If there was one thing that made Hermione gag instantly, it was the taste of licorice. Specifically, anise. Worse still, as the ghost of some kind of drink coated the back of her tongue, there was a feeling that came alongside her Sense which forced her to conclude that it was in direct retaliation to the raw onion she had just forced herself to eat. In desperation, Hermione looked around her kitchen for something—anything—that might ease this new suffering. Her eyes fell on the package that had been delivered just that morning from the apothecary: a ceramic jar of preserved fish eyes to replenish her potioneering cupboard.

It seemed only fitting...

She reached for the jar, dissolved the wax sealant with magic, then uncorked it. Feeling reckless, she decided that if the tosser thought she was going to go down without a fight, he had another thing coming.

Her blind determination allowed her to close off her mind to what she was about to put her taste buds through, even despite an unfortunate glance into the container at the near-solid mass of fish eyes floating in gelatinous brine. Lifting the jar and tilting her head back, she poured the contents directly into her mouth.

The taste was fishy and with a hint of chemical flavor, but with a gummy, greasy texture like cold fat. Still, it smothered the lingering anise taste, if only a little. As the mass of it began to slide down her throat, a few of the eyes burst and squirted a hot, vinegary liquid down her esophagus.

She willed herself not to be sick, but it was a near thing.

Once she had finally swallowed everything, she picked up the pieces of her dignity and rinsed out her mouth with anything she could find in her refrigerator. Despite the bold move, she knew she was still a few steps behind her soulmate in this growing Sense war. A low-simmering anxiousness set in, along with a grim satisfaction that hopefully, she had at least bought herself some time before a rebuttal.

.

.

The bell on the shop door rang when Hermione entered. Just the sound of it coupled with the act of stepping onto that well-worn floor overwhelmed her with such nostalgia that she almost expected to hear, "Miss Hermione, is that you?"

Her heart stopped for a moment, even though she knew the Muggle woman who used to run the shop had died many years ago. But a young Hermione had come here, to this specific delicatessen, with her grandmother many times. Things were different under the new proprietor, but the gist of the place was the same: a few sandwiches were being assembled for a waiting patron, while greasy takeaway bags of chips were being passed over the counter to a short line of people. A little girl longingly eyed a display of assorted biscuits and sweets. Lining the far wall were refrigerators full of containers of soups, pies, and meals that looked ready to simply put in the oven at home. An older couple were rifling through the cheese selection, remarking about the different kinds to one another in an undertone. Breads and mounds of meat were on display behind glass, or else being taken out to be portioned out and weighed for customers.

Feeling confident, Hermione went up to the counter and waited. When it was her turn, she confidently stated, "I'd like to order a jar of pigs' trotters please."

When she left the little shop with her package, she experienced a moment's indecision. On the one hand, she had come here specifically because it was the only place she knew of that actually carried jars of pickled pigs' feet. To a young Hermione's disgust, her grandmother had occasionally used to eat them straight out of the jar. Still, she was only here in her old neighborhood for the purpose of a single purchase.

Then again, her parents' old dentistry practice was only a few blocks away...

But what could be gained from going? she had to wonder. Her feet started moving all the same, before she had even made the decision.

She came to a stop in front of an all-too-familiar storefront, lingering outside and mentally replaying the phantom motion of unlocking the door and punching in the alarm code—her birthday. The place had got a paint job in the last few years, and the sign over the door now said: Greene's Physiotherapy, and under that, smaller, the names Dr Joseph Greene, DPT & Dr Elizabeth Greene, DPT. Hermione stared at the sign, wondering if the Doctors Greene were a married couple practicing their medicine together just as the Doctors Granger once had in this very location. The idea was unexpectedly uplifting.

For a second time, her feet seemed to move on their own. She was not really wearing the best shoes for a walk across town, and the jar of pigs' feet was heavy with anticipation in her pocket. Still she walked, and as she did, she remembered the first time she had ever seen her mother's Fatemark. She had been a small girl at the time, and her mother had told her to sit on a stool in the kitchen while she braided Hermione's bushy hair. The shirt she was wearing did not have sleeves, and when she lifted her arm, there it was: the pink and red petals of a rose looking as if it had been painted onto the inside of her upper arm.

