Never before had Hermione noticed how nosy the rest of her office was!

She paced back and forth between the rows upon rows of small drawers set into the wall of the records room. Though she did her best not to tarry when it came to checking her list of potential soulmates, she inevitably got occasionally engrossed in various life stories. Even so, most of her delays were due to the fact that she kept being interrupted.

Before 9:00 that morning, she had already been asked if she needed assistance three times by three different clerks. All of them seemed to be craning their necks over her notes, trying to determine what task was so important that it had Hermione Granger performing menial work. It was true that this sort of research was normally delegated to one of her subordinates, but it did not stop her from angrily thinking, How rude can you get?

Once she deduced that it would be impossible to maintain the secrecy she preferred, she decided to quit. She had checked about half of her list by then.

Imelda entered Hermione's office not long after she arrived in it herself, with an itinerary of her day, and a number of things for her to sign before she got to it. Her assistant was about halfway through summarizing, when Hermione, who had only been half-listening, interrupted, "What was that last one?"

Imelda paused. "The meeting with the head of W.A.R.T. at 11:15?"

Closing her eyes, Hermione could not help thinking back to the good old days of S.P.E.W., and of Ron immediately and irrevocably pronouncing it "Spew" despite her protests that it was S.P.E.W.

W.A.R.T. was a pretty terrible acronym in its own right. In this instance, Hermione knew it stood for Werewolfery Ailment Research Team. She had heard from them occasionally in the last few years, but they never had anything significant to report. "What do they want?"

With a flick of her wand, one of the folders came zooming out from the floating stack Imelda sometimes had following her during the work day. The witch caught it in her hand and opened it, taking her monocle out of her waistcoat pocket and affixing it to her eye to read better. "The St. Mungo's team would like to discuss something they are calling the Werewolf Antigen Reversal Treatment." Imelda looked up, adding, "Which also spells out W.A.R.T."

Somehow, the consistency made use of the acronym even worse, but Hermione was more incredulous on another point. She had been sure she was as up to date as possible on the current research in anything werewolf-related, but this treatment was not something she was familiar with. "I knew they were attempting to process a cure. But after several years of the project languishing, and multiple leadership changes, I had written them off. Do we know what they want from me?"

Imelda flipped through the pages in the folder she had summoned. "It doesn't say specifically. They have applied for some kind of medical patent, and are just awaiting a review of paperwork. Perhaps they have something to contribute to the new law. The meeting is with their latest research lead, a person named Ms Julianne Chen."

The name was one Hermione instantly recognized. "I remember her from Hogwarts."

Julianne Chen had been a fellow Muggleborn Gryffindor, and Hermione had been her prefect. As a young girl, Miss Chen had a tough time adjusting to dormitory life at first, Hermione recalled. She must be well past that stage now if she's representing a magical research team at such a young age.

"I look forward to seeing her."

Following her morning meeting with Gawain Robards, Hermione went into her meet-up with Sarah MacKay, who was organizing the legal writing of her Wolfsbane law. Then, it was time to meet Julianne Chen.

When she walked through Hermione's office door, Julianne was unmistakable. She had the same long dark hair and slender face Hermione remembered from their school days, except now she was reasonably tall.

"Ms Granger," Chen greeted her.

Standing, Hermione smiled at the younger witch. "Please, call me Hermione. We've known one another for years now. There's no need for formalities."

She returned Hermione's smile. "Then I hope you planned to call me Julianne."

Hermione showed her to one of the seats in her office, then took her own place at her desk. "What can I do for you?"

"Our research team has completed what it set out to do, and developed a cure for humans infected by a werewolf bite," announced Julianne with a proud look in her eyes. "We're ready to offer it to the general public."

Stunned by what she had just heard, Hermione repeated, "A cure for a werewolf bite?"

"Yes, a real, legitimate, proven cure," the other witch confirmed.

Hermione sat back in her seat, completely dumbfounded.

"Ideally, I would love for W.A.R.T. to be included in your law so that it can be accessed for free by anyone in need."

"Free cures?"

"Yes."

Hermione reeled from this unlooked-for boon which had come at the eleventh hour. Her new law was set to be implemented in barely more than a month, at which point the work would begin in earnest. Collecting herself, she said, "I'm impressed. I don't think anyone thought such a thing was possible, but you've made magical medical history. How did you manage it? What was the breakthrough?"

