The drive back seems to be days-long instead of hours. Hermione reflects it's probably because the heavy ball of lead that's been in her chest since leaving the Bones is weighing down the car tires, making them drag instead of roll. The driver, Stanley Shunpike, glimpses her face when he pulls over to have a smoke and she steps outside to stretch. "Are you alright, doll?"

"Yeah. Just fine." She takes a tense breath, lungs filling with the unnatural mix of nicotine and open sky and pine trees. "I'm eager to get back, that's all."

Stanley adjusts his black-rim hat, setting it higher on one side of his scalp than the other, so that it hangs at a crooked angle men seem to be so fond of in America. "Me, too," he says conversationally. "My gal and I have our anniversary dinner tonight," he confides, nodding proudly at her smile. "I better get going. Missus doesn't like when I'm late."

An hour later, they pull into the manicured drive of the mansion. Hermione gets out before Stanley can get the door for her, going straight inside and to her room without a word. She climbs into bed, pulling the covers over her head and concentrating on summoning the misery the memory of Susan Bones triggered until her eyes sting – but to her surprise they don't burn with hurt. No, they burn with fury.

Someone knocks on the door, abruptly cutting her attempted pity party short. Briefly, Hermione considers ignoring them. What if it's Winky? She half-wishes it so. Pulling down the sheets, she boldly calls, "Come in."

To her disappointment, Tom enters, glancing around the disheveled bedroom before he finds her tangled in the bed dressings. "Is that you there, Hermione?" he asks, reminding her that she's mostly covered in mud and that the rain made her hair look like the wrong end of a broomstick.

"Yes." Hermione must say it too sharply, because Tom gives her a look that makes her check herself.

"I see you got caught in the storm." Tom tries to hide his amusement for Hermione's sake; she's staring daggers at him and looks quite the angry wet cat with her bedraggled, lank hair and slanted eyes. She looks younger, too, closer to her adolescent self now more than ever. It makes his stomach pinch.

Hermione moves aside to make room when Tom sits down, kicking off her dirty boots with her feet. Tiredly, she says, "I'm guessing you want to know how the interview went."

"Judging by your lack of all-consuming joy," Tom replies, "I think I know how it went."

"Oh," she says gloomily.

He cocks his head. "That bad?"

"What do you think?" she mutters sourly, shifting until the boots are shoved under the bed and her legs are tucked under her. Tom is about to press for more when she suddenly scoffs and fumes, "They acted like I was a wanted criminal, who stole babies out of their cribs and took food from the poor and robbed people blind or – or something stupid like that. Can you believe that? And the way they looked at me, I've never met such foul people." She scowls. "It's all because of her."

"'Her'?" Tom prompts, eyes narrowing.

All at once, Hermione's anger rushes out of her like CO2 out of a pricked balloon. Ears pink and voice quieter, she mutters, "Winky."

"The maid?" he says, bewildered. "But why-?"

"I don't know," she says – not sadly, but aggravated. Hermione reaches down and fishes a paper ball out of the river on the floor, ripping it into precise strips to vent her frustration. She's always fidgety when annoyed. "I don't even know if it was her, not for sure… but I've got this feeling." Her voice lowers, eyes seeming faraway and fixed on nothing in particular, yet watching a multitude of things at once. "I've got a bad feeling about it."

"Well, confront her," Tom says after a minute of weighty silence. The solution seems obvious to him. Hermione blinks at him, eyes wide, and he snorts. "What? You think it was her, now go and see." Standing up, he muses, more to himself than to her, "She's probably in the kitchens about now, isn't she?"

"But what should I say to her?" she demands, intimidated by the thought of initiating confrontation. Too late, she realizes Tom is the last person she should ask direction from; she can already see the mischievous smile distorting his face. "Never mind," she interrupts, before he can comment. "I'll figure it out when we get there."

Tom shrugs. "Have it your way."

…

Just as Tom predicted, they find Winky in the kitchens – except, it's not work she's up to.

"Hermione," Dobby says brightly when he sees her come in. Looking past her, his cheerful demeanor falters. "Mr. Voldemort," he says, in a distinctly less ecstatic tone. "Ah, did you want some of the lemon meringue pie?"

"No thank you," Tom replies, not to be derailed. "By any chance, have you seen Winky today?"

"I saw her earlier, sir," Dobby says uncomfortably, but his eyes dart to Hermione, and she suddenly knows exactly where Winky is. The one glance Dobby sends her is a beseeching one, asking Hermione to distract Voldemort before he finds the member of his staff in a compromising manner. "I think I heard her say she was going to wash the windows on the second floor," he hedges, "around this time, sir."

