Hermione sat down in the comfortable arm chair and smoothed her robes in her lap, happy to see the woman she had come to view as a friend looking so well. However, she couldn't help but supress a grin when Headmistress McGonagall peered over her spectacles at her, making her feel about twelve years old again momentarily.

"Now Hermione, not that I'm not always pleased to see you, but is this a social call or are you after something? Some sage advice that will make me wish Dumbledore was here to talk to you? A precious artefact that you need help finding?" The older woman leaned her elbows on the desk expectantly.

Hermione took in a moment to survey the large office, noting the changes that had occurred since it had been Dumbledore's abode. Flanked by bookshelves groaning with books, the portraits remained on the wall, some looking as curious as McGonagall; some, like Dumbledore himself, dozing peacefully in their frames. Only Phineas Nigellus Black was glaring at her with open hostility, obviously having not forgotten the rough treatment Hermione had given his other portrait. The majority of the strange instruments that Dumbledore had collected were gone, replaced with ornaments and old photographs. A thick wool rug was soft beneath her feet and the gramophone in the corner Hermione remembered learning to dance to, glinted warmly in the shafts of late afternoon sunlight that poured in between the cosy tartan drapes that hung at the leaded windows.

She sighed, realising she had forgotten to answer, "It's probably advice. But magical advice? Why?"

"Because I was trying to decide between a cup of tea and a biscuit and opening this very nice bottle of muggle scotch that my goddaughter in Glasgow has sent me. This sounds like an occasion for the scotch." She reached down into her desk drawer and pulled out a bottle and a crystal tumbler, before, almost as an afterthought, returning for the battered metal tin, "And a biscuit."

She held up a finger for silence while she took a sip from the glass, her eyes closed in pleasure. Then with a smack of her lips she smiled at Hermione and gestured for her to start.

"Have you ever heard of couples being able to transfer their magic to each other?" Hermione asked as she poured herself tea into one of the delicately patterned cups that sat with the set that was ever present on the Headmistress' desk.

Minerva coughed delicately into her hand, leaving Hermione to speculate how close she had come to making her former professor spit her drink out in surprise, although the older woman recovered quickly.

"That's not your usual area of….interest? I would've thought all of that to be a bit airy fairy for you. I've read about sympathetic magic of course but…." Now it was Minerva's turn to drift off, looking into the distance wistfully before giving herself a little shake and continuing, "Is your question personal or purely academic?"

"Both" Hermione admitted.

At this, Minerva quirked her eyebrows in surprise, observing Hermione over the rim of her glass as she took another sip of the swirling amber liquid.

"How long have you been experiencing it?"

"Ever since we got married, although I haven't experimented with it much. During the ceremony it felt almost like something shifted. Like a gate opening. But…soulmates?" she finished sceptically, trying to convey all her doubts through a messy shrug of her shoulders.

Minerva placed her glass gently onto the deeply burnished wood of her desk.

"I was married once."

"I had heard…" Hermione trailed off respectfully, her head bowed.

"I was very fond of my husband - he was a wonderful companion. But our relationship was not one, perhaps, that will help you in your research about soul mates."

"I had already given my heart, my soul to another. A muggle boy. We couldn't marry, it was…complicated. But that's by the by, from the little I know of it, sympathetic magic doesn't work with muggles."

Hermione was tempted to ask Minerva more about her story but the sorrowful heaviness in the older woman's eyes as she reached for her glass once more told her that she had revealed as much as she was able to. She brought the conversation back to her question instead. "But do you know what it is? Why it happens? I mean, it seems quite rare. I asked Ginny and she said her and Harry didn't have it but anyone can see they are… you know. I mean, they're made for each other. And Ron and me, well."

Minerva seemed to have recovered, giving Hermione what looked a little bit too much like a knowing smile for her liking, making her hope that Minerva wasn't going to comment on her and Ron's compatibility but luckily the elderly witch was too tactful for that.

