# With Love

Seiryuu

Rating: PG13
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 11/06/2004
Last Updated: 27/12/2008
Status: Completed

It is the year 2012. Harry Potter is now a famous actor in the Muggle world, and also lectures at Hogwarts. Hermione Granger is a doctor in both the Muggle and magical worlds. They haven’t spoken to each other since a rough breakup ten years ago. Then one day, Harry receives a note from Hermione… Can they forgive each other and rebuild their friendship (or their love)? Finally finished, 6 years after I posted the first part in the wild Internets. Sorry it took so long!

## 1. From Hermione to Harry: January 5, 2012

Title: With Love

Author: Seiryuu

Rating: PG.

Summary: It is the year 2012. Harry Potter is now a famous actor in the Muggle world, and also lectures at Hogwarts. Hermione Granger is a doctor in both the Muggle and magical worlds. They haven’t spoken to each other since a rough breakup ten years ago. Then one day, Harry receives a note from Hermione… Can they forgive each other and rebuild their friendship (or their love)?

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: I thank Vlada for helping me with this idea. Now updated to take into account Book 5 (which, luckily, doesn't take much).

Chapter 1: From Hermione to Harry: January 5, 2012

Harry Potter walked through the doors of the Hilton Hotel in Los Angeles quietly, trying to keep a low profile. It was hard for him to do so, even in the Muggle world: he had an acting career that had exploded, keeping his calendar quite full. Though he made frequent trips to Hogwarts to guest lecture on Defense Against the Dark Arts, his day-to-day work consisted with mingling and working with Muggles.

He walked quickly through the room, trying to reach the receptionist without being recognized, but luck was not with him. A trio of teenage girls who had been chatting loudly near the entrance immediately recognized the movie star and surrounded him. Harry looked at the many sheets of paper directed at him and paled. He was too nice, however, to reject any person who called him or herself a fan of his works. Smiling at the girls (though he felt quite beat inside; he was still a master at hiding his true feelings), he signed all of them and excused himself. The girls were beside themselves with joy; Harry Potter was a lot more dreamy and polite in real life than he had been in any movie.

He reached the reception desk without further incidents. The receptionist, a young lady named Linda, looked up and gave him a smile. She was used to seeing famous people in the hotel, and the fame no longer interested her. (His looks, however, were something else.) She held up his mail and said, “Hello, sir. Here’s all the mail you received today while you were out. You’ve had two phone calls, I believe. They’ve been recorded onto your voice mail.”
“Thank you, Linda,” Harry said, smiling, and took the mail. “Linda, about those girls. Are they staying for long?”

Linda checked the guests list quickly. “Considering how long you’ve stayed here, not relatively, sir. They’re staying through the week and checking out Saturday.”

Harry let out a fake moan. “It’ll be the longest four days of my life,” Harry said dramatically, holding his hand up to his head. “How ever will I survive?” Linda chuckled.

“I can call to let you know exactly when they leave the hotel, sir, so you can leave in peace. Or perhaps you’d like a more drastic measure be taken? We could forcibly throw them out, and never let them enter the hotel again. Or even better, how about calling Léon to the scene?” Linda said, smiling. It was a sight not frequently seen in the Hilton; jokes were far too easy to misconstrue, and so the workers at the hotel had been instructed to never be sarcastic with the guests.

Harry shook his head and smiled. “No, it’s all right. However tempting as it may sound, the paparazzi would eat it up. I can see the headlines now: Famous Actor Hires Hitman, Offs Three. Though I must thank you for offering, Linda.” He turned his head towards the stairs, where a group of reporters and photographers had assembled. “It’s one of those days, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” Linda replied. “If it helps ease your mind at all, sir, they’re all going to roast in hell for this.”

Harry nodded. “Call me Harry. You’re right, of course; I’ll just have to bear the pain and wait for karma to hit them. You have an excellent choice in movies, by the way. Have a lovely evening,” Harry said, and with a wave he left to force his way past the crowd.

Linda sat for a moment, dazed; a smile slowly crept onto her face. It seemed Harry Potter had charmed another into his fan club.

Harry walked as quickly as he could without running; it wouldn’t do to be seen as running scared by the papers. It was such a little detail, but it was sure to be the first thing printed by the many trash magazines that lined the checkout lines at supermarkets. It was bad enough that he was tired; it was printed his face, and Harry could see tomorrow’s newspapers, all with headlines talking about ‘Potter’s Clubbing Days in LA’. Oh well, he’d just have to bear it as well as he could.

Even before Harry met the crowd, cries of “Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!” reached him. He smiled graciously as the mob reached him, but didn’t slow down. Photographs were taken in a flurry of flashes, resembling strobe lights. Questions were thrown at him from all angles, but Harry was used to this and wouldn’t give in. Dozens of tape recorders were thrust in his face.

“Is it true, Mr. Potter, that you are having an affair with the leading lady, Mrs. Kingsley?” A woman with a fierce expression yelled. She reminded Harry of Goyle: a face of a bulldog, and probably no smarter than one.

“Are you facing charges of sexual harassment from one of your former coworkers, a Mr. Marin? Are you going to settle out of court?” asked a man wearing a very fancy dress suit. Harry wondered if that reporter would love it if Harry turned out to be gay. He seemed to carry himself in a vaguely feminine manner, and Harry noticed a trace of nail polish in the hand holding the tape recorder towards him.

“Is it true that you’re blackmailing the Prince of Wales with reports on his behavior at last year’s New Year party?”

“Do you have an illegitimate son?”

“Aren’t you a leader of a satanic cult of entertainers trying to subvert our kids through your work?”

Harry ignored them all, and finally reached the stairs. However, one loud voice cut through the other inane questions.

“Is it true,” the loud voice demanded, “that the reason you have not had any successful relationships is because you are still in love with your old sweetheart, Miss Hermione Granger?”

Harry stopped. A question had finally managed to cut through his preset defenses and had shook him to the core. He turned around slowly, facing the mob. “What did you just say?” He asked, his voice shaking slightly. The questions all stopped immediately, even though the pictures kept on clicking.

The interviewer was standing near the outer edge of the crowd, and they all moved out of the way as she stepped forward, walking towards Harry. She was dressed sharply, and held a tape recorder in her hand. In her other hand she carried a large bag, and Harry wondered for a brief moment why any modern woman would carry such a thing. Her glasses were oddly familiar, and Harry’s mouth dropped when he realized who it was standing in front of him.

“That’s right,” Rita Skeeter said nastily, “I’ve been re-instated as head writer of a newspaper. Now, will you please comment?” She didn’t hold her tape recorder any closer to him, and Harry realized that the big bag must have held her Quick-Quotes Quill. Harry froze. Of course he had faced Wizard reporters before; however, Rita Skeeter had terrorized his past with exaggerated stories of his scar, his love life, and his ‘atrocious’ friends. It had taken years for Harry to receive trust from the general Wizarding public, what with her stories on his being a Parselmouth and about the pains in his scar.