Immediately, Hermione had questioned, "What is that?"

Marianne Granger had smiled at her and replied, "That's your father's kiss."

"Why is father's kiss on your arm?"

"It's been there since I was born."

Hermione turned this over in her head. "Does father have your kiss as well?"

"He does."

"Why?"

"It's called a Fatemark. It became a rose when we met. When I was a little girl, it was a blank patch of white skin on my arm, just like yours—"

"I have one?" she asked, astonished.

"Just here." Her mother tapped on Hermione's left shoulder blade. "Would you like to see?"

Of course she did, so Marianne paused her braiding, propped her daughter up on her knee in front of the bathroom mirror and grabbed a smaller handheld mirror. After experimenting with the angle a bit, she soon pointed out a shimmering white patch, almost impossibly paler than the rest of her skin, and a little larger than Hermione's fist at the time.

Once she was eventually situated back on the braiding stool, Hermione asked, "When will mine look like yours?"

"Do you always need to know the answer, child?" But she said it fondly, so Hermione knew she was not serious. An established part of asking questions was her mother making her work for the information. "It happens when it happens, you can't rush fate."

You can't rush fate...

Half an hour later, Hermione was standing in front of a modest-sized house with a small lawn. Unlike when the Grangers had lived in this place, there were children's toys covering the yard. A couple of bicycles were simply lying as if abandoned on the grass, which needed cutting.

There was a woman smoking on the front step, who watched her go by. Hermione did not stop, not wishing to engage her, and so only caught glimpses of the place. It was almost anti-climactic after the trouble of walking there, and she Disapparated home feeling a little foolish.

"Mrrr," Crookshanks greeted, sauntering into the kitchen, stretching and yawning.

After scratching the cat behind his ears a few times, Hermione cleared a space amidst her work things spread all over the kitchen table, and set down the jar of pigs' trotters. She fetched a fork, a knife, and a small plate, just as she remembered. Opening the lid, she looked down at the pigs' feet floating in murky vinegar. After nearly overthinking the entire situation, she finally lifted her utensils and scooped one out of the jar. Transferring it to the plate, she stared down at it for a moment and prodded it with her fork, where it jiggled in a gelatinous manner. She was reminded briefly of the fish eyes until she came across a long piece of cartilage. Sticking her tongue out, she steeled herself and sliced off a piece, pushing it into her mouth. It was not her favorite thing—unctuous and vinegary, with a hint of bologna—and she hoped her soulmate was feeling the same.

Just remember, she thought at him, you brought this on yourself.

At the same time, she internally debated if this competition was worth it. The words, You can't rush fate… was a long-buried memory that left echoes in her mind. But no—her soulmate had been the one to start this.

She took another bite. This forkful was mostly fat, which was soft and extremely salty. A small piece of bone had made it into her mouth as well, and she had to spit it out onto her plate. She took a third bite.

There was no reply through her Sense, but Hermione did not for one second believe that it meant she had won. Maybe he was sleeping, or maybe he was working his way up to something horrible. Either way, she would still need to get her foot ahead if she could, and tomorrow happened to already be scheduled with the perfect opportunity to one-up him. She was headed on an overnight trip to Scotland for work, in order to attend a two-day conference with the newly established Scottish dragon sanctuary. Hermione made this trip often, as the sanctuary had been her idea—an adjunct to freeing all the dragons from Gringotts, another of her legal victories.

The sanctuary always treated her to a full Scottish dinner on the first night, and they almost always served haggis with neeps and tatties, but she had never felt adventurous enough to try it.

Needs must, she thought resignedly.

.

.

Haggis was not as bad as Hermione was expecting. It had a good, peppery flavor, but the texture was like a crumbly sausage and coarse oats. That, plus the knowledge that she was eating sheep lung, was unsettling to her.

Even more unsettling was the fact that Hermione did not hear from her soulmate all that day, nor the next. The weekend loomed, and suddenly it was Saturday and there had been no responses.