"No, that can't be right." Tom feigns a frown, taking one step toward the old chef. "Because we just came from the second floor…and I didn't see her anywhere." Dobby shrinks under Tom's hawkish gaze, looking even shorter and frailer than usual standing beside his formidable stature. Hermione almost tells Tom to cut out, but holds back for a reason even she herself isn't sure of.

"I'll only say it one more time," Tom says lowly, silken voice deliberate and cold enough to make fire shiver. "Where is she, Dobby?"

Dobby looks back and forth between them, helpless. When Hermione offers no help, except for her apologetic gaze, he indicates the back of the kitchen in defeat. Smiling rather like a shark, Tom says, "There's a good sport. Lead the way, if you please."

Dobby's mouth tightens, but he obeys without a word.

The door to the storage room is opened, and Hermione can't help mourning the sight they find, at first. Winky's back is to them, but from her wretched sobs and the random jerks of her shoulders anyone can tell she's crying her eyes out. Sucking in another breathless gasp, Winky lifts a bottle filled with dark amber liquid to her trembling lips. The contents of the bottle disappears as if sucked down a ravenous chute.

Tom's expression gives nothing away and Dobby looks too miserable to speak. Hermione bites her lip, releases it, and steps forward. "Winky," she says, and the shuddering sobs stop abruptly. Hermione has to search to find her voice again. "I…I need to talk to you, Winky."

Winky doesn't make a sound.

Hermione licks her lips. She has to pretend Tom and Dobby aren't looking at her, when she asks, "Was it you who called Amelia Bones?"

Winky is too ashamed to turn around. Curling into a ball, she whimpers, "Yes."

Any hope Hermione had that this all might be a big mix-up, crashed and burned. With anguish, she demands, "Why would you do that to me? I thought we were friends." At this, Tom stiffens, but she ignores that, plundering on, "What did you tell her, Winky?"

The ball of Winky shrinks.

In a shrill voice no one has ever heard escape Hermione Hawthorne before, she snaps, "Winky!"

At once, a sob bursts out of Winky and she scrambles around, clasping her hands pleadingly. The sight is so pitiful Hermione would be moved were she not so enraged. "Oh, Hermione, you don't want to know what I did," she cries. "I said terrible things, I don't why – I-I-I didn't realize it. You know how I am when I- I just, I lose track of what's real and what's not, and-"

Hermione shakes her head. "I don't believe you."

Winky freezes, staring at her with what she thinks is a slightly hopeful glint in her eyes. "You don't?" she says roughly.

Again, Hermione shakes her head. "Someone put you up to this," she murmurs. "Didn't they?"

An expectant silence descends on all of them. Dobby is watching openly now, his curiosity overwhelming his distress. Tom touches the back of Hermione's hand, but she jerks it away, and he stares at her. Straightening, Hermione says, "Who?"

"I shouldn't say-"

"Tell her, Winky." It's not Hermione who says it, but Tom. She watches in surprise as he crosses the floor to kneel next to Winky, putting his hand on her hair and petting it gently. "It's alright," he coaxes, so reassuringly Hermione almost believes that it's the truth, everything is fair and good. She doesn't have to look to know he's using the full force of his angel eyes on poor Winky. "Go on," he whispers. "Tell us who it was."

All in a breath, Winky confesses, "Bella."

Bella? Hermione thinks, confused, before remembering the beautiful Southern woman from Tom's art show, who was also Cygnus Black's cousin. Bellatrix Lestrange.

Tom freezes for a second. Then, he pets her a bit more, and asks, "What happened?"

Winky hesitates. "Well, I was on my break," she starts, "and I saw Bella for lunch (this was, by the way, after I'd talked to Hermione and told her about the interview). I know her from before when I…" Here, Winky swallows and looks around the room, finding Dobby's wet eyes before she can go on. "-when I worked for Mr. Crouch. She helped me once, so we're…friends."

Tom is on his feet now. In his impatient way, he presses, "And what does that have to do with Amelia Bones?"

"Bella knows her," Winky explains, looking at Hermione. "We were drinking and having a good time, when she asked me about my work for Mr. Voldemort, which is nothing out of the norm for her. I told her how you'd been living here, Hermione, and about the job in Massachusetts-"

Behind Winky, Tom closes his eyes and shakes his head. Hermione remembers how Bellatrix looked at Tom at the art show, the meaningful way she had said I've got everything I need. Obviously, she saw Hermione as competition – but would she really stoop so low to sabotage a woman she didn't even know?

"You already know the rest," Winky says mournfully, gazing around at their tight faces. She stares at the bottle clutched in her fingers. "She convinced me it would be a good joke to…to call Amelia Bones and tell her Hermione was a Satanist, come to curse the family and do voodoo rituals-" She breaks off when she sees the incredulity on Hermione's face, hurrying to add, "I didn't realize what I was doing though. I was-"

"Drunk," Hermione finishes, not cruelly, but with a gentleness that seems worse than if she'd screamed it. "You're just a traitorous, lying- aren't you-" She breaks off, overwhelmed, and leaves the rest of them with a muttered excuse me.