Fortune seemed to finally pity Harry Potter, and sent him a reprieve from the incidents she had sent him all day. Neville Longbottom— Harry’s old friend and agent— came down from the stairs at that moment, looking for Harry.

Although Neville still looked plump and jolly, with ridiculously small glasses perched on his nose, Harry had never seen a more welcome sight.

When Neville saw what was going on, he didn’t hesitate; he rushed down and grabbed Harry by the arms from behind. He pushed an unresisting Harry towards the stairs, while speaking in a firm tone, “Mr. Harry Potter refuses to give any comments to any of your questions at this time. If you have pressing issues you’d like to discuss with him, you are free to join both Mr. Potter and myself in three days at the Marriott. He, along with other members of his current movie, will be holding a formal press conference where your questions will be addressed—in due time. Thank you, and good night.”

With that, they left the crowd, ignoring further shouts for exclusives and scoops. Before the crowd mercifully disappeared from his eyes, he saw the cruel face of Rita Skeeter, her face twisted in her excitement at having started her revenge.

“I’m telling you, Nev, that woman hates my guts.” Harry complained as they walked up the stairs. Although Harry habited the penthouse suite of the Hilton, constituting more than eighty floors of stairs, Harry did not trust Muggle elevators enough to transport him to his room. He had once spent four hours stuck in an elevator; although it would have been quite simple usually to just Apparate out, he could not without facing serious suspicion from the Muggles (and, no doubt, the Ministry of Magic). That had been, without contest, the most boring event of his lives, and he was loath to repeat the experience. Yes, it was irrational; yes, it was silly; yes, many gossipers commented on it, but Harry refused to give in to Neville’s demands. Finally, Neville had simply given up, and followed Harry on his long treks. (Of course, he took the elevator when by himself.)

Neville let out a small burst of air, which Harry correctly interpreted as a retort. “I know as well as you do that you’ve tread on a few feet coming up,” he said slowly, taking small breaths in between his words, “I check your hate mail. I can’t remember the number of Howlers that were rejected by the firewall we set up. And I remember the stories she printed about you during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. But she was just doing her job!” He was huffing now; they had just passed the eightieth floor.

Harry reached his door first, and patiently waited for Neville before opening the door. “No,” he said emphatically and opened the door. He entered and threw his jacket on a chair carelessly. He turned to face Neville, who was closing the door behind him. “You don’t know her as well as I do, Nev. She holds my old friends and me personally accountable for her downfall in the reporting world. And—I must admit—she has reason to think that.”

Neville walked to the kitchen, looking for a drink, and left Harry brooding in the living room. Harry followed Neville, still upset, but trying to leave the whole matter aside. He started shifting through the mail.
"Bollocks. It wasn’t anything you did that buggered her. If anything’s to blame, it’s her decision to take a couple years off from reporting after the whole Tri-Wizard Tournament thing. She missed all the juicy bits, and that made her lose prestige.”

Harry winced. Neville bent down to take a carton of orange juice out of the refrigerator, and missed his reaction. He stood back up, holding a carton in his hand, and deftly poured himself a glass. Harry shook his head, and shifted through the mail he still held in his hand.

“Horrible, just horrible… why can’t I just get some bills, like every other person? Why, oh why do I have to receive these ‘interviews’ by these teen pop magazines, or whatever the hell they call themselves? It’s embarrassing enough to be famous; now I have to answer questions like ‘What was the most embarrassing moment you had in school’ and-”

“‘who was your first kiss’, and ‘what animal would you be’,” Neville cut in, mocking Harry. He finished plastering mayonnaise on the bread he had taken out, and put his sandwich together. He sat down at the dinner table, pushing some magazines off the table. Harry looked at him, amused, as Neville took a big bite out of his sandwich and a long swig of orange juice.

“Well, you’ve certainly made yourself at home in my suite,” Harry said, grinning. He stood up and threw the mail onto the table. He pulled up another chair and sat across from Neville.

“So,” he said, reaching over and grabbing a piece of Neville’s sandwich, “What new catastrophe requires my immediate attention and response?”

Neville swallowed. “Nothing big this time,” Neville answered. “Just some promotion interview dates and stuff for the movie that I wanted to clear with you. Let’s see.” He brushed the crumbs off of his hands, and grabbed the briefcase that he had placed earlier under the table. He opened it, and took out some sheets of paper.

“Okay, Newsweek wants to do a full exclusive on you for their “A day in the life of…” series they’ve been having. That’s scheduled for next Friday. People want to do an interview with you and the director and Keira—you’ll be doing that on-set and so no problems there. And for the more wizarding news, Wizarding Today wants your opinion on wizards and witches leading other lives in the Muggle world—they said they’re available any day before next Wednesday. Also, Daily Prophet will be sending Ginny to get an interview from you. I suggest you don’t avoid her this time,” Neville said, frowning, and put the papers back in the briefcase.

Harry smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “Not my fault I was off shooting in Switzerland when she came by my flat. Not my fault she tripped over my anti-thief system.”

Neville tried to look sternly at Harry, but failed. He grinned. “And it’s also not your fault, I suppose, that she was arrested by the Muggle police and held in custody for twenty four hours?”

“No, not at all.” At that, both Harry and Neville burst into hysterical laughter. When Ginny Apparated into an empty room, with Harry out of sight, her investigative tendencies had overwhelmed her. She had gone into Harry’s bedroom, looking for any evidence of long-term relationships. She had accidentally set off Harry’s alarm, which in turn sent an alarm to the police. They managed to surprise her, and they locked her in a cell before she could explain that she was a close family friend. Harry had let her sit in jail for a day before setting her free, letting her brood about what she had done. Even a year later, it was still a matter of ribbing in their circles.

After a few minutes, they managed to get their laughter in check. Harry shook his head, and wiped a tear from his eyes. He stood up. He started walking towards the living room, calling out over his shoulder, “You can just place the dishes in the sink. I’ll take care of it later.” He heard Neville snort, and start to clean up after himself.

Harry sat down at the couch facing the porch glass door. “Recito espitulas!” He said into the air. His voice mail turned on.

“Good day. You have – 3 – new messages.” A loud beep sounded, and a breathless voice filled the room.

“Harry? It’s me, Sachi. I just called to tell you that I met this really cute guy at the club today! It’s what, 4 PM over there? It’s really late here, and I should be sleeping, but it was so fun and so wild that I had to call you! His name’s Patrick—he’s a bit like you actually, Harry, polite but fun to be with—and he doesn’t mind working with Muggles neither! Oh, he’s a DJ at Wizard Top Hits 5k7 WM—and—he’s sleeping in my bed right now!” Her infectious giggling made Harry smile. “Oh, I’m such a tramp, but he was so fun to be with! And good in bed, of course. Well, call me when you get this—if it’s a respectable hour, of course. See ya!”

