A/N: Back with another episode. Hope you enjoy, and comment/review your thoughts! Always puts a smile on my face!

Also, I made a book cover for this fic which I'll put at the top of every chapter going forward (on Ao3 at least). I've seen other authors make a cover and do that so I thought why not.

Anyways, enjoy!

Season 1 Episode 9 - Ghost of Christmas Past (Part 2)

Well, to say Hermione was pissed would be putting things lightly. Very, very lightly.

To say she was vexed would be less light, but still light as a feather in comparison to the utter rage, torment, torture currently flooding every pore of her being.

She was in the Great Hall, sitting on a bench that felt as cold as dumping oneself face first in Scottish ice. Eyes circled her, swirling like the candles hovering above as ghouls to her nightmare. Those stares, from the students on her table, from students on other tables, jabbed into her like a thousand cutting curses all at once.

A shivering heat gripped her spine, right to the back of her neck, and a sheen of sweat formed on her forehead. Hermione wiped it with a sleeve that felt far too grimy, all whilst the scent of roast chicken turned from tantalising to something rotten.

As though a world of Christmas hope had turned to a kind of horror flick they'd show at movie theatres over the holidays near where Hermione lived.

Hermione chewed the grainy chicken, chewed more than a few times, before swallowing and hearing that plop in her stomach. Accompanied by a sinking feeling that things were about to grow far worse than they already were.

Potter was on the other side of the hall, on the Gryffindor table, his mouth agape, half his face bathed in flickering candlelight whilst the other half dripped in darkness.

He, too, was eating something. A treacle tart, perhaps. And he took another bite, into that agape mouth, trying to act as casual as possible. Chewed, swallowed, grinned at his mates.

But his eyes didn't grin. That was the telling detail to Hermione. Those green eyes remained panicked, glancing over at Hermione every few seconds, before averting as though afraid of her of all people.

In case one was unaware, Nearly Headless Nick had just dropped a bombshell onto the Hogwarts populus—that Hermione Granger and (Harry) Potter had been seen solving mysteries together, and that Nick had his own puzzle for them to tackle.

And with those two sentences, shouted from the front of the Great Hall where the headmaster's altar stood in all its glory, Hermione's Hogwarts solitude had been thrown into jeopardy.

Shouts had popped off at first, students on every table discussing loudly what the Boy-Who-Lived making a new female friend meant. Girls on other tables, and even some in Ravenclaw itself, glared daggers at Hermione whilst gossiping in hushed tones.

Hermione lowered her head now, those whispers circling her mind, more attention being thrust on her than had been the case in the last four years.

All because of her connection to one (Harry) Potter, the famous celebrity of the wizarding world.

So Hermione was pissed more than anything else. And the bloody knife and fork that just didn't want to cut the roast chicken properly was pissing her off even more. Glinting metal sliding all over the place like it was dipped in one of Lavender's dream shampoo products.

Damn it all. Bloody useless utensils used usually by useless usurping youths—

"Don't pay 'em no mind, Hermione," Farah said from Hermione's left. "They're just looking for a good bit of gossip, that's all."

"No need to give them attention," Fay said, leaning over and bumping her shoulder with Hermione's. "I'm sure Nick's just lost the plot."

Nick hadn't lost the plot. Hermione and Potter really were solving mysteries together—it was truth, not a lie, that Nick spoke.

Hermione was grateful for Fay and Farah's help anyhow, a ray of light in the sea of darkness that the Great Hall seemed to be drowning in.

"Thanks," she muttered in a low voice. Her eyes, as though a finder to a target, circled back onto Potter's face. He was far better versed in dealing with the shenanigans of the Hogwarts Gossip Express (a name Hermione formulated in that very moment). Yet, the colour had drained from his face, or maybe that was just the candle flickers making it seem so.

"Why don't we go Hogsmeade next week for decorations?" Farah said, her eyes lighting up, and lighting the hall a little too. "Trust me, they've got tinsel for days, baubles the size of flying saucers, an assortment of everything you'd ever want. We've got to win this competition, all right. No ifs, ands, or buts about it."

"And we can make it special too," Fay said. She gestured to Hermione. "She ain't never come with us to Hogsmeade before. We have to make sure she has a blast. So no walking around snow for ten years looking at decorations, all right."

Farah rolled her eyes, but her smile didn't let up for a second. "Fine. We'll do it your way then."

Fay nodded, looking far too pleased with herself. As though she'd won some award by getting Farah to calm down. "Good."

