On his wedding day in early September, George Weasley performed a bit of magic alongside his vows which was, in Hermione's view, some of the most beautiful charmwork she had ever seen. Butterflies erupted from the flowers hanging all around the assembled tent, and even from Angelina's bouquet, only to burst into tiny fireworks over the heads of the two lovers. Instead of turning to ash once they were spent, they transformed into flower petals and fluttered gently to the floor around them. Hermione could not help her tears when the couple were announced to be bonded for life and they kissed.

Much later, after plentiful food had been enjoyed and dancing had begun, the cake was offered along with glasses of champagne. People were drifting back to their tables from the dance floor—a place Hermione had successfully avoided thus far. In fact, she had been looking forward to the cake all night, because she felt that after it, she could safely leave the party without being rude.

It had been an extremely busy few weeks. A great push of new regulations for free access to Wolfsbane Potion kept Hermione working both early and late hours. She had not achieved everything she had wished for with regard to the werewolves, but she was trying to be gratified that she had made progress at all.

But tired or not, it was the Weasleys' great aunt Muriel that had really soured the evening, when she had approached Hermione and immediately accosted her. "Great gargoyles, girl, you still have those skinny ankles, don't you?" The ancient witch had actually tutted at her. "Still no man, either, I see. You're not getting any younger, you know."

Hermione bit back the response she wanted to give, though it had been right on the tip of her tongue how hypocritical it was of Muriel to call her 'girl' and then to immediately point out that she was getting old. Neither of which were strictly fair. Unfortunately, her lack of an immediately forthcoming reply only encouraged Muriel to continue.

"You're one of those working witches, I know the type. If you don't start thinking about settling down, you might find one day that you missed the Portkey, so to speak."

It had been a relief once Hermione had been able to escape. Now, she was seated at a table with Andromeda, Teddy, Harry, Ginny, and the boys, and they had just each been served a piece of vanilla cake layered beautifully with cream cheese frosting and raspberries.

Right when Hermione was about to tuck into her piece along with everyone else at the table, her soulmate decided to have a cigarette. Somehow, it was the worst sort of dampener on her day, as she chose to wait for him to finish while watching the others eat.

This is what counts for romance in my life these days, she thought with chagrin.

She scanned the room, trying not to notice the way Harry's and Ginny's eyes lingered on one another when Ginny fed her husband a mouthful of cake off her fork. The rest of the room was not much better, being full mostly of happy couples and families. Even though many of these people were her friends, it was difficult not to feel alone amongst them all.

It had been weeks since Hermione had begun writing her article in the Daily Prophet. She and her soulmate had been Sensing meals together for months, but now seemed to be at another standstill. Thus, she was more than a bit glum once she finally dug into her cake and took a bite. But while Hermione could feel her soulmate's delight at the flavors of vanilla and raspberry, she could not match his enthusiasm.

At least one of us is enjoying this…

.

.

Ten days after the wedding, Hermione's hectic work schedule had finally settled somewhat. Their first meeting with the Wizengamot was slated for the following day, and everything was orderly and had been triple-checked. Sarah MacKay, Head of the DMLE's legal sub-department, had finally been pulled completely on-board. Robards was allowing his attention to be divided, which meant that he was feeling relaxed about the situation.

Nevertheless, Hermione decided to spend her afternoon in the Ministry library, reading up on international werewolf laws for what seemed like the millionth time. She had conjured a comfy armchair to sit in while she perused, and had just sat down with Creature Laws of Southwestern Europe, re-reading a section about Sicilian werewolf regulations in the 1930s.

In the middle of page 78, she felt as if someone had abruptly snuffed some internal flame in her chest. A crackle of electricity raced through her, all the way to her fingertips, before dissipating into nothingness. She felt hollow, she felt empty. It felt as if someone had wrapped her Sense up tightly and quietly smothered it.