Harry shook his head. Sachi was a short, cheerful, pretty girl he had met when doing a scene in London. They had hit it off perfectly well, but never dated. She had been, along with Neville and some other, dependable people, part of the group he had clung to when he had broken ties with his old group.

Harry checked his Muggle watch. It was a bit too early to call decent in London, and Harry reminded himself to call her later. “Next,” he said.

The next call had been from his favorite director. “Hey, Harry,” Jackson’s gruff voice said, “I’m starting another project next month in Australia, and I was wondering if you could join in. I’ve sent the script to Neville, and he told me he’d relay it to you. I’d really love it if you helped me on this. Call me after you read it—I want you for the lead, name’s Rand. Bye.”

Harry leaned over the couch and shouted towards the kitchen, “’ey, Nev, you got a script from Peter?”

Neville shouted back over the sound of the running dishwasher, “Yeah. I brought that over too, just forgot about it for a moment. Be with you in just a sec.”

Harry smiled. He always loved working with Peter—he was a Muggle that had hired him for his first movie, and they had established a friendship that held strong, despite Harry’s having to keep secrets from him. Peter had no idea, same as half of his fans, that Harry was more than just an actor.

Harry yawned, and said “Next,” sleepily.

The next voice was unrecognizable, and Harry wondered briefly how she had gotten past his anti-stranger wards. “Mr. Potter,” her stiff, British voice said, “Mr. Ronald Weasley asks for a piece of your time, if you can fit it into your schedule. The Cannons will be in Los Angeles on February 2, and he wishes to meet you after the game. Thank you, and I’d appreciate it if you send any proclamation declaring your intent or lack thereof to see my client. Have a nice day.”

Neville came into the living room, washing his hands with a towel. “Who was that, Harry? Your new flame?” he said, smiling, and jumped on the other couch facing Harry.

“Very funny,” Harry said, frowning. Ron Weasley… he thought, another old chum I haven’t seen in so long. I wonder what’s up? He looked over at Neville, trying not to dwell on it. “So where’s the script?”

Neville groaned. “It’s in my briefcase,” he said, not budging. “Accio it, I can’t really use magic without my wand yet.”

“Accio Briefcase,” Harry said quietly, and Neville’s black leather briefcase jumped into his hand. He clicked the right combination—31184—and opened it. He shifted through Neville’s many papers, searching for a thick script. (Peter had a penchant for directing movies based on long books in a long series.)

Neville studied Harry’s face, but Harry studiously ignored him. “Not going to tell me who that was, eh, Harry?”

“Nope,” Harry grunted, and finally took out the script from Neville’s briefcase. “Ah hah! Here it is!”

“Fine, fine. Whatever,” Neville said, and turned on the TV.

Harry sighed. “I hate it when you do that. Neville, it’s Ron. He wants to see me for some reason.”

Neville turned to Harry. “If that was Ron, he’s taken some drastic changes since two weeks ago. As far as I could tell then, he was still male.”

Harry smiled half-heartedly. “Don’t be an idiot, Neville, that was his publicist, I think. I wonder why he suddenly decided he wants to talk to me again?”

Neville grew serious. “I think it would be so perfect if you and Ron got to talking again. You guys were so great at Hogwarts, and to see even a shabby version of that would be a sight for sore eyes. I know I’ve been filling in as your best friend ever since-“

Harry cut him off. “Enough of that. Neville, you’re my best friend and you’re not filling in for anyone. You’ve helped me through a lot of the worse moments in my life. I’m proud to be able to call Neville Longbottom, agent and lawyer extraordinaire, my best friend.” He grinned.

Neville’s answer was cut off by a series of sharp taps on the balcony glass door. Harry stood up from his couch and opened it, letting a beautiful Winking Owl fly into his room, a message tied to his leg. Harry knew immediately whose she was, and his breath stopped. Neville stood up and petted the owl, who had perched on the couch Harry had been sitting in.

“It’s beautiful,” Neville said, holding his breath in awe. “I’ve never seen this type of owl before. I wonder who owns it.”
Harry stepped forward on shaky legs. “She’s a Winking Owl. They’re found only in Australia and surrounding islands. Her name’s… Thalia.”

“Oh?” Something in Harry’s voice made Neville realize something important was going on. “And whose owl is she?”

“Hermione Granger,” he said passively, finally reaching Thalia. He stroked Thalia underneath her beak, eliciting a coo from her (which oddly sounded like a dog’s bark). He continued talking as he detached the note and opened it. “I gave her Thalia as an anniversary gift a couple years after graduating Hogwarts.”

Neville was silent. He knew how much Harry hated talking about the old times—especially the times following graduation.

Harry read the note with trepidation, fearing what it would say.

January 5,2012

Dear Harry, (it started,)

Hello. Okay, I admit, that sounds horribly out of line after ten long years of estrangement, but it’s the best I can offer at the moment. I debated with myself for a long time whether or not I should send this note. I really sat at the dinner table, quill in my hand, asking myself if time could possibly make the situation between us better. I’m not sure about the answer, myself, but I can’t hold this off any longer. It’s too important for us. So here I am, casually starting the letter with a “Hello”, as if we didn’t storm away from each other, never to talk again. If we are to have any semblance of a friendship in the future, might as well that I start it, right?

So there’s my hello. Here’s my ‘how have you been?’ I know you’ve been very famous in your careers so far; I’ve read a lot of articles that were about you. I have to admit, I’ve watched a lot of the BBC specials and awards nights you attended. You still look so handsome at 32. Perhaps you’ll be like Richard Gere—just getting better and better with age.

You’re wondering if I ever finished graduate school and became a doctor? Well, wonder no more, as you are talking to Hermione Granger, M.D. I work at the Royal Marsden Muggle Hospital and the illustrious London Wizarding Hospital. I work nearly every day; it’s exhausting.

How is your career going? I’ve watched all of your films, and I thought they were all marvelous. It was hard for me to see you, at first; I couldn’t see your face without having the memories crash into me harshly. I felt like weeping, laughing, and screaming at you, although you wouldn’t have been able to hear me. I hear Still the One is going to be a great movie; it’s a romance, right?

Enough trivialities. No matter how hard we try, I don’t think either of us can pretend that we haven’t had a long and tumultuous history. We’ve been through so much, suffered so much pain; yet we’ve shared some of the best moments of our lives. It’s hard for me to stay impartial when it comes to my friend Harry James Potter.

But I’m pushing it to the side. I’m letting my pride go because I need you. I don’t mean I want to date you again: far from that. I just need my best friend Harry again. I need someone to hug, someone to tell all my secrets; I need someone who’ll stand by me and encourage me, no matter how over-my-head I’ve come. I need that connection we had so long ago. Ron talks to me, but he’s always off doing his Quidditch thing.