She was not sure if she should feel hopeful, especially considering the feeling of smugness that had come alongside most of his Sense attacks. Perhaps the pillock had finally gotten the message that if he was just going to attack her, she wanted to be left alone.

You can't rush fate…

Ruefully, she thought, I suppose I'll have to meet him someday.

But the truth was, she was completely sick of her soulmate already and detested that she had to try to anticipate his strikes. Harry and Ginny had invited her over for a small dinner party at their house that evening, and it was only her soulmate's silence for the past few days that lulled her into not cancelling. In the end, she gave herself a stern lecture: You haven't seen much of either of them since Al was born. Not everything has to be about your damn Fatemark!

Begrudgingly, she scratched at her shoulder blade. It itched so often, she barely even noticed anymore.

The tradition had been dinner every-other Saturday for a long time, but as Harry and Ginny now had a toddler and a small infant, Hermione had not seen as much of them for the past few months. Over the years, the dynamics of these dinners had changed, despite always being held at Grimmauld Place—now all spruced up through the years of hard work both Harry and Ginny had put into it.

That night, it was a small party. Andromeda was there with eight-year-old Teddy Lupin, plus Harry and Ginny of course, two-year-old Jamie, and now Albus as well.

"It's just us," Ginny explained after greeting Hermione. "Ron and Susan couldn't come, Melody has Dragon Pox. Not too serious, luckily, but I hope you don't mind a smaller group than usual."

Hermione was hardly bothered. She had fiercely missed her friends lately, as they were all caught up in their growing families, and seeing some was better than none. Not to mention that Ginny was almost as good a cook as her mother.

It was the middle of dinner when the attack came, so ferociously horrible, that amongst this handful of witnesses, Hermione's fork had fallen from her hand, clattered to her plate, and she had flung her chair backward from the table to run to the bathroom.

Hermione had to admit defeat. At this point, she didn't even care about winning anymore, because it was obvious that she had more than met her match. Her soulmate's tactics were relentless, and they happened at any hour of the day or night. After weeks of this back and forth, she just wanted it to stop and her life to go back to normal.

"Hermione, are you okay?" Ginny's voice came, accompanied by a rapping on the door.

Hermione could not answer for retching.

"I'm coming in!" The door opened, admitting her friend.

Hermione flushed the toilet and watched her sick swirl around a few times before disappearing. A few pieces came back up again, along with a refreshed wave of the smell. Just like that, she was sick again.

"Is this because you ate my food?" Ginny exclaimed, rushing over to pull her hair back for her and gathering it with a spare tie. "I can't believe I made you sick—!"

"No," Hermione managed, lifting her head out of the bowl and flushing again. "It wasn't your food, I promise."

"What else could it have—? Hermione, are you pregnant?"

Sick as she was, she still had to laugh at that. "Ginny, you know full well I haven't had sex in over a year."

"Well I've been missing in action for a couple months, you never know."

Just then, Andromeda appeared in the doorway with a cool, damp flannel. "Do you want me to take a trip to the apothecary for you?"

"I'm not sick," Hermione argued, feeling as though she might be again if the persistent taste in her mouth did not go away. Sure enough, her soulmate took another bite of whatever thing he was eating—something creamy and slimy, like rotten fish. She retched again, but this time, nothing came up.

"Based on current evidence, I really have to disagree," Andromeda replied, reaching out to press the washcloth to Hermione's forehead.

The cool flannel felt good on her clammy skin. For a moment, it felt nice to have someone take care of her. "I promise. It's just…" She took a deep breath, looking back and forth between Ginny, who was now sitting beside her on the floor and rubbing circles on her back, and Andromeda, who was looking down at her with concern. "It's my soulmate tormenting me again. As usual."

There was a brief pause, broken by Ginny. "As usual?"

Andromeda's surprise was also evident. "You're Fatemarked?"

Eyebrows furrowing, Hermione glanced toward the open door. Ginny got the hint and immediately shut it and cast a Muffliato. "But you needn't have worried Hermione, Harry took the boys to the upstairs playroom." She paused, and Hermione had heard this next line so frequently in varied situations that she recited it along in her head as Ginny said it in real time: "And Harry defeated Voldemort, so if he can't handle that, then what did I marry him for?"