More than a little concerned, she reached vaguely out for the bridge that had been built between herself and her soulmate, searching for the presence she had now come to include in almost everything she did these days.

Only this time, there was nothing.

Checking swiftly to be sure she was indeed alone on this corridor of the library, Hermione immediately conjured a mirror to examine her Fatemark, worried that it had turned black for real this time. But upon sliding her blouse down her shoulder and enchanting the mirror to float behind her, her examination found it unchanged from how it had appeared yesterday when she had checked it. The blob might have morphed somewhat into a center sphere with many small spots near it, but it was still gray and undefined.

Not black, she confirmed. He's still alive.

Closing her eyes and taking a steadying breath, Hermione attempted to clear her mind. There was a new stillness to herself that she was unused to. She had no idea what it meant, and it set her on edge.

Following a jittery afternoon at work, and a positively frazzled evening, she finally got to sleep a little after midnight. It was perhaps not surprising that she had a bad dream.

She was floating along in one of the little wooden boats she had taken to Hogwarts in first year, but this time she was traversing the River Wye. Her father was in the boat beside her, explaining about the historical significance of the Forest of Dean, which surrounded them on both riversides.

"It's one of the most ancient woodlands in England to still survive," said Dad, looking fondly at the tall trees on either side as their little boat passed along the river. "It was considered particularly good timber for ship-building during the Tudor era. There is also some archeological evidence to indicate the ancient Romans used it for a source of charcoal—" Dad's voice floated off into one of his classic lectures on British history.

The boat had bumped to a halt on a nearby shore, and though Hermione could not remember moving her legs, she was momentarily standing on solid ground. Dad had disappeared completely, as had the river behind her. Before her, a crystalline cloche on a stand erupted from the forest floor. It was an all-too-familiar bell jar, like the one from the Department of Mysteries. But as Hermione examined it, she realized that instead of having a hummingbird within, George and Angelina were inside dancing and dressed in their wedding best, with flower petals raining down upon them like a strange kind of snow globe.

Hermione moved closer to examine the bell jar, when a wizard appeared directly between her and it, causing her to stumble backward. The man was in a menacing stance and his face was completely obscured by his Death Eater's mask. He raised his wand to attack her.

"Stupefy!" yelled Hermione. A jet of red light left her wand to hit the man straight in the middle of his chest.

The Death Eater's wand fell with a clatter to the floor, where it burst into many butterflies that fluttered off. Stumbling backward into the bell jar, the Death Eater's head sank through the surface of it as if it were a soap bubble, and he lay on his back motionless for a few moments.

Hermione already knew what was going to happen, but it did not temper her horror as she watched the man's head grow smaller and balder, the stubble of his beard retreating into his cheeks. From the peach fuzz, the man's face slowly hardened again into his adult snarl. Before he could leap up and act, the de-ageing process began again. It was a horrible thing to watch, and to hear the grown man's scream of rage morph into the cry of a small child.

The Death Eater had escaped the bell jar somehow, but had got the timing wrong. Now, the baby head rested grotesquely on top of the man's muscled adult neck. He was running around and screaming with an infant's wail.

He was not the only one screaming. Even Hermione was screaming, because Dolohov had cursed her again and it seared like fire through her ribcage—

She jolted awake, sitting bolt upright as if she had been spring-loaded. She was completely out of breath and clutching at the place on her ribcage where Dolohov's curse was now no more than a scar. A second later, she was crying into her hands.

There was no one to comfort her, just like old times.

.

.

"What is it, Hermione?" asked Andromeda, sliding outside the back door of Grimmauld Place to join her.

Hermione had been invited to Harry's and Ginny's for dinner, but had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. She had eaten the mushroom lasagna Ginny had prepared, but she had not enjoyed it—though that was not Ginny's fault. Now, Teddy and Jamie were inside playing a game of hide-and-seek in an altogether more rambunctious manner than hide-and-seek had any right being, in Hermione's opinion. It was possible she was feeling a little grouchy as well.