Please? Please answer my letter. You see, I’m getting married. He’s a doctor I met at med school, when we were still together; he comforted me when we broke up. We’ve been going out for a year now; he asked me to marry him last night, and I said yes.

But I don’t think I love him, Harry. He doesn’t know me too well; he doesn’t know the fact that I am a witch, or the fact that I’m famous in that world. He doesn’t know my past; we live right now for the passion and love of just… existing.

My heart is telling me I am making a mistake, and my mind is telling me I’m making a mistake in involving you in my life again. But forget what my logic tells me. Please, I’m begging you—become my friend again, and let me confide in you.

With love,
Hermione

“Well? I don’t mean to pry, but…” Neville enquired softly.

“I don’t know what this means, Neville. Not at all,” Harry said sadly, and looked at Thalia. Thalia, the relic of their relationship. The relationship that had failed so miserably.

“It’ll be good if you two talk again. With you owling Hermione, and meeting Ron, it’ll be just like the old days.” Neville said, smiling.

“No!” His vehement response startled Neville. “No,” Harry said, more calmly, “I’m not going to answer her. It’ll be a stupid thing for me to do. That part of my life has passed. No need to dwell on it.” He nodded decisively, and got a look in his eyes that let Neville know not to pursue the subject further.

But Neville noticed Harry did not let go of Hermione’s letter. It remained in Harry’s hand, held delicately, as if he wanted nothing to sully such a precious artifact.

## 2. From Harry to Hermione: January 11, 2012

Title: With Love (2/6)

Author: Seiryuu

Author e-mail: byoon@ucsd.edu

Category: Romance

Keywords: Post-Hogwarts, Harry, Hermione, H/H, Harry/Hermione

Rating: PG-13.

Spoilers: Mild references to events in PoA, and possibly the other books

Summary: Harry sends Hermione her owl, without an answer. Why won’t he respond to Hermione? Just what is he thinking?This, unlike my earlier works, will be a multi-chapter extravaganza.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. Allusions to several popular actors and events are used without permission and are owned by none. The Wheel of Time series is owned by Robert Jordan. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: I thank Vlada for helping me with this idea. I also thank Michelle T. for her enthusiasm in reading my stories. I thank Hecuba for discussing with me how Hermione should react. Review, please.

Chapter 2- From Harry to Hermione: January 11, 2012

January 9, 2012

Hermione Granger was no fool. She knew her double life as a Muggle doctor and a witch doctor could not sustain itself for too long. Yes, there were many who successfully managed to live with that sort of life (and Harry Potter flickered through her mind, again. He was starting to annoy her, although it was only the fault of her subconscious), but she was on call nearly twenty-four hours a day. If you counted both hospital hours together, sometimes she was on call forty-eight hours a day! It was hard for her to be ready to answer to both hospitals, and although one was a specialized hospital working to find cancer, they both piled a lot of work on her.

Hermione, however, was not one to give up. It was hard for her to admit to anyone, much less herself, that anything was out of her reach. It was the principle many parents drilled into their children: “If you put your mind to it, you can do it!” Of course, the maxim was utter nonsense, but that had never stopped the over-achievers from taking on too much work, only to end up crashing and burning. Hermione refused to believe she was one of those to fall apart.

However, the evidence was against her conviction: when she was not working at the Muggle hospital (the Royal Marsden Hospital, which focused on trying to cure cancer), she was at the London Wizarding Hospital. A well-educated surgeon (who was also a very dedicated oncologist) was very much in demand in both worlds. Sometimes, her shifts for the two overlapped, and Hermione was forced to take drastic measures to fulfill the needs of her vocations.

It was hardly a surprise to her neighbors when Hermione stepped out of her car on that Saturday afternoon, looking bedraggled and tired. Still dressed in hospital scrubs, she hurried up the steps leading to her house, talking on her cell phone. She fumbled with her handbag one-handed with practiced ease, trying to find her keys without stopping to look in her bag.

“Look, Nelson, injected RDU90 has shown no signs of curing liver cancer, but it hasn’t spread so far. I don’t think it’s too big of a stretch to say that if we combine that with another type of treatment—say the Nevlon-Bott scanner—it might actually start the curing process for those damaged cells. I admit, it’s a bit unorthodox for experimental drugs, but I think it’s worth a shot.” She paused as she brought out the keys, and unlocked her door. She frowned as she opened the door.

“No! I can’t emphasize it enough! Don’t use RDU90 with other injections! That’s just a mistake waiting to happen. The response it showed when mixed with Diggle’s formula shows that it would violently reject such a mixture. The risk of that is too great. No, not really. There’s no precedent of it doing the same thing with machines.” She waited for the response. “Just… trust me, Nelson. I have a gut feeling about this thing.” She sighed, and placed her hand on her forehead. “I… I’m sorry. I’m just a bit stressed about the whole thing. We’re so close to finding it, but…”

She walked into her kitchen, placing her bag on the counter. She nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “Yes, we have reservations at the Biagio Chez Victor on Monday. It’s for 7 PM. I love you too. I’ll see you later,” and with that she hung up the phone and put it in her handbag.

She looked around her kitchen, feeling a bit aggravated at having to argue with her fiancé. She walked over to her refrigerator, and looked in it for something to eat. Of course, there were always some of her favorites in the fridge; Hermione was too meticulous to have forgotten to buy the groceries. She pulled a bottle of pumpkin juice out and took a long swig. She smiled. It was a bit risky to have the pumpkin bottles in her fridge (she sometimes entertained Muggle guests), but the hassle of having an enchanted fridge separate than the one she used was too much for her to follow the laws. It was a very minor infraction, and was a law broken by everyone.

She glanced at her Muggle wristwatch, checking the time. It was five minutes to nine; in five minutes, she would be free to go back to her bedroom and change out of the hospital scrubs she had been wearing for thirteen hours. She picked up the remote control, left on the kitchen counter for exactly this type of situation, and walked into her living room.

She flipped on her television, which had been modified to receive the Wizard stations as well as the Muggle stations. (Of course, it was not modified to run on magic instead of electricity like a proper wizard television; that would have drawn questions from many of her guests.) All television stations are the same, Muggle or Wizard, Hermione mused. They all show stupid commercials. She paused in her surfing to watch one that showed a dancing peanut. She checked the station- it was an American Muggle station- and sat down on her couch to watch.

The dancing peanut turned into a dancing frog, and the dancing frog turned into a dancing dog. A slogan, garishly decorated in neon green and yellow, flashed, “They all jump for ice cream” on the top of the screen. A deep voice came from the screen. “These are all satisfied consumers of the Amazing Scamand Ice Cream!” The words changed to fit the name. The voice continued, “Are you willing to try it?”

