All the way down on level seven, hidden behind the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and directly adjacent to the Patents Office, was the Ministry of Magic's Library. Unlike the library back at Hogwarts, this was a low-ceilinged place squeezed into an area that was hardly bigger than a broom cupboard. Magic, however, made up for the lack of physical space it occupied. Neatly organized inside were books, upon more books, upon scrolls, upon clay tablets with carvings on them—some of these supposedly dating back six thousand years ago.
The seemingly endless rows of information were all arranged as neatly as possible onto shelves that rotated like a rolodex in front of an otherwise unremarkable magical archway. Hermione loved it as much as she loved any other vast library that was available for her to use.
On the morning after the hot chocolate incident, she had forgone breakfast to head there directly. The sun had barely risen, and yet she was stepping up to the archway with a pre-written scrap of parchment. On it, she had scrawled: Magical Methods to Discover an Unknown Identity.
"You've already done this," she muttered under her breath, annoyed with herself. It was true that she had already attempted several variations of this wording, with marginal success. The majority of results so far had given instructions for finding out who had secretly hexed you, and most of the rest was divination.
But what if I missed something? The thought fluttered through her like a tattered scrap of hope.
Feeling none-too-optimistic, Hermione placed her request into a small, brass cauldron hanging from a chain to the left of the archway. Taking a half-step back, she watched the parchment burst into blue flames before the rolodex of shelves spun before her, eventually coming to a stop where the library had decided she could find what she was looking for.
I'm going to find you, she repeated like a mantra as she stepped between the shelves. A fleeting taste of chocolate ghosted through her memory, almost tangible. I'm going to find you.
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Despite her determination and at least in part thanks to her stubbornness, Hermione spent far too long at the Ministry library—something which did not pay off at all—and left feeling even more stymied than before. There was nothing like her own failure to send her into a dreadful mood, heightened by her lack of sleep from the night before. Therefore, when she did finally arrive at her office twenty-five minutes late, Hermione longed for nothing more than a cup of strong tea.
Imelda arrived behind her no less than twenty seconds later, levitating a steaming cuppa directly onto Hermione's desk and without any other greeting, stated, "Library this morning, I see."
"I lost track of time—"
"Obviously."
"—absolutely did not mean to spent two hours—"
Imelda harrumphed.
"—and I never even found what I was looking for." Reaching for the teacup, she brought it to her lips and took a sip. New life breathed through her reassuringly, and she used this to begin gathering strength for her work day. Gesturing with the cup in acknowledgment, she added, "Thanks for this."
"Ta," said Imelda, straightening her glasses. Clearing her throat, she began her morning debrief by handing Hermione a small stack of files. "You'll probably need to bring this top one for your meeting with Perrot about that ghoul she's trying to get relocated."
"I'm meeting with her about that again?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Audeline knows she doesn't have a case," Hermione muttered, taking another life-giving sip of tea. "That ghoul has been at Hampton Court Palace for centuries. The Muggles aren't in any danger, and the stories are harmless enough. They believe it's Queen Katherine Howard's spirit stuck in time, trying to save her own neck. It's even rather famous. More to the point, ghost stories in the Muggle word aren't even uncommon—"
Too late, she realized her voice had raised.
Imelda looked at her, unsurprised. "What took you to the library this morning?" Her eyes momentarily fixated on the movement of Hermione scratching at her shoulder blade—to the itch that was now just another part of her normal life. Imelda's eyes flicked to the partly open door before she pushed it the rest of the way shut. "Your soulmate?"
For some reason, the question made Hermione feel embarrassed. "Yes."
"Did something happen?"
She considered the other witch for a moment. Imelda was a fair bit older than her, with a grown-up son Hermione remembered from her time at Hogwarts. Thankfully, the age gap between her and her assistant had never caused any discomfort in their professional relationship. But while Hermione could recognize the necessity of sharing her secret with the woman, it felt odd to seek her confidence now.
Slowly, Hermione shook her head. "No, nothing's happened. My Sense is coming in loud and clear, but I still don't really know anything about him."
"Chiefly, how to find him," Imelda translated, sliding her reading glasses down to look over the rims at her boss.
Hermione nodded. "I've researched all sorts of magical detection and tracking methods. But how am I supposed to find someone when the only thing I know for certain about him is what he's putting in his mouth? Even then, not all the time…"
The suggestive nature of that sentence struck Hermione at Imelda's raised eyebrow. Thankfully, she merely remarked, "Seems like it might just be easier to try to get them to come to you."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't mean advertising yourself, per se. Just that if you leave obvious enough clues, understood by the right person, it could make it easier for them to find you."