Hermione could not answer, because another wave of the putrid flavor hit her like the Hogwarts Express. She spent several more minutes dry heaving. Ginny moved the washcloth to the back of Hermione's neck for her.

A quarter of an hour later, she believed it to finally be over, and had caught her breath.

"Do you really have a Fatemark?" Ginny finally asked, still sitting right next to her on the bathroom floor.

Tapping her upper left shoulder blade, she indicated, "Right here."

"Why'd you never say anything?"

Shrugging, Hermione replied, "There isn't a lot of privacy in my life these days. This is one of the few things I have left that people don't know about me."

That was true; she spent much of her life in the spotlight. She had been in countless news articles, interviews with magazines, or broadcasts on the WWN. After all, she always had several causes to promote. There were currently six different published biographies about her—a number that still paled in comparison to Harry's staggering 37 and marginally beat out Ron's four, a fact Ron was still salty about. Fame had its perks, but also its price. Privacy was not something she considered cheap.

Andromeda, who had stayed leaning against the sink, fixated on a different point. "Has your Fatemark been itching?"

Peeling the now-warm flannel off the back of her neck, Hermione finally decided to get up. Ginny helped her, standing as well. "For about a month, maybe."

"And… you have a Sense?"

"The first time I noticed it was about three weeks ago."

"I can't believe you never said anything," Ginny lamented, rummaging through her bathroom closet and producing a mouth rinse for her friend.

"Well it doesn't matter anyway," said Hermione, still feeling incredibly weak even though the attack appeared to be over. "Because whoever my soulmate is, he's vindictive and cruel, and has been trying to poison me to death."

There was a very weighty pause; Hermione took the opportunity to use the proffered minty mouth rinse. Finally, Andromeda asked, "What happened?"

"Yes," Ginny agreed, taking Hermione by the arm and leading her out of the bathroom. "Let's go into the sitting room, I'll make tea, and you can tell us everything."

"Won't Harry be upset that he got left out?"

"He's got Extendable Ears, he might be listening already."

Through the ceiling, they heard a hard stomp on the floor.

"See?" said Ginny, grinning.

"Harry, you are awful," Hermione moaned. "But please do not let any of the boys hear this."

She relayed the tales of the burping, the burning, the sourness, the milk-and-vomit that had caused her to throw up the first time. Then came her reaction, her anger when she had begun to fight back with the raw onion, and the fish eyes, the pigs' feet, and haggis.

By the time she came to this point in the story, Ginny looked properly horrified and Andromeda's face had gone white.

"I wasn't going to ignore him forever—it's just that I had to get through so much of my life alone. Why wasn't he there for me before, when I needed him?"

"There could be a million reasons. He could be fairly younger than you, for example. Besides, you didn't need him for all that. You did it on your own."

"Well it doesn't matter because it all backfired horribly. Whatever I do, his response is always a thousand times worse," Hermione was forced to admit. Feeling a spike of anger toward the faceless man on the other end of her Fatemark, she finished emphatically, "When I do finally meet whoever it is for the first time, I would really like to slap him."

"Hermione," Andromeda said levelly. "What are you doing?"

Stopping, she turned to stare at the older witch. They had become close over the years, like surrogate family members to each other, along with Harry and Teddy. "I'm not sure what you—"

"You're better than this." Andromeda paused to take a deep breath. "It doesn't matter who your soulmate is, they are going to make a huge impact on your life. If you could just take a step back from your situation and look past your competitive streak and your distress, you would see that."

"Do you have a Fatemark, Andromeda?" Ginny asked, looking suddenly intrigued.

The elder witch closed her eyes and took a deep breath. A strange feeling rattled uneasily through Hermione's bones, and she knew the answer.

"Ted and I were Fatemarked." She turned her leg and pulled down her sock to reveal a shape like a quill feather, but completely black, on her ankle.

Hermione remembered reading about black Fatemarks, back when she was still naïve enough to worry that her soulmate might have been poisoned. But even if she had not learned about it already, she did know that Ted Tonks had been killed during the second wizarding war. "I'm so sorry."