Thankfully, the screen faded into black, and the scheduled show began to run once more. Hermione shook her head; it was another of those “Hollywood” shows, and she had no time to indulge in gossip. She raised her remote to change the channel, when something the announcer said made her pause.

“And today, on Access Hollywood, we have a special that many of our fans will enjoy. We have exclusive footage of the filming of the new romantic comedy, Still the One, and interviews with Harry Potter and Leslie Kingsley, the stars of the movie. This is an Access Hollywood exclusive; no other show has been allowed on the set!”

The scene changed from the broadcaster to an outdoors movie set; people walked by the camera, awkwardly holding big pieces of equipment. A male voice gave a voice-over as the camera moved forward, looking at extras laughing and the director sitting in his chair.

“I think that Still The One is the best work I have ever directed. Harry Potter and Leslie Kingsley have a chemistry that is just glowing, and they are both pleasures to work with. They follow orders well, and rarely have any problems with any of the actors.” The director, Hermione thought. Who the hell is he? She didn’t recognize his face, or his name. It was odd that such a high-profile movie was given to an unknown.

The screen changed to an interview room, with the director and the interviewer facing each other. The interviewer asked the same question that Hermione had had.

“How do you feel about such a high-profile project given to you? This is only your second work; your first one, while critically acclaimed, was not a blockbuster. Do you feel that the studio is taking an unnecessary risk with you at its helm?”
The director showed no indication of having heard his insult. “No, not at all, Pat. Though It Was Written did not set any records, people still enjoyed watching it. Many people say that it was the type of thriller that has not been seen in many years. In fact, many say it’s filled a hole Hollywood has had for over fifty years.”

The scene changed to a montage of Harry and Leslie acting and talking together. It finally ended at a scene where Harry and Leslie were laughing together at some mistake someone else had made. They made jests, gesturing wildly with hands and arms to emphasize what they said.

Even now, just seeing a picture of Harry made a surge of emotion go through Hermione’s body. She felt happy that Harry was happy; she felt angry at what had happened, so long ago; she felt anxious that he would not answer her letter, in which she had so foolishly let her heart bare to him; she felt jealous that Leslie Kingsley might have taken what had been Hermione’s place in his heart.

The scene changed once again to Harry and Leslie sitting together in front of Pat O’Brien. Harry spoke first, and Hermione smiled. Today, ten years since Hermione had seen him in real life, he sounded exactly the same as her memories.

“It’s been amazing, working on this movie. Leslie’s just, an amazing sweetheart.” Hermione felt another twinge in her heart as Harry turned to his costar and smiled. Leslie laughed back, and added,

“And Harry’s also a great, great guy. I might have made a move to him, if I weren’t so madly in love with David.”

Pat O’Brien leaned forward. “So you admit there’s some truth to the rumor that sparks have flown between you two on-set?”

Harry laughed out loud, and threw his hands up in a resigned manner. Leslie smiled, and said, “I would be lying if I said that I felt nothingtowards him in the two months that we’ve been working together. Harry’s an amazing guy; I think he’s the type of guy who has fans of all ages following his every move. I was shocked, and I still am shocked, that he doesn’t have a steady girlfriend.”

Pat smiled, and turned towards Harry, smiling conspiratorially. “Speaking of such, I heard of an incident that occurred just this Tuesday at the hotel you are residing in currently. I believe a reporter asked you,” and he glanced at a piece of paper in his lap, “‘Is it true that you’re still in love with your old sweetheart from college?’”

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock. The camera switched to a close-up of Harry’s face, and the shock in his face, as was the grimace that passed through his expression were captured on the screen. He glanced at his sides, uncomfortable, and muttered softly (though it was caught easily by the camera), “Well, that came out quickly enough.”

He shifted in his seat, looking behind him, then straight at the camera. He spoke clearly, into the camera, as if directing the words straight at Hermione, sitting a thousand miles from where he was currently.

“Pat, I can’t deny that my old sweetheart was an amazing woman to be with. She made my world, and made it one very easy to live in. I cherish all the memories I shared with her, and I must admit that I’ve never fully recovered from our break-up. But-” and Harry shifted his gaze from the camera, and stared at the off-screen Pat. “But, we haven’t spoken in over ten years. It’s hard to love someone you haven’t seen in so long.”

Leslie laughed, and the camera switched to her. She smiled at Harry as he turned to look at her. “Don’t believe a word of what he tells you, Pat. Harry’s just too shy to admit he still has a picture of that girl in his bedroom.”

Hermione was shocked, the second time in the same minute. He still has a picture…? Her thoughts shifted to the promise they had made to each other on the graduation day from Hogwarts.

“Harry! Sit still for a minute and let Ron take a picture of us!” Hermione said, laughing, as Harry kissed her on her nose. He took her in his arms, stepping behind her, and kissed her cheek as Ron took the picture.

“Thanks, Ron,” she said, stepping out of Harry’s grasp. She took the camera from Ron’s hands, and turned to face her boyfriend once more. “Well,” Hermione said, lifting an eyebrow at him, “That’s another picture for the archives.”

“No,” Harry murmured, and hugged Hermione once more. He whispered softly in her ear, “I’ll always keep that picture in a special place of my heart.”

Hermione returned to the present to see Harry blushing furiously; his whole face, from his forehead to his cheeks, was reddening with an intensity as to match Ron’s hair color. “I-it’s a graduation picture! We’re both in it!”

“In a rather compromising position,” Leslie added, smirking. Harry groaned.

“I knew you were going to say that, Kei! Jeez!” He mock-pushed her to the side, and she slapped him on his arm. Pat laughed.

“Well, thank you both for agreeing to do this interview. Leslie, you’re going back to your house in London after the film is finished, right?” She nodded. “And Harry, you’re going directly to the set of your new movie by Peter Jackson, no?”
Harry nodded. He was still a bit red, but he looked as if he had gained control of his emotions. “Might as well do some blatant promotion while I have the TV space. It’s called The Wheel of Time: The Eye of the World, and the first of an eleven-part series. It was originally a book series, and I believe Peter’s planning to make all eleven, and the first one’s set to come out maybe in 2013 or 2014. I’m glad to be working with Peter again; he’s a very close friend of mine.”

With that, the show switched to the credits, as Pat O’Brien talked of what was to come the next day.

Hermione switched off the television, still a bit shocked that she had been mentioned. I wonder if he meant what he said in that interview, she wondered. His words reverberated in her mind.

“It’s hard to love someone you haven’t seen in so long.”

She hadn’t lied when she had written her letter to him; she didn’t want Harry as her boyfriend. She had strong feelings toward her fiancé, Nelson Spencer. However, a vague feeling of disappointment ran through her mind whenever she contemplated his words. The feeling was inexplicable, but it proved impossible to dismiss.

