light breeze wafting through the window skimmed across his bare chest and he reveled in its coolness. Lying there, concentrating on the feel of it, he noticed something else, too. He moved his arms over his head, rubbing them against the slight roughness of his brilliant orange bedspread. Something had changed.

Still lying down, Ron held his right arm up to the light from the oil lamp on his bedside table. The thought scars had faded a bit-- and unless he was going mental from pure exhaustion, they had smoothed a bit as well. It was true that he hadn't really checked on them lately, preferring to ignore them as much as he could while yanking his long-sleeved shirts repeatedly over his wrists at work a hundred times a day. Reaching across himself to rub his hand up his arm, he could feel that the bumps and whorls of the scars didn't feel quite as deep any more. The scars weren't quite as sensitive and scratchy in an irritating way, and the ridges didn't catch on the skin of his other hand as it glided toward his shoulder. Maybe they really are healing...

Thinking back, Ron couldn't remember any time in the past week that he'd had one of the excruciating scar/headache attacks. They'd been fairly common up until then, happening at least once every few days, but not for a while now. Oh, of course, there were twinges and shooting pains every so often, but nothing as debilitating as those awful attacks had been. Maybe I just haven't had time to have one, Ron snorted, maybe I've just been outrunning the buggers. But Hermione said she thought the scars would go away, and as bloody irritating as it is, she's almost always right. What was it she'd said that evening on the hillside?

I said just think positive,' don't you remember?

Hermione hadn't even stopped in the doorway to knock. She'd just strolled right into his room unannounced. Good thing he was dressed--wait--dressed!

Ron struggled to sit up, at the same time looking round helplessly for the shirt he'd just removed or anything to cover himself. She'd never seen him like this, wearing only his jeans and naked from the waist up--well, at least when he wasn't covered in unction and bandages and they weren't in the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey fussing around them. But this time they were in his room, alone, and he was--he was--he felt his ears and more burning--and--what was she doing here? This wasn't Scotland, but there she was--

She yanked away the long-sleeved shirt he'd pulled in front of him for cover and held it high. You don't need this, she said. She let go and in mid-air it turned into The Monster Book of Monsters. The book fell to the floor with a loud thump and scuttled away.

Hermione placed one warm hand in the middle of his chest, setting off fireworks on his bare skin. She pushed him back down on the bed and eased herself into a sitting position next to him. Let's see those scars.

It surprised him that he didn't feel so awkward now. Ron boldly lifted his arm to her.

Hermione pulled his arm close and he could feel the warmth from her body overheating his. She laid his arm in her lap and began running her hands softly back and forth across the smoothing scar ridges. They're better--definitely better.

She leaned across him then and let her fingertips slide slowly along his other arm. Both of them are better--really nice work, she said, the last few words in Fred's deep voice (but for some odd reason that didn't surprise him). If the ones I can see and feel are healing, then so should the ones be that I can't.

Hermione was leaning close enough that he could see the faint purplish line of the scar on her chest, but this time he wasn't embarrassed. Yours is still there, he said.

Of course, Hermione said. Mine is a spell scar--it can only be healed with spells. Yours are thought scars.So they can only be-- Ron began, but then was distracted by just how close she'd come. She was past the line where his scars stopped now; her hands moved in warm swirls of tingles over his shoulders, coming perilously close to moving down his chest. And her face was so close and so beautiful, her lips glistening, and those perfect teeth-- damn, he never thought he'd thank Malfoy for anything, but...

Hermione's face was within inches of his now. He could feel her chest moving against his, their breathing working together in perfect rhythm.

I saw how you signed that letter, you know, she said coyly. You did mean it, didn't you?

This was Hermione acting like this? Why didn't it surprise him that he wanted her to?

Pushing closer, her lips pressed warmly against his-- CRASH!



Ron sat up so suddenly and gasped so hard that he thought he might have swallowed his tongue. His head jerked toward the sound of a glass rolling around on the floor and he moaned aloud, not for the loss of his pumpkin juice that the blowing curtain had knocked from the desk, but for the aching loss of his wonderful dream.