Her desperation for a moment of quiet must have shown plainly on her face, because now Andromeda was examining her with worry, and repeated, "What is it? Can I help?"

It had been three days with no communication; Hermione was beginning to go mad. There had been no flavors on her tongue, recognizable or otherwise, and she was worried beyond belief.

She decided that she could tell Andromeda. "He isn't there."

The elder witch frowned as she produced a metal box from the front pocket of her long dress. It turned out to contain a couple of hand-rolled cigarettes. Picking one of the two, she lit it with her wand. "What do you mean?"

"I used to be able to feel him there, on the other end. For the past few days, there's been nothing."

Hermione had never thought she would miss all the itching her Fatemark produced. Yet somehow, it was worse for it to be gone if this was the price.

When the elder witch said nothing, she pressed, "Did that ever happen to you?"

Andromeda expelled a breath of smoke into the London night. "Sorry, Hermione. It didn't. I don't know what that means."

Hermione could not help her long sigh. She had become used to the feeling of someone out there who was just beyond reach, almost like an invisible presence walking by her side. Besides that, all her research had indicated that once two soulmates started to Sense one another, the feelings only grew stronger until they finally met. So what was happening now?

Andromeda offered her a puff of the cigarette. Hermione surprised them both by accepting it. She did not smoke as a rule, but she was missing her soulmate dearly just then, and was even scratching her Fatemark—frustratingly, not itchy—more out of wishful thinking than anything. Immediately, she was reminded that a cigarette was not her style. Despite that it was reminiscent of her mystery mate and his habit, it was a poor substitute, and the emptiness inside her coupled with the lingering musty aftertaste actually made her feel nauseous. She handed it back, feeling even worse than before.

.

.

It was shaping up to be a gloomy 27th birthday. Though the meetings with the Wizengamot had been going well, they were tedious, with long periods of time spent discussing minutiae to an excruciating degree. This day was no different. In fact, through no one's fault, Hermione would not be celebrating her birthday until the weekend, which was when her friends had agreed to all gather for it.

Once proceedings had finally quit for the evening, she got ready to head home, looking forward to nothing more exciting than going through some reports from the trial. The thought was depressing. But then, just as the last folio zoomed into the bag and it clicked shut, she was startled from her malaise—because if she was not very much mistaken, she was getting a Sense!

It was as if her internal candle had been relit, fizzling and popping with new life. The inside of her mouth felt alive with flavors, a sinful broth melting over her tongue… one that was innately familiar even as it shocked her with its unexpectedness. A creamy tomato flavor mingled tantalizingly with fresh seafood… delicate mussels… buttery clams…

With a start, Hermione recognized what she was tasting. It reminds me of… bouillabaisse!

It was both a relief to have her Sense back, and a treat for it to be something she loved so dearly. It was a dish that always reminded her of father and grandmère.

Hermione's father had always been proud of his French heritage—something some Englishmen would not care to admit to. His mother, formerly Amalia du Houx, was a proud Frenchwoman, and had insisted they visit the south of France every year to experience 'real food', as she put it.

Grandmère had passed away when Hermione was eight, but she had some fond memories of the old lady. She always smelled of the minty cream she used for her arthritis, and her skin had been nearly translucent and hung on her like paper. The Grangers had gone to France on holiday several times when Hermione was younger, and bouillabaisse was one dish her grandmère had insisted she try. Later, it was one of her cherished memories with her dad, who had insisted they keep the tradition up after grandmère's passing.

But how on earth could Hermione's soulmate have known?

A lucky guess? She hardly dared to hope. The important thing is, he's back. But where did he go?

More importantly, would he leave again?

Even despite her uncertainty over what would come next in the bumpy relationship she had with her flighty soulmate, Hermione could not help smiling for the first time all day. She returned home to her flat in a buoyant mood.