Once she's gone, Tom faces Winky, who has struggled to a stand and made to go after Hermione, but halts at the look on his face. He simply says, "You're fired, Winky. Pack your things and leave the premises immediately."

Dobby gasps. "Mr. Voldemort, have a heart, it was only this once-"

"You think I'm a fool." Levelling a cool stare on the indignant man, Tom raises an eyebrow. "I should fire you too for not reporting her, more so because you persists to lie to me – but I won't. You're good at what you do." Turning to Winky, he says, "You, on the other hand."

Winky starts to get up, but Dobby stops her, insisting, "You don't have to do that, dear-"

"Yes, she does," Tom snarls. His voice is made of thunder and knives; the other two freeze. After a suspended minute, Winky detaches herself from her friend's arms, ignoring his soft pleas. Her eyes are filled with fury. "No, it's alright, Dobby," she says firmly. "I'd hate to stand in this place for another second. I've been wanting to get a move on for a while anyway."

Tom stares at her, shakes his head in disgust, and stalks out. On exiting the kitchen, he nearly collides into someone – pulling back, he sees it is Hermione, who when she sees him anxiously asks, "What did you say to her?"

"I dismissed her," Tom says carefully. He searches her eyes. "It's better this way, you know, that you know about her true nature."

Hermione looks away. "You're right," she replies, "but I still wish I didn't." And Winky hadn't really meant to betray her…

Tom reaches out, retracts his hand, then suddenly bursts out as if he can contain himself no longer, "Could I touch you?"

Hermione's eyes widen. "Yes, I suppose…" She flushes ever so slightly, he can tell because her cheek turns warmer under the light weight of his fingers, the dark fringe of her eyelashes tickling his pinky tip when she blinks. "I didn't mean to push you away before," she says, embarrassed. "I was just-"

"You were angry," Tom finishes. His mind, however, isn't on the scene in the kitchen. "I shouldn't have tried to distract you."

Hermione seems frustrated. "No, it's not that-"

"You don't have to explain, if you don't want to-"

"I want to."

Tom considers her, dropping his hand. "You've been through a lot today," he says, in an uncharacteristic spur of selflessness that confuses Hermione. "Why don't we go out somewhere? Get away for a while."

Hermione sighs. "I don't want to go to any club or gussed up café, Tom-"

"That's not where we're going." He grins at her puzzlement. "Come on, I'll show you."

Hermione squints at Tom, suspicious, but in the end she just asks if she should change her clothes.

Tom waves a dismissive hand, assuring, "Where we're going, there won't be anyone around to critique your wardrobe." And that is good enough for Hermione.

…

The Metropolitan Museum of Art is enormous. Tom and Hermione arrive near closing, so they don't have time to explore all of it (that would take at least a week, if they were to tour it properly), but they do go to Tom's favorite section.

Hermione raises her brows at the sign. "'Greek and Roman Art'," she reads out loud. "Why am I not surprised?"

"You know me too well to be surprised." Tom looks down at her, intrigued. "Were you expecting anything else though?"

"No. …Hoping, maybe."

He smirks.

Tom is distracted when they reach the statues section, which range from archaic kouros to the Classical Greek gods and goddesses, flexing their gloriously naked, youthful bodies, and sacrificing manacled virgin princesses to evil sea monsters with slobbering jaws. They move through the displays slowly in absorbed silence, unconsciously drawing closer as they bend over a case of some long-dead woman's necklace, and study an Athenian vessel through its protective glass. Hermione is so absorbed she doesn't even realize she hasn't thought of Winky or the Bones once in the past hour. She doesn't realize she and Tom are holding hands until he squeezes hers to get her attention.

"What do you think?" he whispers in her ear, warm breath stirring the hairs that have escaped from the twist on her neck. She doesn't start at his voice, so soft and unobtrusive that he could've been speaking all along. By now, they've migrated to a different gallery. Not looking away from the picture, she retorts, "You know I can't critique art for the life of me."

Tom shrugs. "I didn't ask you to be a critic," he says sensibly. "Tell me what you think."

Disgruntled, Hermione curls up her top lip and looks at him sideways, but his attention is on the painting. She looks back reluctantly. The picture is an oil on canvas by Jean-Léon-something, of a naked woman arching toward her lover. The two bodies seem to melt together, so enamored they are with one another, while a buck-naked cherub aims his arrow at their unsuspecting selves from the background. Soon enough, a wrinkle appears on Hermione's forehead.