"Ahh in this respect I am in agreement with you. The idea of soulmates is just a little too much like hocus pocus for me too. But as to why it happens, I can't say. Hermione, it might surprise you to hear me say this, although I suspect what I say will not surprise you in itself. Us magical folk are quite an ignorant breed. As a race we simply don't seem to have the passion for research that muggles do. There are plenty of folk interested in brewing new potions, creating new charms, but precious few who actually want to know the mechanics of them. About the why rather than the how. Take transfiguration, for example –" she waved her wand elegantly and all of a sudden her glass was a mouse and then just as quick, a glass again. "The sort of magic we teach children in their first year here. They are always delighted to see the mice scampering about, nibbling cheese. Then just as happy to turn them back into whatever object they came from. But do you know how many children have ever asked me where the mouse's brain comes from? How it knows how to be a mouse? How many adults for that matter? Dumbledore told me that Newt Scamander used to hate transfiguration of animals, said he was terrified that his teacup would still have memories of being a toad, trapped inside it. But he was an oddity. Those who do develop a passion for knowledge for its own sake are often regarded as oddities." She chuckled ruefully, " Yes, we are straying into the territory of me wishing Dumbledore was here. Or maybe Severus. He had that same curiosity you do."

"He always called me a know it all!" Hermione gasped indignantly.

"Sometimes Severus hated most the things in other people that he had to conceal about himself. The best of himself. He wasn't a happy man, Hermione. I sometimes wonder….I know Dumbledore had to keep him close by but….perhaps we should've considered more what was best for the children. Did we do the right thing?" McGonagall rubbed her furrowed brow.

"They were very different times. "Hermione reached over the desk and patted her friend's hand, swallowing down the uncomfortable memories of what her childhood had been.

"And yet sometimes I feel like they weren't so different at all. Like there's always something lurking in the shadows waiting for the right moment to return." Then she checked herself and laughed, "Goodness me, all this talk of soulmates, now this, I'm starting to sound like Sybil! I'm sorry I can't help you more with your issue, Hermione dear, but I know if you're going to set your mind to discovering more about it, then it won't remain a mystery very long."

"Speaking of old times, Headmistress, I wonder if you remember a boy here, some time ago now. Aurelius Hazeldene?"

"The Head of the Betrothals and Marriage Office? Aye, I remember him." The scotch seemed to be broadening Minerva's Scottish brogue. "I didn't have much to do with him, he was in Slytherin. He always seemed such a bright boy but he never seemed to do as well in his exams as he should have done. Like he wanted to fly under the radar, not draw too much attention to himself."

"Who was he…friends with?" Hermione asked tentatively. Her and Ron had agreed that they needed to ramp up the investigation into Hazeldene after he had told her that her friend appeared to have been imprisoned by the Lestranges. She had been beside herself with the news, angry that she had not pushed harder on Avery to let her see Amy when she had visited the house, if she had even been there at all, which she probably hadn't, she had admitted despairingly, realising that she was talking herself round in circles. Ron had tried to reassure her that Harry was doing all that he could to find her, and the other missing girls but that was small comfort to her. She felt utterly useless, sitting on the sidelines, scrabbling about looking at blueprints and HR files while Ron and Harry did all the real work. She was itching to do something concrete, which was part of what had spurred her to try new angles to find out if Hazeldene had links to the Death Eaters or if he was clueless about the darker elements of the plan and Umbridge was the true villain.

"Friends? Well, no one really. He was a couple of years below Malfoy and that crowd, he seemed almost starstruck by them. But I'm not sure they even noticed him. After school he got an apprenticeship in St Mungo's, I can't remember doing what exactly, perhaps something in admin or the back offices, and I must admit I didn't give him a lot of thought after that. I was surprised when I saw his name on articles about the Ministry. Pleased, almost, that he'd finally stopped hiding himself away, until all this nonsense about the marriage law. That's why you're asking isn't it?"

"Yes, I was just hoping you might have some insight into what he's up to."

"It was such a long time ago and as I say, he seemed to want to go unnoticed. Honestly, I shall simply have to retire, I am about a thousand years old after all, or it feels like it sometimes anyway. The number of children that have passed through the school since I've been here, practically the whole of wizarding Britain alive today!"

Hermione scoffed at the idea that the Headmistress had even the slightest intention of giving up the post any time soon, "Harry and Ron have got a bet going, they think you'll retire when James starts school. Something about the Weasley and Potter bloodlines crossing that will just be too much for you."

To her surprise Minerva through back her head and laughed, not a politely dry chuckle but a full belly laugh. Eventually she dabbed her mirth dampened eyes with an immaculately pressed lace handkerchief.

"Oh my dear, have they forgotten that I taught Sirius Black?"