Interesting thought, Hermione had to admit. There was a certain hopeful logic in the idea that following what had happened last night, maybe her soulmate would be trying to find her, too. Surely he had felt the connection just as strongly as she had… "Leaving clues… good idea. Thank you."
"Of course," Imelda accepted, readjusting her glasses in place on her nose before handing off another file. She had shifted back into her usual business-like manner. "You'll need this blue folder for your conference with Robards and MacKay, which is directly after your meeting with Perrot, so try not to go too long with her."
The two witches exchanged a look, both knowing how that could go. Representing the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Spirit Division, Audeline Perrot was an incredible chatterbox with only a handful of things to actually say. Hermione's hypothesis was that she did it on purpose so that in the end, she would get what she wanted because the other party simply wanted her to stop talking.
"Try not to scratch at that thing too much in front of Robards," advised Imelda, nodding at Hermione's shoulder. "He'll definitely notice."
"Right."
"After Robards and MacKay, I have your afternoon meetings planned for here."
Draining the last of her tea, she confirmed, "Got it."
The meetings were a disaster from start to finish. No sooner had her conference with Audeline Perrot begun, when Hermione began to taste oatmeal with brown sugar, along with what she thought might be cream and cinnamon. She was so fixated on what else her soulmate might be doing while eating his breakfast, that she was disconcerted to find—suddenly—that Audeline was staring at her, waiting for a response, and Hermione had not heard a word of what the woman had said.
Disquieted, she scratched at her shoulder blade, mentally chastising herself for her slip-up, and apologized, "I'm very sorry, Perrot. I'm feeling a little under the weather today."
Audeline looked back at her, unimpressed. "Of course we can always reschedule if we must. But, Granger, don't think I'm giving up. That ghoul is an imminent threat to magical discovery. It really shouldn't stay there—"
"It's lived there four hundred years already."
"With many near-brushes with discovery!"
It was the same old argument she had rehashed with this woman, time and again, but today Hermione's heart simply wasn't in it. So instead of citing her usual list of examples in history that proved specific ghouls being known by Muggles was not a problem, she said, "Can you just move past this?"
Audeline blinked, as if stunned. It was not their argument's usual trajectory; it was actually rude. Rage dawned on the petite woman's features. "I thought you were made of better stuff than this, Granger."
Without another word, she summoned the papers spread on her side of the table and left. This time, it was Hermione who was left stunned. She sat there for a few minutes, mentally rehearsing twenty other ways she could handle interdepartmental relationships better in the future. She did her best to shove thoughts of her soulmate away, but she felt vivified, as if she were a live wire.
Despite the abrupt ending of her meeting with Perrot, Hermione was still somehow late to her meeting with Robards and MacKay. It was an important meeting—Gawain Robards was head of the Auror office, while Sarah MacKay was his direct counterpart in the Legal side of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Together, the three of them would be discussing the implementation of laws that could provide free Wolfsbane Potion to anyone. MacKay wanted to create a werewolf registration like the Werewolf Code Conduct of 1637. But besides feeling that a law from over three hundred years was hardly a model for the modern day, Hermione wanted the potion simply to be given without any registration needed. She felt that many werewolves would choose to continue suffering rather than put their trust in the government, and that it was not right. MacKay was having a hard time coming to terms with the logistics of it.
No matter how crucial to future legislation Hermione knew this meeting was, the problem was that her shoulder blade had chosen that moment to become incredibly itchy.
It was torture not to scratch or overly fidget. Somehow she managed it, mindful of Robards' watchful gaze. In fact, he largely sat back watching, letting the two witches fight it out, occasionally interjecting an opinion for consideration.
By the time Hermione returned to her office that afternoon, she was impatient and on-edge. Imelda met her with another cup of tea and her afternoon schedule, but Hermione could not concentrate. The remainder of the day was spent in a dreadful glump, only to be followed by a fitful night's sleep—this time not because of a nightmare, but because she could not stop thinking about hot chocolate and whispered reassurances.
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The second morning after the dream, Hermione felt very raw from all the stress and her lack of sleep. No amount of concealer had been able to hide the bags under her eyes. Nevertheless, when Imelda came into her office, Hermione was feeling confident enough to announce, "I'd like to make an arrangement with the Daily Prophet. I'm interested in writing a letter for them to publish. Could you arrange for that as soon as possible?"
"Of course. What will it be about?"
"That will take some deciding."
Imelda paused, glancing at the door. This time, she had already shut it. "Is it to find your soulmate?"