"I'll have you know, giving yourself a brain hemorrhage isn't going to be helpful," Tom remarks loftily.

"Don't be cheeky."

He waits in silence, until finally, she exclaims, "Oh! But she's a statue."

"She was a statue." Tom peers at the supple white flesh of the woman's body, then downward where her chalky feet are adjoined to a block of stone. He looks back at her. "Do you know the story of Pygmalion and Galatea, by chance?"

"No." Hermione feel the barest degree warmer. Suddenly, she is all too aware of the loose grip around her fingers. "But I'm guessing it's a…romance?"

Tom's mouth jerks on one edge, shifting into a smirk. He notices her unease. "You're sure you don't know it?"

"Quite sure." Hermione smiles. "Is this where you tell me a story of epic passion and tragedy?"

"Yes." Tom's voice dips to a secretive whisper. "But only if you say please."

"Oh forget it."

Tom's hand tightens around hers before she can walk away (not that she was really going anywhere), and he drags her back. "Fine, fine," he says, feigning annoyance, and gestures with his free hand at the man in the painting. "There is Pygmalion, our artist."

"Sounds familiar," Hermione mutters under her breath. Tom shoots her a dark look and she shuts up.

"Pygmalion swore off women, due to one epic mix-up or his apparent disappointment with the sex, as the different versions say," Tom goes on, getting into a rhythm. "He dedicated his life to his work: sculpting – ironically – a maiden night and day. As his sculpture of the maiden neared completion, however, it became clear that it was of such heartbreaking beauty and perfection that Pygmalion could not resist falling in love with it. He began to apply the statue's delicate features with a tender hand, gently hammering the chisel and smoothing the feminine curves.

"The artist, so entrenched in his obsession, treated his statue as if she were animate. He dressed her in fine, long gowns, and put necklaces round her throat, jeweled rings on her stiff fingers and garlands about her collar – although she was no less beautiful naked. Still, he adorned his beloved with gifts he thought a real girl might fancy, such as songbirds and flowers, and shells and smooth stones. He caressed the seamless limbs as if the maiden could feel his touches, careful not to press too hard lest he bruise her ivory flesh. He kissed her, imagining the stone lips might meld with his own.

"On the festival of Venus, Pygmalion sacrificed a bull to the gods and prayed, asking for a wife similar to 'one like my [maiden] of ivory.' The goddess of love, Venus, heard his wish and granted it; proof of her favor made three flames raise high on the altar. Thus, when the artist returned to his studio and embraced his love, the statue came to life beneath him, her unyielding flesh growing warm and soft under his fevered kisses, the beat of her heart steady when he pressed his palm to her breast."

Tom stops, Hermione likes to think, because he is so caught up in his own story. He shifts close enough that their toes touch, his eyelids growing heavy as a sleepy child's as she peers back at him, half-shy, half-daring. In the background, security guards begin to round up the last strays and the jingle of keys can be heard as doors are locked and tourists ushered out, but neither of them move a muscle. Almost warily, Tom puts one hand on Hermione's neck, curling his other hand around the opposite side when she doesn't stop him. His face didn't change at all, she finds herself thinking, looking over Tom's classical features. Except for his cheeks, which I don't think were quite that round before…

Shoot! What is she talking about?

"And after?" Hermione says abruptly, trying to dig Tom out of whatever heady spell he's under, before she falls under it, too. "After the statue came back to life?"

"Well, Pygmalion feared the maiden was not as alive as she appeared," Tom says. "And what would he do if she were still a statue after all? What would he do, in love with a thing that could never be capable of loving him back, of loving or breathing at all?"

"He would…he would love her anyway," Hermione says after a pause. "Until his passion consumed him."

"Maybe." Tom's eyes scan hers, and as they move she notices the crease of his eyelids flickering, spiky black lashes darting jagged shadows down his face. She can't stop noticing the tiniest, most insignificant things about him. Close, too close, not close enough. The urge to eliminate the remainder of the distance between them is just as strong as the urge to get out of Tom Riddle's arms before they ruin whatever semblance of a friendship they've cobbled together. "But the artist was saved that, for the maiden – Galatea's breaths were true, her body made of bones and skin, not clay. The maiden realized his passion and as he kissed her, she blushed and saw him against the sky. Shortly later, they were married and had a child called Paphos."

They absorb that. Gently, Tom tucks a haphazard curl behind her ear, running his nail over and over the strand long after it's subdued. He seems to be trying to say something without saying anything at all, but Hermione is too preoccupied by her own tumultuous thoughts to know what it is. Why did he tell her that story?

A security guard tells them to start packing.

In the car, Tom tells Hermione he would like her to come to his studio and see him at work.