She went up her stairs to her bedroom, still thinking of those few words that had garnered such a strong reaction from her mind. Checking her watch once more absent-mindedly – 9:01 – she opened the bedroom door and went straight to her closet. Unbuttoning her shirt, Hermione faced the closet, looking for the shirt she slept in. She was so unsettled by Harry’s interview that she almost missed Thalia, her owl, tapping on the bedroom window.

She noticed eventually, and she turned quickly. “Thalia!” She said excitedly, and nearly fell over on her bed in her excitement to reach the window. She cursed briefly as she stumbled, but she reached the window and flung it open.

Thalia flew directly to the top of the closet, where a perch waited her. She perched quickly on it, and stopped moving almost immediately.

That’s okay, Hermione thought, Thalia’s tired from the journey. For heaven’s sake, she’s crossed the Atlantic twice! But Hermione had waited four days for Harry’s response, and she was hardly in a mood to wait for his answer. She reached up to Thalia on her tiptoes.

“Thalia, honey, give me the response Harry gave you. Please? I’ll give you your favorite treat in a minute, just please give me his letter.”

Thalia raised her left leg in response, and Hermione’s heart gave a jump as she looked at it. No note was attached, and Harry’s response was evident.

He doesn’t want to speak to me again, Hermione thought, stunned. After what he said to that interviewer on that show, he still doesn’t want to talk to me. She stumbled back, and sat down on her bed dazed.

At first, she felt nothing but unmitigated grief and a sense of loss. Of course, she had not spoken to Harry in such a long time that such a response was expected; but even after their break-up, she had known that their friendship was too strong to be broken so easily.

Look where that thought led you, Hermione thought bitterly. I let out my heart to Harry, and he just decides to ignore me. Well, forget him. I can live without him in my life.

She frowned at the reflection the mirror on the closet door gave her. “I can do it!” Hermione shouted at herself. “Damn you! Just… damn you and your bloody self-righteousness! I can live my life without you! I can do just fine, damn you!”

She rose quickly, and half-ran to her bathroom. Soon, the sound of the water falling from the showerhead drowned out the sound of her sobs.

January 11, 2012

It was fortunate that she had received Harry’s response on a weekend. Had she gone to her work in her state, it would have been a disaster. She was hardly herself throughout the two days; she tried to pretend everything was all right, but everything was a bit skewed. She answered phone calls as usual, but she was unable to remember what she had told Nelson to do with the experimental serums the night before. Her friend had called; ten minutes later, she had forgotten what her friend had said, to say nothing of what she had said. She tried to read the medical journal related to liver cancer, but after three hours, she had only read the words “It is evident” over and over again.

But by Monday, she was able to go to work. She went with relish, trying to prove to Harry in her mind that she was able to continue with her work. Her co-workers noticed that something was wrong, and tried to keep the workload out of her desk. Hermione didn’t even notice.

She left work early that day, going home to get ready for her dinner with Nelson, her fiancé. She parked her car inside her garage, and stepped out to her mailbox quickly. She had to get into an evening gown picked out a week in advance, and she was in anxious to show him how she looked.

She grabbed the mail she had gotten, and walked towards her front door in a hurry. She glanced at the letters briefly. Publishing Clearing’s House. You Might Have Won Twenty Thousand Pounds. You Are Already Cleared For Your Own Credit Card. She nearly threw the whole stack away in disgust, and would have, had it not been for Elvis.

The last letter in the stack had an Elvis for a stamp; he was moving and thrusting his hips at her, with that famous grin on his face. She could hear his voice, softly crooning the words to his song, “Can’t Help Falling In Love With You”.

Magical mail- I wonder why they didn’t just owl? Hermione thought idly, looking at the writing on the middle of the envelope. It was written in an odd sort of handwriting, as if the writer had tried very hard to control his messy handwriting (and had barely succeeded). She was able to make out:

Hermione Granger
Just Outside the Front Door
56 Elm Park Road
Greater London, UK

Someone who had wanted very much for the letter to get into her hands had written it, no doubt. In the second line, Hermione recognized a very complicated spell that tracked her current position all the time, and made the letter follow her no matter where she went. The letter had no return address on it; the stamp on it showed that it had been sent on that same day.

Giving in to her curiosity, despite running a bit late, Hermione opened the letter where she stood. She let the envelope drop to the floor, and opened the cream-colored paper in her hands. The handwriting on the letter itself was much more familiar to her eyes; it was Harry’s.

What the hell is this? She wondered angrily, but she read on.

January 11, 2012
Dear Hermione,

Yes, this is Harry James Potter. I know you were probably angry that I didn’t send a letter by Thalia to you—(“Hmph!” Hermione said out loud, “probably?”)—but you must understand what I had been feeling at the time. You had ignored me for ten years. We left each other on less-than-polite terms. I felt so angry towards you in the first years, and that sort of buffer is hard to get over. I let Thalia go back to you without a response after I gave her some treats and a well-deserved rest in my suite.

But I was able to think a bit more clearly about our situation after I had done so. ‘What was I doing?’ I asked myself only an hour after I let Thalia go. ‘Hermione wants to make amends and you say no?’ It tortured me through the day, and I was hardly able to work. I did an interview later that day, too, and I don’t think I carried myself very well. He asked about you; I was so surprised I nearly fell off the chair.

I can’t believe it took me this long to realize that I was being an ignorant arse- will you forgive me for this slight lapse in being a gentleman? I was off, furiously writing this letter to you, immediately after I remembered the good times we had together. And we damn well had some good times together, no? Just remember Washington D.C., right? (Hermione blushed. Washington D.C. was seared into her mind.)

No matter. I really hope you’ve read this far; your temper can get quite fierce when it is aroused, and I’m sure I did. Because here’s the big crazy revelation: I can’t live my life without you.

Sure, I might seem like I’m doing all right when you look at my career. I’ll not flatter myself into thinking that you search the magazines to read articles about me or to see the pictures of me at public outings. I look perfectly normal, right? Wrong. Truth is, I’ve been searching for something to anchor myself to reality ever since I was exiled from Eden. I’ve been working so hard, moving from set to set, to try to avoid thinking about the emptiness in the bed next to me every night.

I’m not so sure I succeeded, because you’re still on my mind all the time. I’ll be doing something mundane, like cooking breakfast, and I’ll think ‘Hermione would have loved this’, or ‘Wouldn’t she be chewing me out right now!’ You’ve spent ten years without talking to Harry Potter; I’ve been talking to Hermione Granger every day.

You say that you don’t want to date. Fair enough. I love you so much, but I’m not so greedy as to dump the gift of our friendship back because I have some strange notions of trying to have the whole cake. You’ll never hear a peep out of me. I’ll be the perfect vision of the Harry you knew the first six years attending Hogwarts—I’ll be the loyal friend you used to have.

You tell me that you’re engaged to a Muggle that doesn’t have any clue what you really are. Can you deal with that? The fact that you’re a witch is more than half of what you are. You are Hermione Granger only because of the experiences you had, being a witch. I mean, can you picture a Hermione that didn’t know that nobody could Apparate into or out of Hogwarts?