Hermione nodded.
"I see." She paused. "What if they aren't looking in the right place at the right time?"
"You mean, what if he misses it?" Hermione thought for a moment. Exhaustion crept in a little more, though the day was only beginning. "I suppose… I could write another letter later on, but there's no telling if they'd publish the first, let alone a second."
"What about a column?"
Her eyebrows raised. "A regular column? Me?"
"Why not you?"
"Well, maybe. I just want to get something out there. The first step is seeing if the Prophet is interested."
"They'll be interested," Imelda said decidedly. "I'll see what I can do."
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"The Daily Prophet would be chuffed to publish a column by you, to print twice-weekly on Mondays and Fridays," Imelda announced, looking faintly smug as she stood before Hermione's desk the following afternoon. "It can be about whatever topic you want."
"Twice-weekly!" Hermione exclaimed, thinking of the many long days she already worked. "That's a lot of added responsibility on top of my usual duties."
"Yes," Imelda agreed, but ploughed on, "but it's also a carte blanche. You can submit your first article this Thursday night for Friday's paper."
Hermione cast a quick confirming glance at the calendar on her wall. "That's tomorrow night! It doesn't leave much time. I don't even know what I want to write about."
Straight-faced, Imelda queried, "Should I tell them you want to wait until Monday to start?"
The thought of waiting an entire weekend to begin was even more unappealing than a tight deadline. Finally, all at once, it sunk in just what her assistant had achieved. It was monumental. Hermione straightened up. "No, this is perfect. It's even better than I could've hoped for. Thank you."
"Good luck," Imelda replied with a twinkle in her eye.
.
.
Hermione left work that evening as early as she dared, grabbed some take-away, and headed home to sit down at her desk and open her laptop. She had to begin somewhere, but it was difficult to know where to start.
Obviously, she couldn't write, If you have a Fatemark on your shoulder blade and like to eat, you're probably my soulmate. Here is the address for my flat.
She tried to imagine Imelda's expression if she had to fight the nightmare that would undoubtedly follow. Or the look on Robards' face, since according to him, the DMLE had intercepted four separate men who had stalked her at one point or another.
Her nose wrinkled; people could be really disgusting sometimes.
On the other hand, she was acutely aware of the platform which her fame had given her to stand on. People tended to pay attention to her. Not for the first time, Hermione was thankful for that advantage. Still, she would have to be subtle and not give too much away—just enough information so that the right person would know Hermione was looking for him.
This is going to be tricky. The fact was undeniable.
In the end, the article was nothing she considered spectacular…
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New beginnings are often difficult for me. Not conceptually, but in practice. Being a beginner at something means you need to be willing to be bad at it for a little while, and I certainly struggle with letting go of control like that. I suspect most everyone else would agree with me when I say that I would prefer to be an expert right from the start.
For most of my adult life, I have lived mostly on pre-packaged foods and meal supplements, until recently when I began working on my cooking skills. Many of these adventures have come from following recipe books. Actually, this was how I learned a lesson about keeping potion ingredients too near the spice cupboard. They're now safely separate!
For the rest of my instruction, a few brave souls have volunteered to teach me. For example, last week a friend taught me how to prepare a shepherd's pie. It's a classic English dish, of course, which I've enjoyed many times but never cooked before. My father always loved shepherd's pie, but my mother would claim there was no real flavor to it. She did not care for lamb, in general. Additionally, as she had learned to cook in Nigeria when she was a child, shepherd's pie was not part of her repertoire. My father adored my mother's cooking and ate it happily. Even so, any time we ate out as a family and shepherd's pie was on the menu, he would order it and my mother would roll her eyes at him. It became a family inside joke. Learning how to make this dish as an adult brought back a lot of those memories for me.
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It was short, but given the quick turnaround for it, Hermione had done the best she could. Vowing to give it more thought going forward, she dismissed her first submission as a miss. She was therefore surprised when Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, owled her personally to tell her that he had loved it.
She was even further surprised to discover that only a few days after her first publication, a small stack of fan mail had been delivered to her desk. Her heart leapt—could a message from her soulmate be among them?
Despite being sure that someone had already checked the letters for standard curses, she checked all twelve for sinister things like hexes, more obscure curses, or undiluted bubotuber pus. Some lessons only had to be learned once.
But after they were cleared and she had read them all, she was not sure how she felt. Even though the letters were mostly nice (with one exception, calling her political leanings mad), Hermione could not help feeling disappointment.