Andromeda nodded her thanks and rolled her sock back up. "Ted and I found each other younger than most, but it still didn't happen until we had already spent seven years at Hogwarts together without ever really speaking. It wasn't until I was a year out of school when I started hearing music being played on records. I could hear the sound of the skip across the vinyl, but the songs weren't any I recognized from the wireless."

"So your Sense was hearing?" Ginny asked, reaching for a sugar cube from the tea tray and pressing it directly onto her tongue before crunching down on it.

"It was."

"How did you find him?" Hermione wanted to know.

"I wandered into every Muggle record store I could locate. Eventually, I got lucky. He was working behind the counter, and I knew it was him. It was like he was waiting for me. Within two minutes, I was in his arms and he was kissing me."

"Wow…"

Andromeda chuckled. "That little stunt got him fired. This was back before there were any laws that protected you against Fatemark discrimination. We were married within the week, and then for another twenty-seven years. It wasn't enough." All at once, Andromeda sagged and the expression that overtook her face made it seem as if she had suddenly aged ten years. "My family disowned me, there were two separate wizarding wars in that time, not to mention everything going on in the Muggle side of things. But despite all the hardship and tears, those were the best years of my life—with Ted—because our bond went beyond all of it."

Swiping at her eyes, Hermione noticed that even Ginny appeared slightly dewy-eyed after this speech. "I had no idea."

"We thought we were invincible… we were so stupid." Andromeda stared down at the cup of tea in her hands. "I understand why you kept your Fatemark private, but I am telling you right now that what you have is a miracle. You need to stop abusing it immediately, and start trying to figure out a way to find him."

Miserably, Hermione answered, "I have no idea how. The Sense of taste is so vague that I haven't been able to find any useful information anywhere. I'm not sure how or where to begin."

"Nonsense," Ginny cut in eagerly. "You helped bring down Voldemort with Harry, and then single-handedly reconfigured the government of wizarding Britain. I personally think the Sense of taste sounds fun and sexy… when you're not trying to murder each other. I feel confident that if we work together, we can find one single person with highly questionable eating habits."

Fun and sexy? Hermione mentally repeated, skeptically. That had certainly not been her experience so far.

"Start by at least trying to figure out what part of the world he's in," Andromeda recommended. "Surely there have to be clues in what he's eating, if you pay attention."

"He doesn't really give me much choice if I pay attention or not, his attacks are never gentle."

"But is it only ever attacks, or do you get other stuff as well?" Ginny asked.

"Well..." Hermione paused to think. "I know he's a smoker."

Ginny made a face.

"I honestly don't mind it. He usually smokes once, maybe twice a day, so it's not all the time. Sometimes it's actually soothing."

"Are there certain times of day he does it?" asked Andromeda.

Hermione shook her head. "It seems random to me. Sometimes I also taste coffee—again, not always at the same time."

"Hmm," Ginny hummed, looking thoughtful. "Well, chin up. We'll find him, then you can give him a piece of your mind."

Andromeda sighed deeply. "Yes, well…" she trailed off, looking heavenward. "I'm going to see how Harry is doing. It has been suspiciously quiet for the ratio of adults to mischievous little boys that are supposedly upstairs."

"I should really get heading home also," Hermione put in. "After tonight's ordeal, I could use some rest. I'm really sorry for ruining your dinner party."

"Don't be ridiculous," Ginny insisted. "Do you want to take some of the roast home?"

"That would be nice."

Andromeda hugged Hermione good-bye. In parting, she said, "There's a pattern to it, there has to be. You just haven't found it yet."

.

.

Two days later, Ginny sent an owl for Hermione to meet her at Grimmauld Place after work. When she showed up, she found Ginny dressed for going out. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," was all Ginny said, tugging her toward the fireplace.

They arrived in the Leaky Cauldron, but did not stay. Instead, Hermione was led through to Muggle London, and from there into a small, dimly lit Spanish restaurant on the corner of an unremarkable street, where Ginny did not even let her look at the menu before she placed an order for a variety of tapas.