Eventually Hermione bid her former professor farewell and wandered down into the village. She browsed the windows of the trinket shops mindlessly, with no intention of buying anything. It was only when she passed the shop she remembered from her childhood as Zonko's and saw the triple W emblazoned above the door that she acknowledged that she was avoiding something, a task she knew she had to do. Once it was back in the forefront of her mind, there was no pretending to mull over the purchase of a new quill that would shake it. With a reluctant sigh, she made for the apparition point so she could go home and get it over with.

She was just about to step through when she saw a familiar figure, dressed in slightly grubby chartreuse robes, lingering outside the Hog's Head, peering hopefully into her coin purse.

Almost instantly, a plan began forming in her mind, tendrils of inspiration unfurling and wrapping around her, feeding desperately from the desire to be doing something, anything. Her heart beat against her ribs as flowers of hope bloomed in her mind, hope that she could be useful. She didn't have time to second guess herself – fate wouldn't throw this opportunity into her lap again and Merlin knows, the woman did everything in her powers to avoid Hermione at all costs. If she caught sight of Hermione now, watching her, and managed to give her the slip, she might go to ground for weeks.

Hermione turned on her heel and pressed a smile onto her lips as she lifted her arm in greeting, calling loudly to her enough that passers-by turned to see who she was calling to. Good, thought Hermione - witnesses. She wouldn't try any funny business with people watching.

Hermione took a small amount of pleasure in seeing the witch's eyes widen in horror before she returned Hermione's wide grin with one of her own, although it was more of a grimace. Up close, Hermione could smell the hint of unwashed acridity, see the lipstick applied with a shaky hand, creases around the eyes that she was sure hadn't been there just a few short years ago. Hermione supressed any feeling of guilt she had on that front, reminding herself that Rita was still able to command the front page of the Prophet when she was sober enough to wish to do so, and that was all that mattered here.

"What do you want?"

"Rita! How lovely to see you! Can I buy you a drink?" Hermione asked gaily, although the firm hand on the reporter's elbow, steering her into the pub, made it clear that it was a demand rather than a request.

oOoOoOo

After a mutually beneficial couple of hours with Rita, Hermione had accepted that there was no further putting off the task she knew she must do. And that was why she was perched on the edge of the bath, wrapping the sleeves of her jumper over her hands as she watched the egg shaped clock that she had swiped from the kitchen tick down. Despite seeing every second tick away, the insistent buzzing it gave off still jangled her nerves, sending a jolt through the stiff set of her shoulders. She squeezed her eyes shut and took the same deep breath that she took before she turned over every exam paper that she had ever sat, before reaching for the small plastic stick lying innocently on the toilet seat. Tomorrow was their monthly appointment at St Mungo's and just as she had done in the past few months she was testing ahead of it so that she could deal with her feelings on the result on her own. This month was different though. No one more than Hermione believed in the importance of relying on facts - that sanctuary could be found in knowledge alone – and she was almost embarrassed to admit it even to herself but she had a feeling this month. Nothing as obvious as feeling sick or tired. Just an aching in her belly that had made her wonder if her period had been coming early although it had not, and a steady worsening of her nightmares that had left her feeling drained and disoriented every morning.

And there it was, the blue cross that confirmed what she had guessed, hypothesis made fact. She was pregnant.

She pressed her hand to her throat, trying to subdue the fluttering that had started in her chest and was threatening to burst out of her. She tried to stand up but found her legs too wobbly to support her, and sank down against the edge of the bath, pressing her fevered cheek to the cool ceramic tiles in an attempt to calm her racing mind. She admonished herself sternly, telling herself that she must have known it was coming now she was taking the real fertility medicine and to pull herself together, whilst all the while, another part of her brain was screaming at her; "You fraud, you can't look after a child! What do you know about parenting? You destroyed your own parents' minds? And Ron's going to run a mile when you tell him!"

"Oh my god - Ron," she mumbled, attempting to swallow down the bile that was rising up her throat at the mere thought of how she was going to tell him.

She tried to convince herself that she wouldn't be completely abandoned even if Ron did do a runner at the earliest possible opportunity. Harry and Ginny would look after her, and Molly and Arthur would be thrilled no doubt at having another grandchild – they loved their role as grandparents.

Grandparents.