The two women spent above an hour talking through the details of the cure, and how it worked. Julianne was clearly instrumental in employing the needed methods that unlocked the answers to the questions her predecessors had spent years researching and studying. The groundwork had already been laid, and by her own admission, it had been Julianne herself that had pieced together the evidence. She had done so using Muggle knowledge of chemistry, along with magic, as she had gone to a Muggle university for summer classes during her Hogwarts years. This accelerated her degree, which she completed within a year of leaving Hogwarts, before charging into the research field and scuffling directly into the forefront of it.

Hermione was dazzled by the ingenuity with which Julianne had used her time, and by the result of it. The jubilation of this amazing discovery had her giddy. W.A.R.T. was going to change the world. Having it be a part of the Wolfsbane law would be a serious step forward for Britain.

Nevertheless, the meeting was eventually cut short by Imelda, who finally resorted to bursting into the office, determined to keep Hermione on schedule.

"We will need to speak with Sarah MacKay about writing a few new clauses into the law," said Hermione, more to Imelda than to Julianne.

"I'm headed to the Department of Magical Health and Care next," Chen added. "They're still holding onto our patent and I want to try to hurry them along."

"Four days should be plenty of time for the patent review board to give you some kind of feedback. Let's meet again next Monday," said Hermione, her gaze shifting to her assistant, "if that can work?"

"It should be able to work," Imelda replied. A self-writing quill was making notes beside Imelda's head, its bright blue feather bobbing and sweeping. "Now, you've got to get down to level four. As we speak, you're meant to be doing that interview with Djellouna Dormevil from the Being Division."

Hermione bid Julianne good-bye, and sped away to the interview, making the trek down to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, as she had so many times during the writing of her law.

Around lunchtime, she was able to sneak back to the records room and conduct eight more background checks before being detected again by a nosy clerk. She spent the afternoon reviewing and updating some important work documents that were pushing a deadline. They were heavy, full of legal language and very long sentences; even she was tested by their insipidity. A headache surfaced near the end of the work day, mercifully only once she had finished with the dreaded documents and turned them over to Robards for approval.

Her concluding work hour was a mess, when the main apothecary she had planned to rely on informed her they were no longer collecting sufficient supplies of some of the most important herbs for Wolfsbane Potion. She held an impromptu meeting, speaking with a few of her employees, who were equally concerned and full of opinions about the development.

Finally, Hermione sidled back into the records room, feeling determined and ready to work again on her list of potential soulmates until the rest had been fully background checked. She was abruptly stopped in her tracks when she realized the room was strangely full for the hour. Six or seven clerks were all milling about, highly engrossed in their work, and looking very much like they were going to be setting up camp for a long night of research. Her eyes fell on one of the middle tables, where, she realized with an internal grimace, the group had already had tea delivered.

I'll never be able to work in peace with this lot, she concluded. Thwarted, Hermione went home. She was bone-tired after her long day, and the frustration of not having finished her list had made her anxious.

After feeding a hungry Crookshanks, she indulged in a long shower. Following that, she had a thorough examination of her Fatemark, which still seemed to be forming into some nonspecific sphere with some smaller round shapes near it. She had no idea what that could mean, but she hoped to find out soon—and with that in the forefront of her mind, she went into the kitchen, opened a box of crackers, cut some slices of cheese, and ate them with pickled jalapeños, standing up at the counter. She took out her half-finished soulmate research and scanned the names that were on her 'maybe' list so far—only seven—and weighed up what she knew of the men the names belonged to.

Roger Bletchley worked at the Ministry, in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes; his cousin, Miles Bletchley, had once been a Chaser for the Slytherin Quidditch team, and according to Hermione's research, did not seem to have done much else since.

Simon Dedworth had been a Head Boy in Hermione's third year, and had recently done a few years of traveling for business. Popping another cracker into her mouth, Hermione eyed his name in particular, since she knew she was tied to a traveler.

Peregrine Derrick had been a beast of a man, from Hermione's own recollection, and later went on to become a professional boxer after Hogwarts. He had lately retired after sustaining some kind of injury.

Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy—

Her brain stuttered for a moment. Frowning, she shook herself. She ate another cracker, this time with extra cheese.