He considered cleaning up the mess, but noted he was still somewhat sleepy; then he made a quick decision. Standing, Ron pulled off his jeans and adjusted his boxers. Then he scrambled back into bed and closed his eyes, praying that whatever cleaning gods there were would forgive him and send him back his dream.

Hermione threw herself back in her chair, trying to figure out what to make of it. She'd read over the second parchment from the box several times and it just didn't make any sense. But Ron wouldn't lie about something like that--not to her--and he wouldn't sound so indignant if he was trying to somehow cover for himself. He simply wasn't that good of a liar.

Harry and Ron hadn't received her letters, either one of them. In fact, the beginning of Ron's second letter explained why he had sent two rolls of parchment. The first was to let her know how thrilled he was to find her. The second was to fill her in on what had been going on with him and Harry and, apparently, to complain and whine about what a terrible person she was for not writing Harry on his birthday, at least. Which she had.

(Of course, being Ron, he had made it sound as if he was doing the noble thing and complaining solely on Harry's behalf. But she knew him too well. She knew that down there somewhere inside of him, there was a part of Ron Weasley wondering just why she hadn't written to him as well. Honestly, Ron.)

How could that have happened? Where had the letters gone then? She was well aware that Muggle post was famous for lost and delayed mail, but she'd never heard of it happening in the wizarding world. And although her parents' letters seemed to be delayed somewhat, they had received every single one; at least they had responded to every one she had sent. Perhaps it was time to start asking them some questions about dates and times.

Ron explained in his letter that due to an odd series of coincidences, he was now working in the Shipping Department of the Ministry as a way to earn' parts for Harry's motorbike. He was still assuming, of course, that she wasn't supposed to be sending any extra owls besides those for her parents. For that reason, he had requested that she just use the little box he had sent and the return' feature for items shipped in error; that meant it would return' to the Ministry Shipping Department and he could watch for it on the other end. Although he didn't know that she had worked out a way to use the owls and get away with it, it was looking to her as if perhaps she ought to avoid that route anyway-- at least until she had things figured out.

So, one more time, she unrolled a great, long, blank piece of parchment and set to work. (But I refuse to be the bad person in all of this, she thought, and wrote several paragraphs explaining that yes, she had been writing to them, thank you very much!) Though the letters for both Ron and Harry took her several hours to complete altogether, she felt much better for it at the end, having been able to delve at least a little bit into some of the rather trying and strange occurrences that were happening at Trapperton.

Yawning, Hermione read over Ron's second parchment one last time to make sure she had responded to everything he'd told her. She rolled up her letter to him, then magically sealed it and, grabbing the already-sealed letter to Harry, went to place them both back in the same small box that Ron had sent.

But before they would fit, she had to remove the parchment from Ron that she had first found earlier today. She took it out and read the whole note one more time, smiling at his signature. Holding the parchment up to the light, she could see that the parchment was appreciably thinner beneath the closing of the letter. The outline of two or three different versions of the word had been written, then magically erased, re-written and then erased.

Several weeks ago he'd signed a letter to her with love, but something had felt odd about it, even though it looked like his handwriting. It was as if it had been forced in some way, or even tampered with by someone at the Burrow (somehow the twins sprang to mind). It simply didn't go with the rest of the letter at the time, nor with how he was acting then.

This time, though, there would have been no way for anyone to interfere or change anything. He had to have been the one to send it directly, if it had come straight from the Shipping Department as he said-- and since it came with the Trapperton supplies, he had to have been telling the truth about how it was delivered.

Maybe it was just a sign that she missed him and Harry so much--she didn't know why it meant so much to her. It was true that it looked like Ron had been undecided for a bit whether to leave the letter signed or not. But it certainly felt very important that, scripted in that bold, loose, irrepressible Ron scrawl--leave it, he had.