…

At first, Hermione doesn't know what to do. She doesn't peek under the covers draped over the canvases or at the sculptures inside the kiln room, or do much of anything except sit on a thirty-five pound shipment of porcelain clay. As the minutes draw on, however, and Tom settles into the rhythm of painting – or whatever it is he's up to – Hermione's eyes begin to wander.

She moves around the large, mysterious room, peering at the technical sketches and finished pieces precariously piled against walls and giant packages. All of them are Tom's creations. She rubs her finger down a broad band of stiffened acrylic paint, trembling across a spattered rainbow of grim, strict chrome and blue that remind her of rainy days in London. It seems just as never-ending on the canvas as it did there.

"Mr. Voldemort," a muffled voice calls through the door, startling them. Hermione looks up, first at Tom whose eyes flick away from her and to the door, then back down at his painting with discontentment. "What is Kreacher doing here?" he mutters, wiping off his messy hands and walking over.

Hermione watches curiously while Tom seems to have an animated, whispered conversation. Finally, both Kreacher and Tom crane their necks to look over at her. She asks, "What is it?"

"You have a visitor," Tom says, with a furrowed brow that suggests he is both displeased and puzzled by this new development. "Were you expecting someone?"

"No one at all," Hermione replies, surprised. She stands up, looking uncertainly at Kreacher. "Did the person say who they were?"

Kreacher, who didn't speak to her if he could help it, glares at her balefully before answering (but then, he only answered at all because his employer was there). "Ginny Carrot," he sniffs. "Do you know her, Miss Wilkins?" At Miss Wilkins, Tom arches a brow, and Hermione shakes her head back at him, because by now she knows Kreacher knows her real name perfectly well, but refuses to use it to offend her. It's a cause not worthy of fighting.

"Ginny Carrot," Hermione repeats, pleasantly caught off guard. "What is she doing here?"

Kreacher sneers. "I don't know, she's your guest, isn't she?"

"Kreacher," Tom admonishes, but the corner of his lip twitches. Hermione narrows her eyes at that telling corner. Tom catches her eye, breaking into a full-out grin.

"I apologize, Mr. Voldemort," Kreacher says earnestly, but the way his gloved hands clench at his sides seems to say I apologize for your companion's incompetence, that is. "Miss Carrot did, however, mention going somewhere with Miss Wilkins," he adds, and Hermione perks up. "She did not say where though."

Tom seems perturbed. For a wild moment, Hermione thinks it's because he knows Ginny's brother, Ron, is a friend of his disdained competitor Harry Potter and will see her acquaintanceship with them as a betrayal. The thought fills Hermione with unease, although she quickly dismisses it as unrealistic – still, was this a betrayal?

She thinks about it. How would she have felt if the Tom from Wool's Orphanage had been playing tag and swimming at the cove with Billy Stubbs and Sean O'Sullivan – the boys who called her Beaver and Broomhead – behind her back?

Betrayed.

And very, very pissed off.

"Did you know about this?" Tom asks Hermione, turning toward her. "Were you planning to tell me?" he presses, and Hermione can see by the defensive crouch of his shoulders that his insistence will unfurl into anxiety soon, if she lets it go long enough.

"No, not at all," she says honestly. "I'm just as surprised as you are."

This seems to soothe Tom, who Hermione watches warily, and he deliberates. Finally, he says, "Are you going then?" but she can tell he really wants to say a hundred other things, like when will you be back? How long will you be gone? Who will you be with? Do you want me to come? Are you sure you don't want to stay? Who is Ginny Carrot? Is she safe? Can you trust her? Where did you meet her? How do you know her, when I know everyone you know and everyone you meet? Where are you going? How will you reach me if something goes wrong?

"Yes." Hermione adds, "I might as well, especially if she came all this way just to see me." Although part of her is suspicious of the girl's intentions now, after the butchered job she'd done of trying to befriend Winky.

"Of course." With a word, Tom dismisses Kreacher, who shuts the door behind him. As soon as it closes, Tom suddenly takes Hermione's hands in his, giving her serious dark eyes she must admit daze her for half a beat. He leans his forehead against hers, simultaneously startling and pleasing her.

"Hermione," he begins, in a low sincere voice that sends her back to last night, when he told her they couldn't be friends, and this morning when she watched him sleep, looking so troubled. Hermione frowns, wondering what could be nettling him. "I need you to tell me something," he says, "Truthfully."

Hermione's frown deepens, but she replies, "Of course, Tom. What is it?"

"Are you lying to me?"

Her face darkens. She starts to pull away, but he holds fast, speaking quickly. "I'm not trying to accuse you, baby, I just want to know for sure," he soothes, ducking his head to make her look at him. She glares back. "I don't want you to go. Just swear, Hermione, just swear you'll come back. Alright?"