After feeding a crotchety Crookshanks, she went to the refrigerator and pulled out some leftover rice, beans, and shredded chicken for herself. Deciding to dress it up a little bit, she concocted a lemony-garlic sauce made from a recipe she had clipped out of one of her food magazine subscriptions. It paired excellently with the sauce. She smiled, thinking she had Harry to thank for teaching her how to improvise in the kitchen.

Once she finished and had magicked the dishes clean, she began to prepare a space on her kitchen table to do some work. Taking out two of the folios from her briefcase, she began to settle in when another Sense announced itself with a small burp, and suddenly, she was tasting cake. Something chocolatey and rich.

Cake. On her birthday. It was definitely suspicious.

The next morning, for breakfast, she was treated to another flavor memory. Her soulmate had eaten a spongy crumpet with the egg baked into the top of it, just like Hogwarts used to serve on most mornings. Hermione's heart did a weird flip when she recognized the distinctive herby flavor. Is it possible it's still a coincidence?

That very afternoon, she got something else specific: steak-and-kidney pie, also exactly how it had been served back at Hogwarts. The rich flavors danced across her taste buds, and she could not help a smile of nostalgia for the dish she hadn't realized she missed. But then she paused, because this was the fourth Sense in just two days, and each time what she had gotten was not only familiar, but not always easy to find. Dishes that carried tradition with them, history— her history.

It dawned on her then, that whoever the Fates had linked her to not only knew who she was, but was reading her article and responding.

There has to be a way to confirm it, she decided. So that evening, as she sat down to write her article for the Prophet, she wrote: Hogwarts had some of the best food when I was growing up. I really enjoyed their steak-and-kidney pie, but my favorites were always the jam doughnuts.

Her Sense was mostly quiet on Friday after the article had been published. In fact, it was not until that evening, when she was sitting at home with a book and Crookshanks on her lap, that she received any kind of response. Sure enough, her mouth had flooded with the welcome taste of strawberry jam, sweet dough and powdered sugar. Jam doughnuts—exactly as she remembered them from her Hogwarts days.

She sat bolt upright, scaring Crookshanks, who scrambled off her lap as fast as he could.

You know! her thoughts raced. She could not help pressing the palm of her hand to her Fatemark. You're out there somewhere, you've been reading my messages and you know. Where the hell are you?

Concentration on her book was completely fruitless for the rest of the night. She barely even focused on her birthday dinner on Saturday, where all her friends surrounded her and drank far more wine than they ought, to her health of course.

So began a new game of mouse and kneazle—Hermione sent her messages out twice-weekly into the world through the Prophet and almost always, usually within a few hours, she would get a response. It quickly became clear however that Hermione was the mouse in this game, and the kneazle was stalking her silently but deliberately from the shadows. She was in a constant state of both delight at his cleverness and frustration at his hesitation.

Another three weeks went by in this manner. She would write about things like the chocolate chip cookies with walnuts, which her elderly neighbor used to make when she was a child. Sure enough, she would taste chocolate chip cookies with walnuts sometime within hours of publication. A lament about not being able to find anywhere that served a good roast had sent Molly Weasley clucking at her and inviting her over for Sunday dinner.

Hermione was sure her articles were beginning to read somewhat inane to outsiders, but that had not stopped her fan mail from pouring in. She was now receiving a sackful of mail twice weekly. Several people had even written in to invite her to their own homes for a roast since she was unable to find one—but while the invitations were kind, they were not needed. Between her soulmate and Molly, Hermione got to taste double the roast, and by this point in the game, she also needed to increase her exercise regimen yet again.

And yet…

Where is he? was a constant question in her mind.

Since he was clearly responding to the Prophet's articles, he was definitely a wizard. She had Imelda cancel her agreement with the Muggle magazine, which they did not kick up too much fuss about, considering she had only written one article for them.

This was a fleeting triumph however. She felt as if she were caught in some hellish emotional spiral. Even Imelda commented on it one day during their afternoon briefing of Hermione's schedule.