"What's all this about?" Hermione queried.

"Angelina took me here last summer, and it was amazing."

"Sure, but… why now, with me?"

Ginny swept her long, ginger hair over one shoulder and leaned in. "The other night, after the whole thing with your Sense, Harry, Andromeda, and I got to talking."

Hermione had expected that, so she did not dissent.

"We started thinking about everything we had ever seen you eat, and whenever we got glimpses into your icebox and pantry at home, and we realized you have a really boring diet."

Frowning down at the tablecloth, she halfheartedly tried to defend herself. "There's nothing wrong with how I eat."

"Pickled fish eyes and pigs' trotters, Hermione," Ginny challenged, raising a rust-colored eyebrow at her. "I dropped by the Ministry to see Harry yesterday, and then came round your office to ask your assistant what you eat at work," she went on, as if that were a normal thing to do. "Nutri-Wafers and salads, she said, if lunch was not skipped entirely."

I can't believe Imelda told her that, Hermione inwardly wondered. She grumbled, "I have a full schedule, Gin."

"I know that, but I also know Nutri-Wafers don't really taste like much of anything. Do you even like them?"

She paused. "They're fast and easy, and I don't have to think about it."

"Those aren't really good reasons to eat them every day," Ginny pointed out.

Being honest with herself, Hermione did know what her friend was getting at. Her life had always been busy, and so she had never learned to properly cook. For years, her mother had tried here and there to teach her, but Hermione had always been too preoccupied after finding out she was a witch to spend much time with her family. Her parents' intense work for charity dentistry had also made them quite busy as well.

It was only now—when she had no mother left to teach her—that she finally realized what she had missed out on. Those weeks spent in Australia, trying to restore Marianne and John Gordon Granger into themselves, had been a revolving door of bad news and grief. The amount of data she had erased from their minds made a reversal impossible, because of the high probability that it would result in permanent brain damage. Besides, Doctors Monica and Wendell Wilkins were happy living in Australia, unaware that they ever had another life or a daughter.

At the point she left Australia, Hermione had not given herself the luxury of time to grieve. There was a world to rebuild, and she had a vested interest in making sure she had a say in how that was accomplished. Occasionally over the years, something would hit her the wrong way and she would unexpectedly fall into phases of grieving her parents again. There were many things that were gone forever—but sometimes, she just really missed her mother's cooking.

She did her best to articulate that to Ginny: "On the nights my family were all home together, my Mum used to offer to teach me to cook whatever she was making, but I was always too distracted. Then after the war, she was gone, and that was that. So I never learned."

No longer smiling, Ginny's eyes had gone wide and she had sat forward in her seat. "I could have taught you the dishes I made for our get-togethers, if you had said something."

"I didn't want to make a big deal about it."

"I'm your friend, Hermione, and this is an important thing."

"I know, I know."

Slumping back in her seat, Ginny looked like she was thinking really hard about something. Finally, sounding defeated, she said, "I don't think I have ever seen you cook. I should've noticed that—along with everything else that said something weird was going on with you. But you have a way of appearing like everything is going brilliantly, even if it isn't. Plus now I've been so absorbed with the boys—"

Hermione managed a half-smile, seeing that her friend was about to impale herself on her own sword; she and Harry really were perfect for one another. "I have been getting by for years this way, Gin. It was never your responsibility to make sure I knew how to cook."

"I am going to teach you," Ginny vowed, looking like she meant it. But then, her eyes flickered to somewhere behind Hermione, and she hastily added, "But that part starts tomorrow. I think that is our food coming this way."

A moment later, their table was arranged with ten different plates, some of them steaming, and most of them giving off delicious scents.

"Okay, I talked to Andromeda and here is what she suggested you do," Ginny instructed, once they were properly settled. "She said that you should just sit quietly and enjoy your food, and while you're doing it, you should think about what you're tasting, and also think about your soulmate."

My first attempt at a real, proper hello.

Taking all of her words to heart, Hermione did. She dug in, tasting a little bit of everything. She tried the little pieces of Spanish omelette, the patatas bravas, cured Iberian ham, olives with Roncal cheese, wild mushroom croquetas, paella, and more, all paired with a bottle of some moderately priced wine Ginny had chosen.