There had been very little information about Draco Malfoy in the records room. He had served prison time after the Battle of Hogwarts, then a probationary period, but seemed to have disappeared into thin air once that ended. All she could find of his post-Hogwarts life were two official photos from Azkaban. The first had been his mugshot, where he had looked pretty close to the teenager she remembered, and the second had been a photo taken upon his release, where his hair had grown out longer, past his ears. She thought of that second photograph again now—of the way the gaunt face of that young man had been completely blank, blinking up at her with hollow eyes.

Hermione was ill at ease.

The last two names on her list were Fitzthomas Nisby—who had run away from England during Voldemort's war, and eventually went on to become a wizardwear model in the United States—and Theodore Nott, who came from another family of established Death Eaters, like Malfoy, and these days owned a Quidditch team. Hermione reviewed, then frowned at the whole list again and sighed, setting it down on the counter.

Right about then, she began getting some feedback from the other end of her Sense. Whatever it was, was crunchy and nutty.

She reached into the pocket of her robes, where she commonly stored the three sheaves of two-way parchment, and unfolded them. Sure enough, a message was waiting. I made dinner for myself. I hope you enjoy it.

She went to the kitchen table and scratched out a reply. What is it?

Qatayef. A friend of mine showed me how to make them when I was in Egypt for Ramadan. He described the delicate filled pancakes, fried and filled with walnuts, pistachios, almonds, and raisins. Then he went on to detail drizzling sugar syrup over the top of it all. As his writing appeared on the parchment, Hermione could also taste it.

They wrote to one another a little longer. When Hermione finally retired to bed after her long day, she resolved to go in early again the following morning to complete her research. However, her sleep was fitful, filled with dreams she could not remember. The scraps remained there when she woke however, and her heart was still racing from them. By the time she arrived early to work, she had been on edge since the previous day, and the psychological toll was starting to tell. Her left eye would not quit twitching as she dutifully took out her list and read up about the next wizard on it.

She worked quickly and efficiently, hyper-focused on her task, and finished in good time, well before the department had really started to come alive for the day. Hustling back to her office before any of her nosy colleagues could show up to question her, she charmed the door to stay shut against everyone but Imelda, and placed her updated list on the center of her desk in front of her.

In addition to the seven names that had been circling nonstop through her brain all night, she had accumulated seven more.

Of the fourteen total men remaining, three of them worked at the Ministry. She thought, I could just go visit one of them now, to see.

Her eyes fell to the first name: Roger Bletchley. He had been a seventh year in Hermione's first, and now worked for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Without considering if it was a good idea, she took off from her office, and rode the lift to level three.

Hermione's heart raced every time the lift pinged and announced a new department. Stumbling out onto the floor of her destination alongside several Ministry workers just arriving for their daily shift, she rounded the corner into the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad offices.

A part of her knew this was reckless. If meeting one's soulmate was as intense as Andromeda, her parents, and all the literature seemed to indicate that it was, did she really want this to happen at work?

The truth was that just then, she was too impatient to care. She was past ready to meet him, whoever he was. Thus she embarked on what may very well have been the gutsiest operation she had ever performed at the Ministry: potentially soul-bonding with her other half, in front of an audience of Ministry workers.

Most of the department floor was filled with cubicles that had name placards on them. Hermione soon reached the one that stated ROGER BLETCHLEY, and looked up at the man standing at the desk, still taking off his coat for the morning.

"Good morning," she said.

She looked into his eyes, waiting for some kind of sign, or epiphany that this was her man. But she felt… nothing. Her heartbeat was not elevated, there was no tingling down her spine, and no chorus of angels singing in her mind.

In the first instant, Hermione was disappointed, though she told herself that it had been statistically unlikely to be her first guess anyway. Upon a second glance at him, she was able to clearly see the man's slovenly appearance. His robes were frayed at the edges, and his clothing beneath them seemed to have been purchased some time ago, before he had put on some weight. Between that, the scruffy trail of facial hair and Bletchley's unkempt curls, Hermione quickly felt only gladness that it had not been him.

Bletchley was looking at her in an incredulous manner. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," Hermione started, realizing that this man—not her soulmate—was still staring at her in real time. "Right. I'm looking for…" She wracked her brains, simultaneously cursing herself for not thinking up an escape plan ahead of time.