My advice? Tell him immediately. Throw this letter to the table and pick up the telephone and tell him now! Because unless you tell him, everything you tell him is a lie. That’s something a man can hardly stand. I’m sure you know what I mean through experiences neither of us is eager to recollect. I don’t know if he’ll take it well; he might explode and turn away from you. But that’s a risk you have to take. If you ask me, he’d be a fool to do so, but some Muggles are too set in their ways to accept any major changes. Your fiancé might be one of them.

I really hope you reply to this, Herms, and I hope you take my advice to heart. Know that I will always remain your devoted friend and confidant, no matter where else life takes us.

With love,
Harry Potter

Hermione leaned against her front porch. Even though he had not seen her in ten years, Harry had captured exactly the problem that she had with so few words. He still knew her enough to figure out so quickly the problems she had. He was, to quote him, ‘the perfect vision of the Harry she knew the first six years attending Hogwarts’. It was something Hermione could rely on and use as support in this fluctuating world.

A deep voice came from behind her, and she jumped. “Hermione, what’s wrong? Why are you still standing in front of your door? You went home nearly an hour ago!”

She relaxed a bit and turned to face her fiancé. Nelson Spencer was a tall, handsome man with slightly graying hair. He was kind and treated Hermione with the utmost respect. He never did anything to hurt her, intentionally or otherwise, and he even made love slowly, respectfully. Sometimes a bit too slowly, she thought ruefully, before she chased those thoughts out of her head. It was a serious moment for her, and it wouldn’t do to ruin it with improper thoughts.

She looked at Nelson with an appreciative gaze. He was sharply dressed in a tuxedo, and had a bouquet of white roses in his hand. He saw she noticed the flowers, and he thrust them at her, smiling. “For you,” he murmured, and stepped forward to give her a kiss.

Hermione stopped him with a gesture. “I’m sorry that I’m not ready yet,” she said sadly. “I think my plans for the evening have changed significantly.”

Nelson frowned. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did the hospital called you for an urgent case? When I left, there didn’t seem to be any problems.”

She shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Will you please come inside?” She unlocked her door and pushed it open for Nelson. He walked past her as she gathered the envelope and the junk mail scattered on the floor.

She followed Nelson to her kitchen, where he was sitting on a chair calmly. He had placed the flowers on the kitchen counter, and was staring at her questioningly. That was one of the reasons why she had loved him; nothing fazed him. She stood leaning on the counter, facing him.

He broke the silence first. “Well, Hermione?” He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.

She hadn’t been this nervous since the day that Harry asked her out for the first time… Don’t think of him, idiot! She berated herself. Think of the here and the now! Don’t be nervous! Despite her convictions, she stuttered a bit when starting to talk.

“N-n-Nelson, we’ve been together for a long time now, right?” He smiled.

"Six months today,” he answered. Hermione nodded.

“Right. I have to tell you, I’ve fallen in love with you since then and have cherished every single moment we spend together. You bring me joy and I feel happy when we’re together. But there’s something about me that you need to know desperately, something that’s been gnawing at me for the last six months.”
He waited attentively. She stared at his face for a moment, twisting her hands, before continuing.

“Nelson, I am a witch.”

That drew no reaction. Hermione frowned and continued. “I’ve known I was a witch since I was eleven. I went to Hogwarts, a magical school in Scotland that all magical children attend. In addition to my work at Royal Marsden, I also work at the London Wizarding Hospital.”

He sat there silently. Why can’t he say something? She wondered, a bit annoyed. This is important!

He finally spoke. “You have time to work at both hospitals? How is that so? I’m assuming the magical hospital keeps the same types of hours that we do.” There was no inflection in his voice.

Hermione frowned, thrown off track. “Err… I manage,” she said. She walked forward towards Nelson. She looked into his eyes, trying to read what he was thinking. “Honey? Don’t you have anything to say?” She said.

He was still rational. “Can you show me a spell you can cast, right now?”

Hermione nodded, and pulled out a wand from her purse (Nelson drew a sharp breath, but didn’t say anything). She said clearly, “Accio Pumpkin Juice!” The refrigerator flung open, and a bottle of pumpkin juice flew into her had. She handed it to Nelson, still gazing at him concerned. “It’s a wizard drink. It tastes really good; try it! I mean, it’s not really enchanted or anything, but it’s just a drink that all wizards and witches drink. There’s nothing in it that can be considered odd; well, except the Pumpkin juice part of it…”

You’re babbling, she told herself forcibly, trying to make herself calm down. Why isn’t he saying something? Why isn’t he saying anything? Please, just say something! Despite her best attempts to understand his position, she was starting to panic.

“Nelson?” She asked softly. He was still in the same position in the chair, alternately staring at her face and at the bottle of pumpkin juice in his hand. He said nothing, his expression still stoic. Hermione jumped when he finally spoke.

“I want to meet some of these… people. I want to see how they’re like.”

These people. Those words reverberated around in Hermione’s mind. Not wizards or witches. These… people, as if we were freaks. Trying to not let her fears get the best of her, she tried to think rationally.

Where can I bring him that isn’t too magical, to scare him? I need to show him warm people, to show him that we’re just like Muggles. A place with care... love… Any public place is out. No Diagon Alley. No Cannons versus Hornets. The hospital where I work? No, too much mayhem to properly show him the care we have for each other, and anyway some of the illnesses might scare him. I need a family setting… oh!

Hermione tried to smile at him reassuringly. “We can go to the Burrow and meet my very close friends, the Weasleys!”

“And how will we get there?” Nelson’s calmly stated question stopped her. She quickly went through all the possible ways, and the only possible way was by Floo Powder, but that was so disorienting to anyone on his first try. No other choice, she told herself firmly. She reached for her can of Floo Powder and started to lead Nelson to the fireplace. She explained as they walked along.

“Umm… we have a type of powder, that we throw into a fire and we say the area we want to go to. We’re going to go to ‘the Burrow’, so you have to throw this powder into the fireplace and say “The Burrow” as clearly as you can, okay?” He nodded, as if it was a routine thing for him to walk into a fireplace.

“Ready?” Hermione’s voice trembled a bit, but she berated herself for letting it do so. She smiled uncertainly at Nelson. “I’ll set it up, so you can go through. I’ll follow you through. Just don’t be scared, and remember to say it clearly.”

She stepped forward, and pointed her wand at the dormant fireplace. “Incendio!” It lit instantly, as if it had been burning for hours beforehand. She gave a quick, reassuring glance at Nelson, standing behind her. “It’s a bit disorienting, so watch out.” She turned back, throwing the Floo Powder at the fireplace. The fire grew even larger, and turned an emerald green.