While both witches tried to obey Andromeda's instructions as they ate, Ginny would occasionally pepper the silence with questions. That was how she found out that Ron also knew about Hermione's Fatemark, but had never said anything all those years.

"Good," Hermione said in response to Ginny complaining about it. "It means he's kept his word."

Ginny only shot her an exasperated look at that one.

The two women both picked at the small plates, sampling it all and remarking on it. They even ordered a second helping of the croquetas, which Hermione had to admit, were one of the best things she had ever eaten.

Once they had cleared all the tiny plates and declared themselves stuffed, Ginny queried, "Final report?"

"It was amazing."

"The croquettes are a forever kind of love," Ginny agreed, looking longingly at the empty plate, even though she had threatened to unbutton her pants just moments ago. Then, looking back at Hermione, she said, "I can't get over the fact that you don't know how to cook, and your Sense is taste."

"Why's that?"

"Think about it. Taste is all about food: the things we like to eat, the things that comfort and nourish us, things that remind us of home. But beyond just eating with our mouths, we use them to smile, laugh, share secrets…" She tilted her head at Hermione. "Tell someone we love them… kiss…"

Even Hermione had to smile a little at that. "When did you become such a poet?"

"Your Sense is supposed to be how you write your first love letter, Hermione. Didn't you ever read A Tale of Two Souls? By eating Nutri-Wafers and salads everyday, and rarely eating something that didn't come out of a box, you're writing boring letters. Your soulmate still has no idea who you are, because you aren't letting him in."

"You seem to know a lot about it," Hermione replied, studying her now. "Are you also Fatemarked?"

"No, I'm not. I was free to choose who I love, and I chose Harry. It was one of the biggest choices of my life, and I don't regret it a bit."

"I know he doesn't," Hermione said, grinning now at the reminder of how in love two of her best friends were with one another.

"He's a great wizard."

"One of the best," Hermione agreed, thinking fondly of her friend.

"Although it does make me wonder about your soulmate," said Ginny, "because you are strong, intelligent, and powerful, not to mention gorgeous. Whoever your soulmate is, he's got to be someone extraordinary."

Hermione was silent, feeling her face heat up from the compliment. She cleared her throat. "I don't know much about him, except that I'm fairly certain he is male and a masochist."

"You realize you're going to need a PR plan for when this gets out, right?"

"Do you really think it'll come to that?" Hermione queried, already knowing the answer in her heart.

"It definitely will—you're famous enough that people are going to talk if you're seen everywhere with the same man all the time. If there's one thing I've learned after being with Harry all these years, it's better to have a plan in place ahead of time so you can control the information, instead of it controlling you. It'll be good for your soulmate, too. Whoever he is, he probably isn't used to the same kind of attention you are."

"You're right." Hermione recognized the good advice. "I'll talk to Imelda about it."

"Good, so we have a plan: I'll teach you to cook, and you plan ahead for the media fallout for when we find this guy." Ginny clapped her hands together and rubbed them. "For now, I suggest we share a slice of pantxineta. I don't care how full I am, I'm willing to suffer. I had some last time I was here with Angelina, and I almost proposed."

"To Angelina, or to the pantxineta?"

Fixing her with a stare, Ginny replied, "Yes."

Hermione could not help herself; she laughed. A few minutes later, a thick bun of puff-pastry filled with custard cream and topped with almonds and sugar appeared before them. Ginny smiled at her before waving her fork at the plate in invitation. The witches dug in, and for the first time since she had gotten her Sense, Hermione thought of the person on the other end of her Fatemark with a little smile.

A/N: Hello again, friends. It's lovely you made your way here. Thank you for stopping by, for favoriting, following and ESPECIALLY leaving your thoughts for me to read. Getting reviews is like receiving unexpected foot rubs. Pretty dang awesome.

Anise aversion dedicated to the ineffable Witches-Britches, who alpha read this chapter. A sparkling mountain lake full of gratitude to the best beta, iwasbotwp.