Bletchley's bushy eyebrows drew together into a single, long caterpillar as he frowned deeply.

"How many Muggle sightings of werewolves occurred during the past fifty years?" she quickly spit out.

Somehow, Bletchley's frown deepened. Pushing his greasy hair out of his eyes, he looked at her questioningly. Behind her, Hermione could hear one or two of the other department workers tittering, clearly eavesdropping.

Gritting her teeth, she bit out an explanation, "I'm doing some research for a law I'm submitting. Are you able to help me or not?"

"You don't want the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad offices, you want the research department down the hall." He jabbed his thumb behind him to indicate she should keep walking.

Grateful for the out, Hermione said, "I think I'll send a clerk later. Thank you for the information." Then, she got out of there as fast as she could.

The moment she made it back to her office, she was bombarded by Imelda, who instantly took note of her sweaty appearance, shut the door, and asked, "What's got you worked up?"

"Oh," sighed Hermione, feeling extremely foolish by now. "Nothing at all."

Mentally, she crossed one name off her list. Thirteen to go.

"Did you realize you're wearing two different shoes?" asked Imelda.

Hermione looked down, and her heart sank just a little bit lower. In fact, she was wearing one black shoe and a brown one.

"Would this be a bad time to tell you that you're late to your meeting with Gilbert Wimple?"

"Of course not." Hermione took out her wand and charmed her brown shoe to match the black one. It would have to do for today, though now that she was aware of it, the difference in fit was not comfortable.

This is going to be one of those days, she thought to herself, trying to pull herself together.

That evening, Hermione finally dragged herself home at a much-later-than-hoped-for hour, and found a message waiting for her. Her soulmate had eaten dinner some time ago, and had clearly written around then.

She reheated some leftover chicken with rice and beans and finally wrote back to her man. Consulting her list of bachelors, she decided to use her one daily question to eliminate another name.

She wrote, You've mentioned trying several types of sports in the time I've been getting to know you so far. Have you ever done any of them professionally?

No, he wrote, I've always been more of a dabbler. I like to try new things.

Hermione went to her list and eliminated Peregrine Derrick, leaving just twelve names.

Before bed, she thought about doing her workout routine, eyeing herself critically in the mirror, but ultimately was too tired for it. She tumbled into bed, exhausted from so many days on end with frayed nerves.

.

.

By Thursday, Hermione's preoccupation with hunting down her soulmate had taken its toll on her workload, which had grown extremely precarious. She had no choice but to dedicate a few extremely busy days to working sun-up to well-past-sundown, even through the weekend. It did not feel good to have to turn down invitations from her friends to have dinner with them, nor was it nice to go home and put her nose to the parchment. Her diet in particular suffered, and she found herself writing an apology to her soulmate on the third day of this unbearable schedule, because she began to rely on Nutri-Wafers again and did not want to endure his wrath the way she had in the beginning.

He was not pleased, but seemed to appreciate the heads up when she explained how busy she was. Full conversations with exchanges from both sides became less frequent, but it did not stop him from writing. At the end of her long days, she withdrew to bed. Snuggled up with Crookshanks, Hermione would read the collection of thoughts he had sent her during the day. One day, the messages took over all three pages, and once she dove in, she realized it was almost entirely a treatise about how Nutri-Wafers were the bane of all flavor. Though she was too tired to formulate a response until the morning, she could not help cracking a smile, and hoped he could feel it somehow.

At work on Monday, she had her second meeting with Julianne, and learned from her that the Department of Magical Health and Care was still withholding W.A.R.T.'s patent review. Julianne had asked if Hermione might step in to expedite the process, and Hermione agreed. Privately, she decided it was the perfect excuse to check in on another of her potential suitors.

Directly following an appointment she managed to get that very afternoon with the patent review board, she paid a visit to an additional area of the Department of Magical Health and Care. Hermione was decisively able to cross Clarence Twycross off her list of potential soulmates from across the room and without even needing to interact with the man.

Eleven to go, she counted down in her head.

That afternoon, Hermione found herself alone in her office on a quick tea break which Imelda had managed to magically strong-arm into her schedule. She found herself reaching into her pocket for the two-way parchment, to apologize to him again. I'm at a critical point with my new law, and I've barely been finding the time to feed myself. As it is, I'll have to unexpectedly stay through the evening again. All this to say, I'm sorry I've not been writing much lately.