"You look as if doxies have taken up residence in all your broom cupboards."

Catching her assistant's meaning and pointed look, Hermione sighed. "I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"Still no leads on your mystery man?"

"No. He hasn't contacted me yet." Despite knowing full well who I am and that I am looking for him, she mentally added. It was supremely difficult to swallow the lump that suddenly formed in her throat at the words and the thought in conjunction.

She could not help putting a small guilt trip into her latest article: This week, a friend and I improvised some quesadillas with different fillings. It was great fun. But when I tried it later at home on my own, it wasn't the same. I guess cooking is just one of those things that is better if you get to do it with people you love.

Nothing happened for nearly 36 hours after her article was published, which was the longest her soulmate had yet gone without sending a message since his return. Hermione began to fear another inexplicable week-long disappearance was imminent, and spent her Sunday evening sulking.

The following morning, she was set to appear on a radio program where they asked her some questions about her new proposed free Wolfsbane program. Hermione deftly answered the host's many questions for half an hour. Toward the end, there was some time to respond to some owls that had come in.

"Marcie from Lyndhurst has written to say: Dear Miss Granger, you have already dedicated so much of your life to the betterment of the wizarding world. Yet, in your article that appears in the Daily Prophet, you have begun a column about food. Why is that? " The radio host had used a slightly different voice than his usual one when speaking Marcie's words. He resumed his usual baritone to add his own thoughts. "Indeed, Hermione. People seem to love your piece in the Prophet. What made you decide to write about food?"

At this point, Hermione had already perfected her canned public relations answer to this question, thanks to Imelda's forethought. She would give them something else that was personal in order to distract them from what was really going on.

"Sometimes it's the little things that matter in life. In this case, cooking reminds me of my family." She paused to momentarily catch her breath, caught unaware that admitting it aloud would be emotional. "My mum and grandmother took turns cooking for my family when I was growing up. Most were Yoruba dishes."

"My mother's potato salad was famous in our neighborhood," the host put in. "I think all potato salad makes me think of her now."

Hermione smiled, because it was a silly thing for him to have said, but also very real. Then, just in case her soulmate was listening, she decided to drop another guilt trip. "Any food tastes best when it's eaten with people you love."

"True, Hermione, well said," the host laughed. "Let's go to another question…"

.

.

Her Monday was arduous, first on the radio show and then later at work, so Hermione decided to go to bed early. After showering thoroughly, she rubbed some salve into her itchy Fatemark to soothe it. She oiled her hair, tied it up with a silk scarf, and climbed into bed.

Crookshanks hopped up into the bed beside her and scooted up to snuggle into the warmth of her side. Absentmindedly, Hermione stroked at his fur as she wearily reflected on her day.

It was then that she began to get a Sense—a bit late in the day for her soulmate's usual dinner time, but she had noticed long ago that he was not necessarily a man of routine, based on his random eating times. Perking up a bit at the flavors, she licked at her lips and the inside of her mouth, as if to taste it better.

Then she paused, because it had to be jollof rice. Rich and spiced distinctively, she could almost smell it around her. The distinctive peppers sang on her tongue as she enjoyed the nostalgic tomato flavors. But then! Then came—also without question— moi moi. It was a soft, moist bean pudding, firm-tasting, and flavored like it had some kind of shellfish and boiled egg in it. And then… there was even more. Because next came the creamy fried plantains, that rounded off and completed the whole meal, adding beautiful sweet and savory elements.

Scientists might claim that scent was the sense most tied to memory, but as the tastes materialized on Hermione's tongue, she was suddenly a little girl again, safe in the kitchen on Mum's day off from the clinic. Hermione was instructed not to move as she sat on a stool in the center of the room and Mum's fingers braided her hair for hours. Grandmother cooked and sang and fed her bites of jollof rice off the spoon. Hermione could not remember the last time she had felt as safe and loved as she had in those memories. Lying now in her bed in her London flat, she mourned the loss of her mother, still on this earth but not knowing her, and her grandmother, who had always insisted Hermione had a touch of witchcraft in her. She had died when Hermione was ten, just a year before she had got her Hogwarts letter.