"Why do you need me to promise anything?" Hermione demands, irritated. "Do you not trust me? You think I would run away now, after everything?"

"No," Tom says coolly, but for once, she can tell he's lying. It hurts her more than it should.

"I just wanted to be sure," he repeats, "that you wouldn't try to…to disappear on me." A smile splits his lips, parting for a little laugh – like the idea of her leaving is now such a silly joke, simply implausible. Hermione realizes too late that she should have joined in, but the moment has passed. An eerie feeling of déja-vu tickles the nape of her neck, but she can't place a time where any of this has happened before.

Tom taps her nose, like a mother chiding her young for their tom foolery. "Silly me," he laughs. "I should have known you're so much better than that." Leaning past Hermione, who really can't help being at least a little flattered, he pops open the door for her and slips something in her hand. It's four hundred dollars. Her eyes widen. "Go have fun with your little friend," he says breezily. "Just don't forget about the top contender."

He shuts the door in her face.

Hermione stares at it, bewildered, and almost actually scratches her head. What the…

"Miss Wilkins," Kreacher growls, from the opposite side of the hall, and her head snaps up. "Your guest is waiting," he says with painstaking double emphasis.

"Right, I- thank you, Kreacher-"

With a surly roll of his eyes, the butler gestures for her to follow.

When they reach the bottom floor, Ginny is found waiting in the main hall, looking around with an excessively speculative eye. When she sees them at last, she makes a big huff about it, - well, finally! What took you so long to get her? Didn't you get my telegram? Geez Louiiise – and she waves Hermione over, hustling her out without saying so much as hello. Hermione puts her foot down (literally) when Ginny is on the verge of shoving her over the threshold, huffing and puffing about inefficient technology and being late.

"Wait, wait," she cries, grinding to a halt, and Ginny finally cuts it out with an annoyed sigh. "What's this nonsense?" Hermione demands. "What are you doing here? Where are you taking me?"

"Well, if you knew how to use a telegraph, you would know," Ginny replies patronizingly. Hermione bites her cheek to hold back something rude. "But if you gotta know, we're going to Harry's apartment. We're having a little get together with Luna and the rest."

"And you want me to come?" Hermione says, confused.

"Yeeeeeees." To rub in her opinion of her, Ginny pats Hermione on the head before she can stop it. Hermione jerks away, scowling. "Come on, hotshot," Ginny chortles, linking their arms and marching them out the door. "Away we go!"

Maybe I should've made Kreacher say I wasn't home, Hermione thinks woefully, glancing back at the mansion one more time.

During the drive, Ginny doesn't keep up a stream of conversation about trivial things, like Pansy or Winky might have (the thought of Winky does give Hermione a pang of regret, however), but she props her copper-colored head against the car window and sleeps. It becomes clear to Hermione that this girl and Baby Gin-Gin are completely different people, neither of which she really knows. She bites her lip, settling against her own window to watch the blur of atmosphere whizz by them. Today seems unending.

They stop outside of a brownstone in a quaint neighborhood Hermione doesn't recognize. She's about to wake up Ginny when the girl pops up like a rabbit, opening her eyes wide with a yawn but not saying much else about her nap. Hermione asks what bureau they're in.

"Brooklyn," Ginny mutters, getting out. Hermione clambers out next and finds Ginny elongated against the other side of the car, stretching in what she imagines a tree pose looks like. The sound of her neck cracking when she rolls it repulses her a bit.

Suddenly, the front door of the brownstone opens, and Harry appears in the entrance, Ron just behind him. They both grin at them – although Harry's is directed more at Ginny than it is at her – but nonetheless, Hermione feels suddenly glad she came after all.

"Glad you could make it," Ron warmly says, tipping an imaginary top hat toward Hermione when they step in. Ginny scoffs at that, immediately launching into a recap of the laborious job of retrieving their companion – a story that lasts all the way up the twenty flights of stairs. Behind Ginny's back, Ron scrunches up his face and parrots her, which makes Hermione snort. Ron grins back at her, pleased, and switches to a mime of Harry, nodding attentively, and taking turns between making sympathetic noises and saying 'oh, I see,' 'wow', or 'really now?'

Finally, they reach the top floor, all out of breath. Hermione is the last up, gasping for air, and Ginny snaps at her to hurry up from where she holds open the door to the apartment. Still, Ginny seems in significantly higher spirits after fleshing out her day to Harry. Hermione tries to make herself seem less sweaty before going inside.