There was just one thing Fay and Farah were forgetting, however, in the midst of the Hogwarts dinner hum.

"We do have an exam the day before the holidays start," Hermione said. The exam was tomorrow, actually. "You two didn't forget about it, did you? The muggle studies exam?"

The two sets of wide eyes that met Hermione nearly made her burst out laughing. And, somehow, thoughts of the Great Hall glaring at her and the harsh whispers digging into her back vanished from her mind, as seamlessly as drinking a calming draught and waiting for its effects to sink in.

The power of having friends, Hermione realised. Before, when life had knocked her down, it was her own will that raised her back up again. But recently, with Fay and Farah entering her life, she didn't need to push herself so hard.

Now she had others who would help her up. Those like Fay, Farah, Lavender too. Heck, even Colin Creevey's infectious nature was enough to make anyone smile, maybe apart from those he admired.

And another person too, whose name Hermione didn't want to think about given what just happened. No, because she was pissed off still at the whole situation brewing in the Great Hall, and probably beyond once dinner ended.

She might be able to enjoy a weekend Hogsmeade trip before Christmas, might be able to enjoy decorating the dorm for the competition, might be able to relax a little and sleep in during the holidays despite her revision.

But first, she had to fix whatever mess—if it could even be fixed—Nearly Headless Nick had created.

And for that, she needed to speak with Potter.

Hogwarts was teeming with life, corridors and hallways jubilant with students happy that the final day of classes before the Christmas holidays had ended. Statues seemed to stand taller, portraits sung the praises of God as though they were on holiday too, and the candlelights burned brighter than at any other time of year.

Chatter floated across the hallways, chatter zoned in on one topic of interest. A topic that had been sparked by Nearly Headless Nick, and ignited by the castle's residents.

Fresh smells of Scottish snow ambled through the castle wherever there was an open door or window. A light breeze tickled students' faces, gracing them with a nice antithesis to the heat from their layers of jumpers and robes.

Of course, Harry Potter couldn't join in all the fun. Harry Potter had a grim look on his face, sneaking around the castle's ground floor using his invisibility cloak after yet another spine-tingling session of Who Can Stare The Most At Potter and Granger at dinner.

For Harry, the hallways were far too narrow, like the walls wished to pry open his secrets. Portraits, should they see him, would eye him as though a juicy steak to be eaten up. Statues glared at him stonily, because they were made of, well, stone. As well as wanting to know Harry's darkest secrets.

The floor felt cold, winds chilly as they snuck through the halls, and as he entered the library behind a random Hufflepuff, so as not to be caught, Harry couldn't help but shiver.

Because not only was the castle digging into his secrets, but Granger was probably seething with anger. True, unadulterated anger—not the type of bickering and frustration she always displayed when dealing with Harry.

At dinner today and yesterday, Harry had noticed Granger's downcast eyes, her gaze burrowing into her food, lips constantly shut aside from small comments made to her two friends—though Harry didn't know their names.

But Harry was sure Granger was putting up a front, because everyone did in one way or another. And that front was meant to cover up intense rage, ready to release once she got her hands on Potter's neck…probably…allegedly.

The library didn't fare much better than the outer castle. Sure, the heat was insulated better, and bookshelves and the scent of musty tomes created an ambience far more preferred to the low hushed whispers of the Hogwarts gossip mill.

But, uh, Granger was probably pissed at him, which made it seem like Harry was walking into a trap willingly, as though he was a horror movie protagonist. Even though he had been the one who'd transferred that note to Granger quickly after lunch, a note telling her he would come to the library an hour before curfew.

Granger had stuffed the note in a pocket, given him a strange look, before hurrying away whilst blending in with the rest of the students on their way to afternoon classes.

Granger hurried away a little too quickly for Harry's liking, almost as if he held a contagious plague that infected anyone within a ten metre radius.

As Harry reached the second floor, he walked to the abandoned far end—abandoned except for himself and Granger, of course. She was seated in her brown armchair as usual, a book spread on the table with her eyes darting over its words…as well as darting over the shelves around her.

Like she was a squirrel on the hunt for a loose nut under a tree somewhere.

Before her anger could rise further at him essentially spying on her, Harry shrugged off his invisibility cloak and dumped himself in the green armchair. His bag found its way to the table, and he pulled out some old Potions homework and began reading.

It was his own homework, and an overall terrible essay.

No one said a word whilst Harry lazily ran his eyes over parchment, and the tension in his mind, almost like a dull ache, kept rising and rising.