It would have been too good to be true, she told herself. Still, as she looked at the little pile of letters, she also had to wonder if this was not going to be as easy as she had originally assumed…
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A period of dubious uncertainty followed the beginning of Hermione's new career as a columnist. All at once, the parts of her life where she had always excelled—most notably, her work—suddenly dominated her. It was difficult to concentrate properly on anything. She seemed suddenly clumsy, dropping things and unable to settle.
A fortnight passed. Hermione's fourth article had just come out that Monday; she was now at a level of frazzled that was reminiscent of her time spent on the run from Voldemort. By this time, her shoulder blade had officially been itching for over two months, and she was ready to rip it off for a few moments' respite. There had been a brief period of experimenting with various creams and balms, both magical and Muggle. A simple Star Grass Salve seemed to help the most, but could not stifle it entirely.
Andromeda had invited her over to cook a meal together. With Harry and Ginny minding Teddy, the two women had Tonks House all to themselves.
"We are going to make…" she announced, dramatically pausing as she cast a spell to open the recipe book. When it finally stopped moving, she read out the title: "Lamb tajine."
Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "Did you actually pick this ahead of time, or did it just happen to land on that page?"
With another spell, Andromeda summoned a small jar of something from the fridge and held it up. "I started preparing the salt-lemon three weeks ago. It really makes a huge difference in the flavor, despite tasting absolutely horrible on its own."
"Oh! So you've made this before?
"A few times. Actually, Ted originally learned it in a cooking class he took many years ago. It is so, so good."
Lamb tajine, Hermione quickly learned, was so named after the distinctive earthenware pot in which it was cooked. Andromeda always went through the recipe out loud before she began, and also liked to point out some highlights of the dish's history, which Hermione appreciated.
She spent several minutes trimming the fat from meat by hand, while Andromeda peeled and chopped the onion with magic. Soon, the fragrance of frying onions with saffron and ginger filled the kitchen, followed shortly by the smell of cooking meat. Once the ingredients—as well as some broth and some more spices—had been added to the tajine, the tall clay dish went into the oven, and the two witches took some tea while they waited.
The parlour at Tonks House walked the line between ordinary and whimsical, with floral chintz upholstery and seven cuckoo clocks stationed throughout the room. Andromeda flicked her wand to pour out a cuppa, which Hermione accepted with a weak smile.
Pouring a cup for herself, Andromeda began methodically adding sugar. The only sounds in the room were the clink of the china sugar bowl returning to the table top, and the irregular tick-tock of the cuckoo clocks, overlapping one another occasionally, and out of sync in turn.
"Is everything alright?" the older witch queried. "You've been quiet tonight."
That roused Hermione. "I'm sorry, you're right. It's just been a busy time at work. Thank you for putting all this together."
"It was my pleasure."
She managed another wan smile. "Will you be at George and Angelina's wedding?"
"Of course, and Teddy, too."
"It's hard to believe it's only a couple of weeks away—"
"You're having a Sense right now, aren't you?"
Hermione froze; she had not realized she'd been scratching at her shoulder blade again. Why not tell her? It's Andromeda. If anyone would understand, she would. "Yes. Fish of some kind. Maybe salmon? Along with lemon… and garlic, I think. No, definitely." Leaning into the flavors dancing across her tongue, Hermione unconsciously smacked her lips and then swallowed. "With asparagus."
Andromeda grinned. "He's got good taste."
But Hermione's smile was only a small, half-hearted thing. "It's the only thing I really know about him. I'm starting to get worried."
"Why, particularly?"
"Well, I've published five articles now, looking for him—four in the Prophet, plus a once-monthly gig Imelda managed to get me with a Muggle magazine, The London Dish."
"Five articles is not exactly the library of Alexandria. I wouldn't give up hope just yet."
"I know," she sighed, setting her teacup down. "It's just frustrating. He's clearly moved into this time zone, because our mealtimes are now perfectly aligned and he's begun eating some British food as well."
"I've noticed in your articles for the Prophet that you're often talking about food you're making. But you should also really be describing what you're tasting from his end, not just what you're eating." She took a sip of her tea. "That way, if your soulmate does happen to read your article, it will increase the likelihood of him realizing."
"That makes sense. It's hard to walk the line between giving enough information, without giving too much away as well."
Andromeda smiled. "I perfectly understand."
Hermione knew she did, and that was comforting. She picked her teacup back up. "You know, you're the only person I've ever met with a Fatemark besides my parents."
"Really? Your parents are Fatemarked?"
Nodding, she added, "There's some research to indicate that Fatemarks could be genetically linked in some way, but no one is exactly sure how that works since the whole concept is more metaphysical than scientific."