It was an odd hour for her to write, and she had been mostly silent for a few days now, so he did not reply during her little break. Her afternoon soon overwhelmed her, and she nearly forgot about the message until she returned to her office a couple of hours later. Hermione was not looking forward to spending the evening working, and had barely sunk into her chair before Imelda bustled into the room, carrying a brown paper bag that was emitting all sorts of delicious smells.

Her assistant placed the takeaway bag on the corner of her desk. "For you."

"What is it?"

"After checking the contents and testing for shenanigans, I suspect it to be a gift from someone special."

Hermione's heart stuttered for an entire second, and she stood from her seat so quickly that she bumped her desk and it moved a little bit from the force of it. "Was it him that dropped it off?"

"Just a delivery person," said Imelda. To Hermione's mortification, the witch was smirking in a small way.

Hermione scrambled for the two-way parchment. Sure enough, there was a message waiting there. Her cheeks flooded with heat as she read, Since you are too busy to properly feed yourself, this one's on me.

Next she seized the takeaway bag. "When was this delivered?"

"Over an hour ago. There's a stasis charm on it."

She breathed in the scents; they were familiar. Her stomach rumbled. Reaching in, she pulled out several containers to unveil what he had sent. There was rice with beans, jerk chicken legs, cabbage slaw, with both gravy and sauce on the side. Another container revealed pork belly and plantains. The final item was a beef patty in a slim bag.

"Wow," she gasped.

"Seems like things are getting serious," Imelda remarked.

Hermione's reply of "yes" was slightly muffled by her first bite of the beef patty. It had a crispy, flaky outside and a beautifully spiced meat filling that was a little greasy in the best way. Once she had finished chewing, she added, "I'll need a few minutes to write him. Is that possible?"

"We're going to be here all night as it is. Might as well take a few minutes now that the everyday bustle has settled."

Grateful as ever for Imelda, who took away some forms and unfortunately left even more of them behind, Hermione took a moment to connect with her soulmate. Smiling, she took another bite of food and thought of him, wondering what he was doing now.

She tried the chicken and rice next. The meat was perfectly charred and moist, the rice heavy with a brothy flavor. There was a gravy that went with it, and a full side of carrots, onions, and cabbage, along with a small ramekin of a fruity sauce. Once she had slaked her immediate hunger and collected her thoughts, she turned her attention back to the two-way parchment with the single sentence at the top.

Clearing a small writing space on her desk, Hermione took up a self-writing quill and dictated to it. Thank you for sending the delicious food.

He did not respond right away. She tried the creamy plantains and the pork belly, which was crispy and salty. Both were delicious. Checking the parchment again, she found no response. She ate another few pieces of the pork belly, then tried dipping some into the fruity sauce from the jerk chicken dish, and found it to be delicious.

A reply appeared at last. I'm getting a Sense.

Hermione felt a thrill as she took another bite, feeling through their shared bond that he was delighting in her enjoyment of it all.

Thoughts?

Excellent, of course, she wrote. The pork belly is phenomenal.

I'm glad you're enjoying it.

She took another bite of her beef patty, and heard Imelda at the door again. We're so busy, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this short again. But I wanted to tell you how grateful I am for the meal.

You're welcome, he wrote. Don't work too hard.

Her assistant's head peeked into the door, and Hermione knew her break was over. She looked longingly at it all—the takeaway containers, the parchment—and couldn't help a sigh.

Though her schedule was still as busy as ever, she put forth her best effort to attempt a more regular communication with him through the rest of the week. She sent him tiny notes during odd parts of the day where she could squeeze in two minutes to read what he had written, and jot a note back. Considering her list of potential soulmates, she made sure to ask her mystery man one question a day again, no matter how swamped she was. In that manner, she eliminated four more names.

She had been putting off contriving a meeting with the final Ministry employee on her list, in part because of where he worked. Since her soulmate refused to discuss what he did as a career, Hermione had some vague suspicions about Unspeakable Philip Pinch-Smedley.

She waited until nearly the end of the work day on Friday to drop by the Department of Mysteries, heading down to the floor she always dreaded visiting. The black-tiled walls were bare with no windows, nor doors except for a plain black one at the end of the corridor which led into the Department proper.