Until—

"You write the wrong way round, you know that right?" Granger muttered.

Harry was nearly shocked into attention. He glanced up, met her ever-curious eyes—not angry eyes, he noticed crucially. "What d'you mean?"

Granger dipped a hand into her bag and brought out a scroll of parchment. She pulled a little parchment off the top of the scroll, making it stretch out, before showing it up to Harry.

"You're meant to write at the top here, rolling off more parchment as you go, then measure your essay when it's done. Got that?"

Harry's eyebrows furrowed. "But I've always just hacked off however much I need and then write the essay. Not like I'm going to write more than they tell me to. Only an idiot would do that."

Granger glared daggers at him—daggers tainted with snake poison.

She was, quite evidently, one such idiot according to Harry's definition.

"Your talking points of the essay in such a situation, Potter, may not be fleshed out enough by the time you reach the bottom. My way of going about things is superior."

"Superiority, Granger, is in working smart, not hard." Harry pocketed his invisibility cloak, leaned back in his armchair, and inhaled the stale air of the library. "After all, why run a marathon when you can merely walk and not get tired? Same destination in the end."

"Because you like the runner's high?"

"That response makes me believe you're high, if I'm honest."

Granger made a face halfway between disgust and a light hearted smile. Harry nearly laughed himself, but stopped the impulse. Just about.

Another thought struck Harry, whilst sitting in the library's second floor, alone with Granger, and engaging in a rather normal conversation for the two of them.

That thought being…well, that they were engaging in a rather normal conversation. Given the events at dinner a day prior, Harry had been certain of Granger's utter demonic rage, as though she was that niffler in the vents trying to protect its stolen treasure.

But she seemed…rather calm, actually. Strangely calm.

"So, what did you want to meet up for?" Granger asked, likely since attempting to get Harry to properly do his essays was a fool's errand. Might as well move onto the next subject entirely.

"Well…I don't think that's relevant anymore," Harry said, waving the topic away with a hand.

The topic being, of course, what had occurred at dinner the previous evening.

Unfortunately, Granger took his wave as a welcome to investigate further. Screw her detective instincts, Harry thought.

"Sneaking a note around for no reason before passing it to me, Potter. One would think you had ulterior motives."

"Like a love note or something?"

Granger did not look amused. At all.

"More like a kidnapping," Granger scoffed. "Half the castle already thinks you're keeping me all to yourself anyway."

Harry, uh, definitely didn't like her way of phrasing things.

"No, I had something else in mind," Harry said, deciding to confront the topic head on like a true Gryffindor instead of shying away.

"And what's that?" Granger asked.

"Want to form a detective agency?"

Of all the things Potter could have said in that moment, Hermione hadn't expected…well, that.

The library, as always, carried with it the refreshing smell of old books—a paradox Hermione had never quite managed to figure out. The armchair comforted her back and limbs, with easy air filling her lungs. The silence, at least until Potter had arrived, impressed upon her a sense of peace.

Away from, you know, the eagle-eyes of the Hogwarts populus, and of course their whispered and targetted gossip.

Shelves stood guard on the other side of where Potter sat, their books like weapons ready to defend Hermione from whatever abomination Potter was about to stir up.

Detective agency? Really? He'd already mentioned the idea as a joke, and that was all Hermione had taken it as.

But Potter's eyes, green with amber flecks, told no joke. Nope. None at all.

He was, as impossible as it may sound, serious for once.

"You're joking, right?" Hermione said, just to make sure. Because with Potter, making sure he was serious proved half the job. "A detective agency is the most laughable idea I can think of."

"Frankly, it's the only idea that'll make sense," Potter said. "Look, we're currently the laughing stock of Hogwarts anyway—well, gossip stocks. And the stock keeps rising, trust me."

"Falling, you mean," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes. "There is no way of profiting from being associated with you, it seems."

A glimpse of something brushed through Potter's eyes, and his face fell for the merest fraction of a second. But the easy smile replaced it so quickly, as if the motion was practiced.

A corkscrew of guilt whizzed through Hermione's heart.

"In any case, we need an explanation or something as to why we're solving mysteries together," Harry said. "Trust me, for the first three years my mates got hounded day in day out about me. Only died down last year when people got used to it, but it still happens sometimes."

"By the fangirls, I assume," Hermione muttered, shuddering at the image of those pathetic girls, on the Ravenclaw table and others, who leered at her as though she'd personally offended them.