Her heart was full of indescribable feelings, too convoluted to pick apart. Grabbing one of her pillows, she clutched at it with tears in her eyes. Her weeping was heavy and filled with mourning, but they were also happy tears, because her pain-in-the-ass soulmate had given Hermione the chance to taste something that she had been unable to bring herself to eat since the last time her mother had made it for her.

She lay awake for some time longer, thinking of food from her youth. Of her mother's big hair and even bigger voice. The watery blue of her father's eyes behind his spectacles, and the way he had used to hum along to whatever was on the radio. But now, there was a new presence among the people who had a place in her heart. This was a still-faceless man that belonged to the future rather than the past.

.

.

First thing in the morning, Hermione headed over to Grimmauld Place, unable to keep the events of the previous evening a secret for even a moment longer. It was hectic during Tuesday morning breakfast time at the Potters', but that did not stop Harry from telling her to come in. Through a hasty breakfast wherein Jamie somehow got more of his scrambled egg on his brother than he did in his mouth, Hermione managed to convey to both Harry and Ginny what had happened, explaining about the radio show and then the jollof rice, moi moi, and plantains.

"Merlin," was all Harry could say on repeat once he understood what she was telling him.

"What are you going to do now?" Ginny asked, feeding baby Al a little spoonful of breakfast mush.

"I mean, clearly he knows who I am. By all appearances, he is also not quite the masochist I had initially thought him to be. The past couple of months have proven this, because whoever he is, he can actually be very thoughtful."

"Intent on making you feel cared for," Ginny agreed wisely.

"Exactly. So why hasn't he contacted me yet?"

"He's made no attempts at reaching you directly?" asked Harry

"None that I'm aware of."

There was silence except for Al's nonsense babble and Jamie banging his spoon on the table.

"There has to be some reason why," Hermione said, wishing one of them would say something to help, or really anything at all. Does he think I wouldn't want to meet him? Why? Is he afraid of rejection?

"Are you still getting mounds of fan mail?" Ginny asked, breaking through Hermione's dismal haze.

She nodded. "Too much to go through, if I'm honest. Imelda's taken over checking it all for howlers and curses for me, but it's becoming too much to read on my own."

Looking thoughtful, Ginny suggested, "Tell you what. I'll come over to your place later and we can go through it together. He might have been gathering his courage for a move, and I think there's a good chance that after a big gesture like last night, he might think it's time. Since it's one of the only channels to get a relatively unmonitored message to you, it seems like a good place to start."

Which was exactly what they did, later that evening after work. Ginny had dropped the boys off at the Burrow since Harry would be working late at Hogwarts that evening. When she arrived at Hermione's townhouse through the fireplace, she had brought a bottle of mead along with her.

"Gads! Is that all of it?" Ginny gaped at the two large sacks of mail which Hermione had brought home from the office. "Good thing I brought this." She conjured two glasses and set about uncorking the bottle. "It's allegedly some of Rosmerta's finest."

The two young women settled in with glasses of mead at their sides, and each took a sack of mail. Crookshanks got comfortable on the armchair nearby, content to watch them at their work from afar.

"Have you always gotten this much mail from your article?"

"Not at first. Lately, it seems to have quadrupled. I barely have time to read them anymore, as you can see."

"Still," said Ginny with a determined look on her freckled face, "Harry agrees with me. If your mystery man did all that for you last night, surely he's got to let you know who he is today."

"I promise I'll get excited about the prospect if it turns out to be true."