The apartment is an airy, sprawling three-bedroom, but the sudden abundance of people inside it makes it seem no larger than a boarding student's dorm. Hermione enters the entrance hallway, narrow and cramped from the excess of household items shoved into it. An overflowing coat rack smashes into Hermione's shoulder first, before Ginny stops two feet in and snatches open a closet she hadn't seen before to put their jackets away. When Hermione apparently takes too long to take her jacket off, Ginny stressfully rubs a hand through her long lovely hair before reaching over a stand of umbrellas and tipped bucket of shoes to help her out. Another few feet – and a plummet to the floor when she trips over a beaded curtain on Hermione's part - and they're one foot in the living room, one foot in the kitchen. Ginny throws up her arms. "Really, Luna!" she exclaims, kicking aside a fallen photo album. "Haven't you ever heard of a broom?"

Luna, sitting by an armchair filled to the teeth with knitting supplies, looks up from a fuzzy-looking sweater with a blink of surprise. "Oh, hello Ginny," she says politely. "Haven't you ever heard of a greeting?"

Looking foul, Ginny turns nearly as red as her hair, but seems to physically swallow down a retort. She struts over to sit next to Harry, who is sprawled on the carpet and using a pile of books as an ottoman. Ron disappeared to the bathroom. An open window allows a constant tempo of indistinguishable conversation and passing cars inside, while Luna's radio plays commercial jingles for aftershave.

"Come in, Hermione," Harry says brightly, spotting her on the side. Hermione looks over them all warily: Ginny, Luna, and him. Harry's smiling face makes her feel guilty for deceiving Tom. Did I deceive him? she thinks. But we're not really friends, Harry and I, so it's not…that bad. It isn't 'betrayal' at all. Besides, I'm not part of their internecine war of the arts; I don't have anything to do with it.

Right?

"She's thinking," Luna observes, putting aside her knitting needles. "Don't distract her."

Harry blinks. "Oh, sorry."

Hermione turns red. "It's ok-" she begins, but Ginny cuts her off, putting her hands on her hips and flying around to face her. "Would you just get in here already? You're making me nervous, hovering like that. I want to start drinking."

Harry tries to diffuse Ginny, who is really lashing out because of Luna's earlier comment, and Hermione hops over a crate of Florida oranges in the kitchen doorway to get out of Ron's way when he comes out of the bathroom. They're all talking at once, even Luna, musing to herself about complimentary colors of yarn, while Hermione apologizes to Ron for accidentally elbowing him in the jaw when they both tried to squeeze into the living room at the same time, and standing up on top of the coffee table is Ginny, demanding some god-damn cocktails. Then Luna gets going with a musical sigh, freeing a place for Ron to sit in, and she asks Hermione to help her make drinks in the kitchen. Hermione, who is glad to go, wants to say something but doesn't when Luna pours almost three quarters of the vodka into her Special Palooza, along with a scoop of cinnamon. They re-emerge into the living room almost a half-hour later, Hermione carrying the tray of tumblers and mugs. Ginny cheers and claps Hermione on the shoulder before taking two (one, of course, is for Harry).

When an hour of animated chatter whirls by – somehow, they've stumbled upon the heated discussion of the despicable Nazis and the origins of the word hamburger at the same time – Ron realizes Hermione isn't drinking, and calls her out on it.

"I'm not thirsty," Hermione says, shrugging, but she's really thinking about Luna's slippery hand and the vodka.

Gloomily, Luna says, "It's the cinnamon, isn't it?" She casts an insecure glance at the kitchen. "You don't like cinnamon."

"Well," Ginny mutters, "there is a little much of it, don't you think?"

Luna looks gloomier.

"No, I like cinnamon fine-" Hermione begins.

"Don't tell me!" Ron suddenly exclaims, in an epiphany. Everyone looks at him. He smirks. "You're an alcohol virgin, aren't you?"

Hermione's eyes bulge out until their saucer-sized at virgin, and Harry, who's a lightweight and still on his first glass, giggles helplessly at her reaction. "Ron!" Ginny snarls, hitting him upside the head. He shouts. Luna looks around, purses her lips, and amiably pokes him in the cheek with one of her knitting needles. "OY!" he wails.

"Alright, alright," Hermione says sternly, trying to put a stop to all the laughter. "I haven't drank before. And what?" Unless the bottle of Mrs. Cole's sherry that she and Tom nicked on New Year's Eve when she was fourteen counts, that is...

"'And what'?" Ginny sputters. "Well, you've gotta drink now, huzzah!"

"Huzzah," Harry echoes, snickering to himself. Luna studies him with concern.

"Ginny's right. Here," Ron says, encircling her wrist with hot fingers and holding up the hand with the Special Palooza. Hermione starts, he smiles at her. "Have at it."

Hermione pulls back, casting a glance at the people around her. People I barely know. Are these the sort she wants to let herself go with? She can't remember if she's a lightweight or not, like Harry, but hopes dearly this is not the case. She'd hate to do something embarrassing.