Blithering idiots, Hermione wanted to call them. But she had enough sense not to pile more pressure on herself by lashing out.

"Exactly," Potter said. "You're a girl too, which means people are going to think…well…"

Potter's face was turning an interesting shade of red, a feature which seemed to teleport, rather suddenly, onto Hermione's cheeks too.

"You get the point, right?" Potter asked.

Hermione nodded. And quickly.

"So they're going to bother you for the rest of your time at Hogwarts, and even after Hogwarts probably knowing some of them. The best thing to do would be to come up with a convenient explanation."

"That we're colleagues in a mystery solving business?" Hermione scoffed. "Look, if it's that much of a pain to be around you, then maybe the best thing is…"

To stop hanging around together, Hermione wanted to say. And to say Nick's just lying.

But the words couldn't get past her throat, an unreadable force within her jamming the words still.

And truly, she didn't want to say the words either. Because…because Potter was, loathe as she was to admit it, someone not horrible to spend time with.

Which meant pushing him away now…she couldn't do it to him. Or herself.

"But how would the castle accept that we're running a business?" Hermione asked, deciding to entertain Potter's idea. "That literally makes no sense. Who goes into business with people they've only known for a couple of months?"

"Idiots like me?" Potter said with a shit-eating grin.

Hermione wished she could make him eat his own shit. Then chew it. Then swallow it. Then shit it back ou—

"Let's be serious for once, Potter," she said with a sigh.

The armchair groaned as she shifted herself forwards, leaning in as though they were in a secret meeting. She breathed in the scent of books, a calming scent, a calm she needed to deal with the delinquent in front of her.

"Think about it logically," Potter said. "What information does the castle know? That we're hanging out together, that we solve mysteries together. Anything else?"

"That you're the biggest idiot known to man," Hermione muttered.

Potter grinned. "At your service, milady." He drummed the table with his fingers, as though playing the beat of their plight as a thudding jingle.

Potter continued. "So we need an explanation that covers us being seen together as well as solving mysteries. So a detective agency is the best bet." Potter spread his arms like a bird taking flight—a bird about to get shot down, to be exact.

"But we can't just run a business out of Hogwarts officially," Hermione said, hand rubbing her chin. Potter was onto something, that was certain.

But, like a seeker nearing the end of their chase, perhaps Potter just couldn't reach far enough. Perhaps this idea was just one, or a few, steps in the wrong direction.

"The Weasley twins have a business though," Potter countered.

"An illegal, predatory business selling pranks to students. Don't make me laugh."

"You never laugh anyway," Potter said, rolling his eyes. "In any case, they've got a business, so why can't we?"

"I'm pretty sure there's something against students running a business," Hermione said. Now that she thought about it, Hogwarts: A History had mentioned something about students from industrial families attempting to sell produce like coal to other students.

Back then, connections and dealings between pureblood families extended to their children too. Often, business deals were handed over from one child to the next.

As were, uh, betrothal contracts.

Hermione flushed that from her mind as quickly as she could.

But an actual business owned by students and operated from within Hogwarts…that was unheard of. And likely broke a billion rules in the process.

No wonder the Weasley twins kept their business underground.

Hermione racked her brain, whilst Potter sat there with a smug as hell look. Oh, what Hermione would give to dash him into hell if only for a bit of peace.

"It's a good idea, Granger," Potter said, folding his hands together like one of those corporate businessmen in movies. "Just admit it."

"Another thing," Hermione said, index finger raised. "If people come to us and actually ask about solving mysteries, what do we do?"

Potter looked at her as if she'd just asked the stupidest question in all mankind.

In other words, his mouth was as agape as it would be if an eleven inch wand was just stuck up his arse.

"We help them, of course," Potter said. "Like we've been doing this entire time. Except, now, we earn money from it."

Hermione's allowance wasn't the best, so she would definitely appreciate the extra mone—

No, it was against the rules. Hermione wouldn't budge on that. Despite the allure of sweet, sweet profit.

"You don't need money, do you, Potter?" she asked.

He shook his head. "But you can't say the idea doesn't excite you, right?"

Hermione rubbed her chin again, certain that the perfect idea was in her head somewhere. Like a needle in a haystack, if one just had a metal detector, the needle became easy to find.

In this case, the metal detector—metaphorically, of course—was Lavender Brown and Colin Creevey of all people.

"What if we start a club?" Hermione said. "And then limit the numbers so no one else other than a few can join?"