Steeling herself for the sight that would come next, Hermione stepped into the circular entrance chamber. The moment the door closed, the walls rotated, making it impossible to determine which door was which. She looked down at the dark marble floor, the only thing that seemed to be steady, and tried to quash the surfacing flashback. It was no use. The memory pushed forward, and suddenly she was sixteen years old again… she was being chased by Death Eaters… she was standing in front of the veil in the archway, which Sirius had just disappeared though. She could vividly recall Harry's face, his tears, his tortured screams—amidst all that terror and helplessness she felt in herself…

The doors had stopped spinning, she realized when she opened her eyes. Now, she was in a perfectly still, perfectly empty room with twelve handleless doors. The light there was provided only by candles floating above, emitting a dim glow onto the marble floor.

Hermione knew she was meant to make her request verbally, so she clearly articulated, "I'm looking to speak with Unspeakable Philip Pinch-Smedley."

The things I have done in the pursuit of love, she thought, her heart in her throat.

After only a few minutes, a door to her right opened and a man strode out. He was tall, dark-haired, and powerful-looking. His black robes billowed in a way that made him reminiscent of Severus Snape.

Hermione's heart beat faster. Is it him?

The wizard, who had been in the year below her back at Hogwarts, crossed the lobby and met her in the middle, giving off an air of both annoyance and curiosity. She looked into his dark eyes, and felt they were cold in the same way that the shiny marble floor of the Department of Mysteries was cold.

She shuddered at the thought. This was definitely not her soulmate.

Luckily, she had prepared an excuse ahead of time. "I came to inquire about getting a report prepared from your department, regarding werewolf regulations and how it might impact the prophecy sub-department."

Pinch-Smedley clearly found this request suspicious, since his eyes narrowed and he scanned her briefly before saying, "Surely you recall, the Hall of Prophecy was largely destroyed? Such a disruption had far more lasting repercussions than any bit of legislation you might be able to pass now."

It was as if he had sensed her open nerve and dug a fingernail directly into it. After managing something in the way of a noncommittal response, she quickly extricated herself from the situation, relieved this was not her man.

Escaping the Department of Mysteries, she retreated to the nearest women's loo and shut herself into the furthest stall, where she took several purposeful breaths to steady herself. Two weeks of work without a day off, coupled with the terror of her flashback and the unpleasantness of subsequently dealing with Unspeakable Pinch-Smedley? Hermione had never before looked forward to a weekend so much.

Saturday arrived like a sigh of relief. Hermione slept in most of the morning—at least for as long as Crookshanks allowed her—and indulged in a leisurely cup of coffee at her kitchen table while she assessed her whittled-down list of only six remaining names.

That evening, she had a long tête-à-tête with her soulmate. She asked him about his week, and he was as cryptic as usual. Yet, she managed to remove the name of the magical archaeologist, Mervyn Wynch. Hermione could not help thinking it was a shame to concede this name. Wynch was young, reasonably handsome, and according to his background check, was successful in his vocation. Magical archaeology does sound fascinating.

After she and her soulmate had filled up all the parchment and then wished one another good night, she obsessively ran through the remaining five names.

Ivan Renshaw was a healer in London, but had reportedly done work with a worldwide healer's charity that had taken him extensively to Guatemala and Honduras.

Miles Bletchley seemed to be a leech upon the bankroll of his parents, and had not achieved anything of note since leaving Hogwarts.

Eugene Runcorn's life seemed interesting, as his work studying advanced potion-making had taken him to many places in India and Pakistan.

Cassius Warrington was the Hogwarts flying instructor, having taken over after Madam Hooch's retirement.

Then there was Draco Malfoy. His name made her pause every time. She could not seem to help doing it. There was no concrete information about him whatsoever. He was a complete mystery. He also has a very good reason to want to keep things private at first, she realized.

Her Fatemark itched nearly nonstop, so that it was difficult to sleep that evening. On Sunday, she was very grumpy until Andromeda came to her home and dragged her out to lunch and a trip to the park with her and Teddy. After spending several hours minding a rambunctious eight year old, Hermione fell into bed the following evening, exhausted from so many nights of poor sleep.

.

.