The very word made the tears that had been threatening to spill over, run down her cheeks. Because her parents would never know they were grandparents, because of what she'd done to them. They'd never get to coo over the baby and decide if her ears looked more like Aunt Connie's or if the Granger curls had overcome the Weasley ginger gene. She would never get to see her mother cradling the baby, singing the same lullabies she had sung to Hermione herself.

Like a wraith she crept to her bedroom and opened the wardrobe, reaching right down to pull out the shoe box that she had hidden at the back. Then sitting back on the bed she tipped the contents out.

There hadn't been much left that the Death Eaters hadn't ransacked from her childhood home. They hadn't stolen anything valuable, rather having seemed to have taken pleasure in destroying beyond repair, anything that had sentimental value. So when she had finally returned there, the few items that she had found worth salvaging had fitted easily inside the small cardboard box. She had vanished away the rest of the debris and listed the house with a local estate agent that day. The proceeds of the house sale were sitting untouched in a bank account in her parents' name.

Her fingertips drifted over the faded photo of her dad lifting her over his head as a tiny girl before she picked up the floral silk scarf that her mum had always worn on special occasions. She pressed it to her face and inhaled deeply but only the faintest trace of her mum's perfume remained, barely detectable over the smell of dust. She could put a stasis charm on the things but it seemed wrong, like magic had interfered enough in their lives and their memories should be left in their natural state. Then she found what she had been looking for – the white lace bonnet that her own granny had crocheted for her when she had been a baby. She had worn it to her Christening apparently. "This will be yours one day," she whispered to the baby that her rational self knew was nowhere near developing ears yet.

A bang downstairs notified her that she was no longer alone in the house.

"Honey, I'm home!" she heard Ron call from downstairs in a cheesey American accent.

"I'm up here," she called back, hurridly rearranging the items into the box on top of the baby bonnet as she listened to his feet thundering up the stairs.

"You're early," she attempted a watery smile at him.

"Yeah I had to shut up shop early, I had some work to do with Harry –" his face grew concerned, "Are you ok? You look like you've been crying? Have I done something?"

This is it, she thought, this is when I tell him and shatter everything forever.

"Oh," he said, looking down at the meagre pile of photos and mementoes on the bed in front of her, "right, you've been thinking about your parents."

She nodded, letting the partial truth buy her a few more minutes of shelter from the oncoming storm.

"We can try again you know, go and have another look for them. We even be able to find something on that internet you were telling me about."

After this long it'd feel like a cruelty to rip them out of their lives again, she mused. Better they never know they had a daughter. Especially with all this mess going on, things might get dangerous again. She stared down at her hands, to hide the telltale shine in her eyes. She didn't dare answer him in case her voice let her down, betrayed her, let the words that were going to destroy their fragile co-existence tumble out.

He eyed her carefully, like she was a porcelain tea set, precariously stacked on a wonky tabletop, weighing up his next move. Experience had taught him that his emotional range wasn't really that small, it was just slow to register. In the seconds of silence that stretched thin between them, he considered his options, mentally ticking them off against what he knew of his wife. If Hermione wanted to talk about it, she knew he would listen, but she seemed to have shut herself up. She wasn't expansive, railing or trying to form a plan. Nothing he could bounce off of. Best he could offer was to try and change the subject, try and cheer her up. He rubbed his hands together briskly.

"Listen, do you want to go out, we could go to that little Italian down the road that Kingsley recommended. He said it was really swish, all the senior ministers go there. You need to get used to that sort of thing now you're on the up."

"Ok", she agreed, with the relief of a drowning man who had discovered a driftwood branch floating towards them. She would tell him there, not now, not here. Ron was always in a better mood with a full stomach, after all.

Ron smiled, pleased that if he had not healed her emotional wounds, he had certainly managed to find a suitable bandage to staunch the bleeding from this one for now, "Great, I'll just go freshen up then we can floo there."

"It's barely ten minutes walk from our house to the restaurant, let's just go the muggle way. It's a lovely evening and it'll be nice to arrive somewhere without being covered in soot." Hermione attempted to insert insouciance into her voice, to roll her eyes just the right way. But it was all she could do to stop her hand straying to her stomach at her irrational thought that the floo might scramble the baby.

"Ok…." he said looking at her curiously, "Youre looking a bit pale, maybe the fresh air will do you good. Are you sure youre feeling alright?"

"Nothing that a plate of pasta won't sort out," she attempted a laugh, crossing her fingers behind her back.