Potter's eyes lit up, and he nearly jumped from his armchair. "You're amazing, Granger. Seriously brilliant. Smartest witch I know."

And Hermione, for once, let his praise wash over her and felt awfully, awfully chuffed with herself.

Setting up a club was a rather simple process, actually, despite the few conditions.

Firstly: The club had to be in accordance with something of interest to the Hogwarts faculty. It was a moot rule, to be honest, because teachers had diverse interests, meaning getting one of them to act as supervisor wasn't too difficult.

A photography club of all things existed, though Harry had never asked who its supervisor was. Probably one of the professors for something like Muggle Studies.

Harry had asked Hagrid to oblige as the detective club's organiser if it was made, because Hagrid was the most lenient of the professors and had a soft spot for Harry. And he had information too, about the lurkings of the castle, that none else had.

Secondly: The club had to meet at least once every other week, and no more than twice a week. Harry had no idea why they'd worded it like that—probably taking the stuff Granger's on all the time, Harry thought. But the rule was simple enough.

Thirdly: At least once a year, the club had to produce some kind of work and present it to either the faculty or students. Harry had asked Dean, who played in the games club, what exactly this meant.

"Could be anything, mate," Dean said. "I mean, we just play a game of gobstones with McGonagall couple times a year and that seems enough."

Harry laughed, thinking Dean was pulling his leg.

"You serious?" Harry asked.

"Dead serious. She's a hell of a player too, apparently plays in summer tournies when school's out. Frankie, our best player, can't even get close to her. And he's been trying for five years as well."

"Interesting," Harry had said. "Doesn't she ever want you to make a magazine or something like that?"

"Nah," Dean said with a shake of his head. "The rules waffle about this or that, but clubs are mainly for us lot to have fun when classes are out. They're not going to police it too much, you know."

Harry had slotted that information into the back of his mind, before getting smashed at the gobstones match he and Dean were playing whilst having the conversation. Harry took the loss about as well as he always did—now he knew why Dean was the best at it out of the Lads.

Fourthly: Participants in clubs must maintain an adequate level of academic performance, particularly above a failing grade. Anyone below wasn't allowed to enrol in a club, and would be forced to leave should they be in a club already and fail two exams in a row.

Harry, though he hated studying with a passion, thankfully received enough As and Es to get by. He had to, after all, to remain on the Gryffindor quidditch team.

Granger would be fine, of course. In fact, clubs were probably made for students like her who needed time off after revising for thirty hours a day for fifty five days a month for eighteen months a year.

Though Granger had formed the idea of starting the club whilst in the library, she'd then said they should sit on it for now, maybe till the end of the year. Perhaps by then, the castle would forget about Harry and Granger gallivanting around solving mysteries. And then they wouldn't need the front of the detective agency club thingy to explain why they hung out together.

Harry doubted the castle would forget. When it came to Harry Potter, they never did.

Still, despite holding off on the club for now, there was one thing they did have to deal with. Something rather important.

Nearly Headless Nick's actual request, the thing that had sparked the whole debacle in the first place, still hung in the air.

And before dinner on the Monday of the Christmas holiday, Harry wanted to talk to the ghost without risking another massive chaotic event occurring in the Great Hall.

So on Sunday evening, he waltzed up to the ghost at the foot of the Gryffindor table and used his special technique.

Passing a note.

Well, since Nearly Headless Nick couldn't exactly hold anything, other than maybe a dolloping of obtuseness perhaps, Harry unfolded the letter written on spelled pink parchment and held it out for the ghost to parse through.

It read as follows:

Dearest Nick,

I wish to meet you at the astronomy tower, as the night opens, at eight as the stars shine. Meet me there, at the top, for your surprise, my love of mine.

With endless and passionate love,

Your admirer with the untamed hair.

"Oh, I say," Nick had replied, eyes goggling and his neck nearly falling off. "I do wonder, Harry, just who this admirer is? As for their identity…hmmm. Untamed hair, they mentioned."

Harry, with as much subtlety as Nick had when making that announcement in the Great Hall, flicked his eyes and body towards the Ravenclaw table, and in particular Granger.

Granger looked at him and nodded to indicate she understood the plan. Harry had told her about the letter, but not what was on the letter.

So she was in for a funny surprise.

Nick got the hint, likely thinking that Hermione Granger was his secret admirer, and she'd asked Harry to set them up.

"I can't say yes to her," Nick said, shaking his head, causing it to tilt dangerously. "We're hundreds of years apart."