She knows what Tom would say to her if he were here. It's exactly this, perhaps, that makes her clink glasses with Ginny and take a gulp of Special Palooza.

Ron and Harry cheer their support, but they don't stop soon enough, eventually becoming so rowdy and ridiculous that Ginny throws them out, insisting they get some fresh air and walk it off around the block. They finally leave, roaring and stomping, and the apartment seems bigger and quiet after they've left.

"I think," Luna says, noticing the empty drinks and molested lime wedges. "We need refills."

"Yes, definitely," Ginny agrees, slurping the last of her Special Palooza before plopping it down on Luna's filling platter. Luna gives her a soft arch of one of her wispy blonde eyebrows before making a contemplative "hmmmm" and disappearing into the kitchen. Hermione, knee-deep in the knitting equipment, examines one of Luna's stitching patterns with a furrowed brow.

"So, Hermione," Ginny announces – and it really is an announcement, more like, 'so, HERMIONE.' Hermione, not much of a lightweight as it turns out but very lethargic, glances over her shoulder at her. Ginny smiles back dazzlingly, looking much like her brother Ron, and very mischievous. "You and Voldemort are close, are you?" she asks innocently.

Hermione sighs, louder and more freely than she would have had she not had Luna's homemade brew. "Knew that was coming," she grumbles, stabbing a needle back into a pincushion shaped like a tomato that looked like a sea urchin. Ginny grins wider.

"Yes, we're fairly 'close'," Hermione finally answers, squinting with fascination at the urchin pincushion. Out of the range of her vision, she doesn't see Ginny's face light with devious intent.

"Oh? And how did that happen?" Ginny prods. "He's so famous, and you're so- average!" But she says average as if it were really magnificent or downright charming.

"We went to the same orphanage," Hermione says, in a voice that clearly insinuates she wishes this conversation to be over.

Orphanage? But how does Ron know you? Ginny thinks, but doesn't say. Instead she comments, "So you grew up together."

"No, we-" Hermione blinks, realizing something. "Well, yes, I suppose we did."

"That's…sweet." Batting her eyelashes coquettishly, Ginny adds, "Dare I say, it's romantic."

When Hermione squirms and turns pink around the gills, Ginny is certain she's onto something. "Romantic is a stretch," Hermione says as sternly as she can. "We're friends."

"Haven't heard that one before."

"I mean it," Hermione snaps, with such bitingness Ginny is taken aback.

"Sorry," she finally says, meaning it, but Hermione doesn't answer her. Ginny flushes. "Ron says I have a motor for a mouth," she confesses. "It just won't stop running, no matter what you do. Half the time I don't realize what flies out of it."

"That's not true," Luna assures, returning. She sets down a new tray on an end table, brushing off what look like knickknacks of mythological creatures to make room. Carefully, she places the Buddha figurine on the very edge. "You're impulsive and – well – brutally honest, to be honest. Some people just don't want to hear the truth."

"Right, well anyway, I'll take another one of those," Ginny says, anxious to move on from the topic suddenly. Luna sits between them, crossing her legs and looking surprisingly angelic with her rippling albino hair and church skirts. She helpfully adds, "You're always really nosy," and Ginny stares daggers at her over her mug.

"What time is it?" Hermione asks around a yawn, getting up to search for a clock. Luna directs her to one of the bedrooms, where she goes and finds a cat clock with a big pink tongue ticking back and forth. She balks. Two AM!

"I have to go," she says, rushing back into the living room. Luna and Ginny stare up at her in surprise. "Immediately!"

"But why?" Ginny demands, offended.

"She forgot her toothbrush," Luna predicts, staring at Hermione intently. "That, or she's worried about the leak in the tap water."

Hermione frowns at Luna and Ginny, with a hierarchy roll of her eyes, explains, "Luna's been studying divination."

"Always keep one eye pointed toward tomorrow," Luna says knowledgably, pointing at a calendar nailed to the wall. Ginny makes a rude noise.

"Really, I have to go," Hermione says pleadingly. "Tom- I mean, Voldemort, is expecting me back."

"So what?" Ginny scoffs. "You'll be late, whoop-dee-doo, he'll see you tomorrow."

"It is tomorrow."

Ginny bites her lip. "Oh."

"This is why I told you two to keep one eye pointed toward-"

"I'll take a cab back," Hermione decides, remembering the four hundred Tom gave her in her pocket. "Thank you all very much, I had so much-"

"A cab?" Ginny repeats, laughing. "To Long Island?"

"What? They don't…go that far?" Hermione asks, quickly deflating.

Ginny and Luna shake their heads.

Hermione closes her eyes. "God damn it."