Andromeda said nothing for a long moment. "How did your parents meet?"
Hermione had heard both her mother and father tell the story of how they had met many times, but she had never had to recount the whole thing since losing them. It made her nervous, almost as if the long-untouched topic was forbidden.
"My mother and grandmother immigrated here from Nigeria to start a new life after my grandfather and uncles had died. Mum studied hard and ended up in dental school, where Dad was teaching." She smiled a little. "They made it work despite the age gap, the student-teacher relationship, and all of the racial issues in the 70s, keeping it a secret until Mum graduated." She ran her thumb around the fluted rim of the teacup where the gold flake was starting to peel off. Hermione was not smiling anymore. "Mum told me once that in some ways, it was easier when everything was secret. Dad suffered a lot of professional and social backlash after they went public."
"That is something I understand well. My family disowned me completely when I fell in love with Ted. To them, it didn't matter that we were Fatemarked—blood always triumphed." Reaching out to touch the younger witch's arm, Andromeda earnestly added, "With great loves like ours, there is always some suffering. It's a part of why the bond is so strong. But remember, it was worth it… and I can guarantee, your parents felt the same, despite their hardships."
Feeling a tear prick at the corner of her eye, Hermione pushed the feeling down. "You don't have to tell me. I saw how in love they were every day."
"Just you wait," the older witch promised. "You're going to fall when you're least expecting it, and it'll be spectacular."
It sounded more ominous than reassuring to Hermione.
"Come on. We still have almonds to blanch and eggs to boil for the tajine, and I picked up some flatbread to eat it all with. Just wait until your first bite!"
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Another fortnight marked a solid month of writing for the Daily Prophet. But while Hermione definitely got a reaction to her new article, it was not the one she had been looking for. She now had begun to expect even more fan mail than she already got.
She wrote mostly about food and learning to cook it. One of her first articles related the story of meeting a friend who let her help prepare a Beef Wellington. Hermione also spoke a little bit about English food in general. The friend had of course been Ginny, and even though Hermione had described the dish as superb, she received three different Beef Wellington recipes by owl post afterward, which all three people promised was the best one.
Her most popular article yet had come out the Monday prior, when she had written about making milkshakes the Muggle way out of nostalgia, even though she swore they tasted better when blended with magic. Florean Fortescue, who had reopened his ice cream shop in Diagon Alley after the war, had sent her a voucher for five free milkshakes after that particular article.
Some of Hermione's new mail was very nice, with various people telling her how much they admired everything she was doing for wizarding Britain. As her articles were centered around food, she also got many people who shared recipes they thought she should try for future articles or recommendations for restaurants. There was quite a bit of commentary on her food choices—and unfortunately, plenty of jerks who called the food she was describing disgusting. Several missives called into question who she was as a witch, and one who objected to her colour. A few creeps were also thrown into the mix as well, including one anonymous letter that asked for pictures of her feet. Hermione considered that one to be the most upsetting of the lot, as since the letter had been anonymous, there was no way for her to respond to it even if she had wanted to… which she did not.
None of this was exactly new, she had now been in the spotlight for more of her life than not, but it was still exhausting… and while it was certainly opening her eyes in ways she had not expected, there had not been a peep from her soulmate. Hermione was sure she was tasting nearly everything the mystery man was putting in his mouth these days; their shared Sense was wide open.
As August breathed its last, Hermione could be found seated at her kitchen table in front of her laptop, typing up her article for next month's issue of The London Dish. Three months had passed since she had first got her Sense.
Crookshanks sat by the door, a silent reminder that it was past their bedtime.
"I know," she told the cat.
He only blinked at her.
With a sigh and a glance at the flickering screen, she shut the laptop and stood from her seat to stretch. She had already waited for what felt like eons for this man, she supposed it wasn't going to happen before bedtime. Even so, it was hard to stifle the disappointment that came along with another day without contact.
A/N: Sorry for the long wait since the last chapter. I had transmuted unexpectedly into a puddle of primordial goo for several months, but I am better now. Some people also reached out more recently to let me know they were still thinking about this story, and that is incredibly sweet. Thank you to all who left me comments and encouragement, it is treasured beyond measure.
Thank you to sarenia for introducing me to lamb tajine as a dish and even translating and typing up her recipe for me! Also for alpha reading. What a champion.
Also, iwasbotwp beta-ed this chapter. Thank goodness she is an expert in anonymous feet pictures and how that does not work if one is expecting an actual reply. The greatest of betas, asking the real questions.
Drop me a review if you enjoyed this bit. I love hearing from you!