"Come along anyway," Harry said. "Maybe you'll find that the admirer is someone you never expected."

Nick nodded.

The plan was set.

The astronomy tower…well, towered over everything else the castle had to offer, much like its name suggested. Hermione had been here many times for classes over her first three years of Hogwarts. Though the classes were late at night, the wonder of the stars had more than made up for it.

Shining, twinkling in the sky. Beautiful and pure, sparkling with an innocence that only the night overhead could offer. Sometimes, Hermione remembered early days when saddling her grandfather's back, legs over his shoulders, and gazing up at the stars together from the garden.

But nothing could match the view from Hogwarts. After all, there was something magical about the sky here. About the scent of freshness and vitality floating through the air, about the intimateness of the little corner of the castle she and Potter had walked to at eight in the evening after dinner.

What was not magical, under any circumstances, were the words Nearly Headless Nick said to her, tipping his hat—sorry, head—in the process.

"I apologise profusely, dear Hermione, for I cannot reciprocate your passionate love."

What the actual f—

"I never said that," Hermione squeaked, face blasted with redness despite the chill of a wintery Hogwarts after dark.

She wrapped her robes tighter around herself, then flicked to Potter.

He flinched.

Exposing his guilt already.

"I never said anything about you," Potter said, holding his hands up like Hermione was the police and levelling a taser at his head.

No, Hermione was worse.

A taser held one electric spell.

Hermione held thousands.

Which one to choose was the main question.

"Let's just get on with this," Potter muttered, and turned to Nearly Headless Nick. "You asked us to solve a mystery, you know, when you exposed me and Granger to the whole castle. So go on, spill the beans, what is it?"

"Excuse me," Nick said, voice echoing as his face scrunched. "What about the passionate love you spoke of? If not Miss Granger, then of whom did you speak?"

"I'll get to that after we solve the thing," Potter said, waving away the question. "Now, the case, please. And quickly."

"Fine, as you wish," Nick said, rolling his eyes and, rather disturbingly, his head. "There exists a great myth with us ghost folks. A mythical object that has eluded us thus far, no matter how much we yearned for it."

"To the point, please," Hermione said, still annoyed at the fact that Potter had insinuated she was…was in passionate love with a ghost.

Where on earth had passionate come from? And a ghost? Really?

Hermione hadn't a clue, and honestly, didn't even want to know despite her curiosity.

"Well, the object is thus," Nick said. "The Lost Turkey of Atlantis."

Hermione's brain was like a piano that had just been hit off-key. "Atlantis?" she muttered. "You mean the lost city buried underwater?"

Potter just looked over at her, flabbergasted. Of course he didn't know about Atlantis. Sure, Potter had grown up in the muggle world, but he didn't seem well acquainted with it.

Well, at all.

"No, not that," Nick said, waving it away with his hands. "The city itself is long gone, unfortunately, though other ghosts can tell you all about it. What concerns me is an object from that city, which made it into Hogwarts three hundred years ago and has been lost since."

"A turkey?" Potter said, voice betraying a level of disbelief Hermione rarely heard from the boy. "A flippin' turkey of all things?"

Hermione concurred, though she would've altered the phrasing to sound a little less like Colin Creevey when Potter came within ten metres of his vicinity.

"We ghosts are unable to taste the wondrous delights of food," Nick said, his face falling as he floated before them. "We haunt the Great Hall hoping for a mere morsel to fill that desire, but have thus far been unsuccessful. But there exists one object, a legend for us ghosts, that doth make a ghost float through and recover his taste."

Potter leaned into Hermione. "What does doth mean?"

This bloody idiot—

"It means does," Hermione explained, before tuning back in to Nick.

"The object that man floated through is the Turkey of Atlantis. The one and only. It is here in Hogwarts, hidden for over three centuries, and I entrust thee pair of sleuths to recover it for a man truly sincere in his request."

So sincere he blasted the Great Hall open and exposed us, Hermione thought.

But no matter, the case had been delivered, and she and Potter would need to start soon to finish before the new year began, and ideally before Christmas.

Potter had one question, however, and a lingering one at that. He leaned in again, and whispered in a low tone.

"What doth thee mean?"

A/N: Thanks for reading as always! Do comment/review your thoughts, they always make me smile!

This chapter was a long time coming, but I finally got it done, and the main case has finally been conveyed. What will Harry and Hermione do? How will they solve it? Will they form a detective agency or not?

And most importantly…

Will Nick ever find his passionate love?