The mail in Hermione's pile was a jumble of endless questions, flattery, and insults, plus suggestions and requests, both reasonable and not. Three were outright threats, all backlash at her proposals for werewolf rights as far as she could tell. One was just a picture of a man's hand on his penis, made all the more disturbing because it was a moving photograph. Ginny actually opened two others of these, incinerating them both times immediately. Meanwhile, Hermione became more disgruntled the more unsuccessful she was. It was quite late at night and she had already sorted through 104 letters by the time Ginny's voice broke her back out of her mental circle of endless insults and questions.

"Sorry. What was that?"

"I said," Ginny replied, brandishing several pieces of unfolded parchment paper, "I think I found something."

Hermione dropped the envelope she had been holding, and it fluttered down to the floor. "I— what?"

Wordlessly, Ginny handed over everything in her hands.

Three blank parchment pages, except for a simple decorative border embellishment, were bound together at the top along with a much smaller note on thick, expensive parchment. It was the note that made Hermione's hands shake because while it was simple and brief, it was all the more powerful because of it.

I hope you enjoyed last night's feast. The moi moi was a bit hard to track down, but I think it was worth it, don't you? I was told it's often eaten with crayfish meat, but also that some people use fish. I opted for the crayfish, since it sounded interesting. I've never had anything quite like it before.

P.S. The parchment is two-way.

The handwriting was elegant and definitely written with a quill. The parchment did indeed appear to be some of the two-way kind sold at magical bookstores in a variety of colors and prints. There was no directive or signature, but nevertheless, here he was, reaching out at last.

Hermione was glad she was already sitting down. Eyes locked on the parchment and note, she breathed out, "Holy shit."

Ginny snickered at the swearing, which was not something Hermione often did.

"There he is, there he is," she repeated a couple of times. "Finally. What the hell took him so long?"

"Looks like your guilt trip worked. Too bad he hasn't left a return address. Or even a name, really."

That was, indeed, troubling. She perused the letter once more; the handwriting was unfamiliar. She peered closer at it. It was a somewhat angular script; he used heavy flicks on the ends of his letters.

"What are you going to say to him?" asked Ginny.

That snapped Hermione back to reality. "Hnh?"

Her friend nodded once in the direction of the sheafs of parchment now neatly in front of Hermione on the table in front of her. "He wrote that it's two-way parchment. What are you going to say to him first?"

She hesitated. "I'm not sure." Somehow, 'hello' did not seem adequate. But even as she said it, her fingers were itching to write. Trying to keep her cool, she merely remarked, "It's quite late. He might not be up."

Ginny actually laughed at that. "If you think someone goes to bed early after sending a letter like that…" She shook her head in mock disbelief. "Honestly, Hermione."

"Okay, okay."

"Well," the other witch announced, standing and heading over toward her coat and bag near Hermione's fireplace. "It's my cue to leave."

"What do you mean?"

"I said I would help you look, and I have." Grabbing her coat, she smiled and gave Crookshanks a scratch before grabbing a handful of Floo powder. She blew Hermione a kiss and a wink. "Go get him, lover," she bid, before disappearing in a burst of green flames.

It was probably best Ginny had left when she did, because it did not take long for Hermione to lose all track of her surroundings and become singularly obsessed with the parchment. She had laid all three sheafs and the small note out along her kitchen counter like a lineup. Her heart was racing. She was finally going to do it!

She picked up her quill and before she could lose her nerve, she wrote, I've never had moi moi with crayfish in it before. My grandmother used to make it with fish or liver, since those were more readily available in Cheltenham.

Throwing down her quill, she stared at the parchment, where she had tried to write small in the provided space within the border, hoping to leave space in case they decided to have a real conversation. She hoped she would not have to wait long for a response.

A/N: Welcome back, my friends. Many floaty hearts to you!

My love to both my alpha (sarenia) and beta (iwasbotwp), who are the real champions for coming through for me after such a long hiatus. May your cookies always bake to perfection.

Check out Lola Osinkolu over at cheflolaskitchendotcom, where you can find some delicious West African recipes, some of which made it into this chapter.