"Congratulations, Dr. Granger," a deep voice whispered in Hermione's ear.
She twisted around, flinging her arms around the speaker's neck. "Lyle! You came!"
"Of course I did. You asked me to, didn't you?"
"Well, it's been a while… I wasn't sure you'd want to come. But I'm glad you did."
"Me too. Would you like to have dinner with me this weekend, to celebrate?"
Hermione gave her on-again, off-again lover an evaluating stare, judging his sincerity. "Sure. I'd like that. Saturday, at seven."
"All right, princess. It's a date."
"Come on! I want you to meet my friends from school," she dragged him away by the wrist to rescue Harry and Ginny from a somewhat-manic Sherlock. Introducing Lyle to the Potters would be awkward, but probably less awkward on the whole than allowing Sherlock to harass them with obscure questions about magical theory, which Ginny would berate her about later. "Sherlock, you remember Lyle."
"Of course I remember Lyle, Granger." Sherlock hated Lyle. He slipped away, probably because she had threatened to do terrible things to him if he ruined her graduation party. She had never had one before, and wanted it to go well.
"Mr. Holmes," Lyle nodded to the older man. Sherlock ignored him.
"And this is my best friend, Harry Potter and his wife, Ginny."
"Charmed. Is Ginny short for Virginia?" Lyle asked.
Hermione cringed internally, but Ginny, who hated her name, simply said, "I prefer Ginny. After all, Virginia's hardly the name for a mother of three, is it?"
Thankfully Lyle laughed. Most people did think Ginny was funny. "And what do you do for a living, Harry?"
Harry had managed, over the years, to develop the terrible wizarding habit of being pants at blending in, even though he was raised in the muggle world. At least the Potters had spent enough time around Hermione that they had had to rehearse this lie before. "I'm a DI up near Edinburgh. Yourself?"
"Studying law at Cambridge. Just thought I'd pop into town for the weekend and congratulate Doctor Hermione, you know."
"Ah, yes, the same for us…"
The conversation limped on for several equally painful minutes, until Lyle excused himself for a drink and was summarily drugged by Sherlock. Her cousin wouldn't admit it, of course, but Hermione had lived with the man for nearly seven years: that hint of smugness in the set of his lips said he'd done it and wanted her to know, no matter how innocent and bored he pretended to be. She rolled her eyes. No, Sherlock wouldn't be in trouble for this. Lyle ought to know better, really. He had been hanging around, off and on for three years: at this point, he should know not to drink anything Sherlock gave him. He was almost as bad as the twins. Honestly. Overgrown children, the lot of them.