Early Monday morning, when Hermione came into work, the Ministry was aflutter with decorations for Halloween, which would be the following evening. She recalled the first time she had begun getting her Sense back in mid-May. By now, she had spent almost six months duking it out with her soulmate and getting to know him.

She had a meeting with Julianne again that morning. Though they had been corresponding by owl all week, this was only their third time meeting in person. Despite this, Hermione had already come to think very highly of her as they became reacquainted. Julianne spoke of blending magic and science in such a way that Hermione found to be very stimulating.

"I have listed the regrettable exclusions to the cure," Julianne was explaining to her about twenty minutes into the meeting, "to assist your side of things."

Last time she had met with Julianne, Hermione had learned about the cure's various types of flaws. It turned out an entire blood type was not eligible to use W.A.R.T. as a cure, as the treatment was not viable. It was dismaying.

She asked, "Will you have any opportunity to do further research into making it inclusive to all blood types?"

"Until recently, we at W.A.R.T. were under the impression that the cure would have to remain as it was. But now, I have very good reason to believe that this is no longer the case." Julianne had leaned in toward Hermione when she said the last part, almost as if it were a secret.

"Oh?" Hermione prompted.

"Our sponsor has just made an extremely generous offer to St. Mungo's of a research annex," Julianne went on in the same conspiratorial manner. "If a deal can be struck, a very large amount of space would be given over to places where long-term research can be conducted to work on our cure's weaknesses. Jobs would be created, because there would also finally be the space to brew more potions that could be widely distributed." Julianne was beaming at the very thought. "The benefits are easy to see."

"That's quite the sponsor," Hermione remarked. She had learned previously that their entire enterprise had been anonymously sponsored from the start. "Can you tell me who it is yet?"

"It's going to become public knowledge soon enough, but just keep it in your pocket for now," Julianne answered in a near-whisper. "It's Draco Malfoy. The place he's selling is Malfoy Manor."

Somehow, in that moment, Hermione was certain that it was him. Draco Malfoy—her soulmate. It was not possible to deny it.

"Draco Malfoy is selling Malfoy Manor," Hermione repeated, feeling suddenly dizzy. It was a shocking statement. Tremendous, even. Her Fatemark began itching like mad.

"It's quite the gift," Julianne agreed eagerly. "It's a centuries-old manor house with tons of space. The hospital itself could even be expanded—"

Mind whirling, Hermione heard no more of Julianne's chatter from there on out. It was not long before her companion noticed her distress.

"Hermione, are you alright?"

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I've got a sudden migraine, and I'm afraid I must excuse myself. Can you proceed without me?"

Julianne replied that she could, and seeing that Hermione really did appear unwell, let her make her escape without further formalities. Hermione returned immediately to her office, her head actually pounding now. Imelda, startled to see her back so quickly, could barely get out, "What happ—?"

"I have to… go," Hermione told her.

Imelda's eyebrows shot up. "Is it happening?"

"I think so."

Both women paused, somewhat awkwardly and yet, also charged with excitement. Hermione managed a smile.

Imelda winked. "Get out of here. I'll move everything."

Hermione did not need telling twice. She high-tailed it to the lobby, claimed the nearest empty Floo, and raced home. Crookshanks looked up from his place in the sunspot by the window and blinked at her unexpected arrival. Scratching him once under the chin, Hermione dropped her things on the kitchen table and strode directly into the bathroom, pulling off her blouse as she went, and discarding it in the hallway.

Propping herself up in the now-traditional position on the edge of the sink counter, she peered over her shoulder into the mirror at her Fatemark. It took up a fist-sized portion of her left shoulder blade. Stark white, it stood out against her dark skin, and was now clearly formed into the outline of a crescent moon with several stars behind it. She thought of the many written conversations she'd had with her soulmate over the past weeks, and considered how many changes Malfoy must have undergone to reach the place he was now, just like phases. The Fatemark was a perfect match for Draco Malfoy.

Looking down and finding her hands shaking, Hermione decided to return to the kitchen and make herself some tea. She picked up her blouse from the hallway floor and threw it back on. Once she had made herself a bracing cuppa, she went into the sitting room and settled into the couch with it, blowing across the steam swirling from it as she collected her thoughts.

Malfoy, of all people…

She thought back to the prison release photograph she had found when conducting his background check. He had left Azkaban after living a year in that place, and by his own admission during their conversations, had traveled the world. Hermione had learned a lot about him in their communications. His horizons had expanded, and he had developed into a worldly man. Now, he had returned to England for her, and was selling Malfoy Manor to St Mungo's to support a worthy cause in the advancement of magical research.

Taking a sip, Hermione swirled the tea with honey around in her mouth, perceiving her fated mate through their shared Sense. Before this, she always took her tea with milk, but he preferred honey, and ever since she had recognized this, Hermione had begun taking her tea that way too. His hum of appreciativeness reverberated through her the moment he recognized the flavor.

Draco.

All those weeks ago, he had written: Maybe we can get to know one another this way first?

She understood why he was so hesitant to meet her. They had a very rough past. He had been a Death Eater, and in prison. She had actively fought against him, and continued to defend wizarding justice. But he was more than those things now—just as she had changed too, in all that time. For the first time, it made sense to her why she had to wait so long for him. They had both needed to grow out of who they used to be and into their own people, to come together. Hermione had to create that world for them, and Draco needed to unpick some of who he once had been. Now, they could finally love one another unconditionally.

Our past won't change. What exactly is he waiting for? She agonized over this question for several minutes, sipping occasionally at her tea, before her eyes fell onto the oft-used two-way parchment sheafs laying on her coffee table.

Nostrils flaring and her gaze set with determination, she reached for the top sheet with every intention of writing, We should meet.

Something stopped her.

There had been no recent photographs of him anywhere she could find, so Hermione could only picture the teenaged Malfoy. She could not imagine what he might look like at the age of 26. Would he still be pale? How would he wear his hair? She thought back to the young Malfoy's pointy chin and hoped he had grown out of it—but then she laughed inwardly at herself, because she knew that it would not bother her one bit if he did still have it. Not really.

The man she had been talking to and Sensing intimately for the past few months was the man she was interested in—the man he was now. Draco. Not who that man might have been as a teenager.

From the way Draco had been writing to her, she could tell that he already loved her. Another thing she knew was that she, too, had already fallen in love with him. None of the rest of it mattered. Hermione was ready. There would be a fallout—of course there would, the press was going to have a field day when the marriage announcement was eventually made public—but they would deal with it later. Together. As far as she was concerned, now that the jig was up and she had successfully tracked down his identity, Hermione was eager to kiss his pointy face off, and spend eternity with him.

With that in mind, she looked at the clock. It was just before tea time. What if I just dropped by?

While she detested the idea of visiting Malfoy Manor and risking revisiting memories of the last time she had been there as a prisoner, the idea of going simultaneously felt so right that it flooded her with a warmth that made her fingertips tingle. She felt alive, crackling with a strange energy, while her Fatemark, instead of itching, felt as if it were on fire.

Catching a look at herself in the glass of the window next to the couch however, she decided she should clean herself up a bit first. Gulping down some more tea, she fled to the bathroom to perform a quick toilette, brush her teeth, and shave her legs. Her resolve seemed only to strengthen as she went to her closet and searched for the right outfit, landing on a knee-length skirt and a cute blouse with a jacket. But looking at herself in the mirror, she decided she looked like she was going to work, and ditched the jacket. A week back, she had used magic to partially braid the front of her hair in rows close to her scalp for a couple of inches, with the rest of her curly hair wild in the back. It all still looked tidy, so she left it.

With nothing more to be done, she grabbed her purse and Apparated directly to the front gates of Malfoy Manor.

A/N: An entire mountain of thanks to my alpha-reader, sarenia, She Who Unravels My Brain Weavings (first of her name), and Founder of Caterpillar Eyebrows Anonymous.

A second mountain of thanks to my beta-reader, iwasbotwp, Conqueror of the Seven Retreats, and keeper of the sacred knowledge of gravy diaspora.

Finally, a third mountain of thanks for my readers. I love hearing your thoughts in the comments, and as always, very much appreciate your support. You all would not believe what this chapter looked like originally before the lovely persons mentioned above helped. But this needed to be just right, because the next chapter is the Big One!

If you want to make your own qatayef, I suggest you check out Amira's Pantry over at amiraspantrydotcom, where she has a great step-by-step recipe. Tasty times.