Nelson stepped forward past Hermione. He paused for a moment, staring at the magical fire; then, as if he had pulled together his resolve, he stepped in, letting the fires surround him. Hermione heard his voice, calm and as cold as a cucumber, say, “The Borrow!” loudly and clearly.

The green fire roared up for an instant, growing even brighter than before; then it decreased, losing its green gleam and becoming a normal fire. Hermione stared at it for a moment, wondering What have I done?

After a moment, she pulled herself together and Apparated to the Burrow. She only hoped that Ginny and Molly were home, and in a hospitable mood.

When Hermione appeared on the bottom of the stairs in the Burrow, Molly was already standing in front of Nelson in the living room, talking and smiling. He was talking back, though not smiling. Hermione drew a deep breath, and stepped forward trying to place a smile on her face.

A hand grabbed her shoulder, however, and stopped her. Hermione was turned around, and she stared into the face of Ginny Weasley, her close friend. She had been a year behind Hermione when attending Hogwarts, but she had become her closest female friend through the years. Tall, pretty, skinny, gifted with bright intelligent eyes and long flaming hair, Ginny was the epitome of the Western version of the word ‘beautiful’. Right then, she had a perplexed expression on her face.

“Hermione?” She asked, smiling uncertainly. “I thought you weren’t coming until Saturday. And isn’t that your—” She stopped. Understanding showed in her eyes. “It’s your Muggle fiancé?”
“Yes,” Hermione said quietly. Ginny nodded, and opened her mouth to speak.

Hermione never got to hear what Ginny had to say. Molly, having heard voices in the other room, came towards them, leading Nelson by the hand.

“Hermione? Are you there?” Molly called out, smiling. Hermione stepped forward, Ginny only a step behind. Hermione smiled at Molly.

“Hello, Mrs. Weasley.” Molly frowned, and shook a finger at Hermione.

“Hermione! You’re 32 years old. You have a right to call me Molly.”

Hermione smiled again, and walked closer to Molly. They hugged, and Molly patted her back as if she knew what turmoil Hermione was going through at the moment.

They separated, and Hermione nodded to Nelson, not knowing what to do. She held her hands together, and bobbed once, pushing herself up with her toes and relaxing.
“Umm,” Hermione said, and she gestured to Ginny. “This is one of my best friends, Virginia Weasley. She goes by Ginny, and she works at a newspaper as a journalist. Ginny, this is Nelson, my fiancé. He’s a Muggle, but I’m showing him to the magical world. And I’m sure you’ve already met Molly. They’re like a second family to me, and I hope you like them too.”

Nelson stepped forward and shook Ginny’s hand, not quite enough to be friendly, but enough to be considered polite. “Hello,” he said coolly, and Ginny returned the greeting, just as coldly. Hermione saw immediately that they didn’t like each other.

They stood silently for a moment, waiting for someone else to start talking. When no one did, Molly starting walking towards the kitchen. “Come!” She called over her shoulder. “I’ll bake some cookies, and we can sit around and talk!” Molly took out her wand to bring the ingredients out onto the counter.

“No!” Nelson said loudly. Everyone stopped and looked at him. “No,” he continued in a calmer voice. “I’m not going to spend any more time in this house. Hermione, take me back to my house and leave me be. I don’t want to speak to you ever again.”

Hermione couldn’t talk for a moment, and only stared at Nelson’s eyes, agape. Nelson spoke again without waiting for her to answer. His voice was eerily calm, and that fact drilled his words into Hermione’s mind even more.

“How could you keep this sort of secret from me? I spent so much time with you, and I thought you were just a very nice girl. But you’re some sort of… disillusioned, devil-worshiping freak? I don’t know how you did those tricks you showed me, but you must have sold your soul to the devil to do it! You don’t have proper clocks, and you deal with witchcraft! Your friends, as you call them, wear clothes that aren’t normal—are they necessary in your demonic ceremonie-”

A bright flash of light interrupted him, and Nelson stopped talking immediately. His eyes glazed, and his mouth remained open.

Arthur Weasley stepped forward from behind Hermione, where he had just Apparated in from his work. He patted Hermione on the shoulder, who had tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” Arthur said, his voice deep with regret. “Some Muggles just don’t understand the type of people we are. They can’t cope with the fact that there’s been magic all along.”

Hermione nodded, not really hearing the words. She looked down at her fingers, and the only ornament she had worn on them. The engagement ring.

It had a gold band, and a huge diamond set with small crystals lining it. Hermione had gasped when she had first seen it, and it had unbalanced her hand the first few days that she had worn it. But since the fourth, when he had proposed, she hadn’t taken it off. Until now.

She stepped forward on unsteady legs, supported by Ginny. She stood on her tip-toes for a moment, placing her engagement ring in his coat pocket. “Goodbye,” she whispered to him, and with tears falling down her cheeks, she kissed his cheek for the last time. She fell back, unable to support herself anymore. Ginny caught her as she fell, and helped her to the couch, hugging her and whispering reassuring things to her. Hermione lost it, crying fully, unable to keep herself together any longer.

Arthur tapped his wand on Nelson’s forehead and whispered a few words, and a Memory Charm was set in Nelson’s mind. He stepped towards Molly. “He’ll only remember that he went to Hermione’s house and broke up with her,” he said softly. “He won’t remember any of the—the other stuff.” He paused uncertainly. “You—you’ll take care of Hermione?”

Molly gave her husband a stern look. “We’ll take it from here, you take care of the fool over there.” She gestured to Nelson, who still stood dazed in front of the stairs. She frowned. “Ginny and I’ll make sure Hermione’s okay. Women business, you understand.”

Arthur gave a small smile. “There’s the woman I love. Make sure Hermione’s really okay? She’s like another daughter to me.”

Molly gave him an ‘Are-you-daft’ look. “Like I said, we’ll take care of it. Now, go fix the Muggle!” She hurried to the refrigerator, taking out milk and starting to make cookies.

Arthur smiled at the sight of his motherly wife, who was taking care of someone who was like a daughter to him; he turned then, said “Right,” softly to himself, and took Nelson by the shoulder. He led him outside towards his enchanted car, ready to drive Nelson to London.

He met Ron, his son, on the front porch. He had a wide grin on his face, and his hair was as tousled as Harry’s usually was. “Dad! We won tonight, and man was it an exciting game!” His grin faded at Arthur’s look.
“Not now,” he said, gesturing at Nelson (who was still walking comatose). “And don’t go to the living room. I don’t want you to disturb Hermione, is that understood?”
Ron flushed. “I’m not fourteen anymore, Arthur, no need to admonish me like one.” His expression changed as Arthur’s words hit in. “Hermione’s in there? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Arthur ignored him and walked to the car, still leading Nelson by a firm grip on his shoulder. Ron stood flabbergasted just outside the front door, and stared as his father drove away.

Hermione was unaware of her surroundings. Only the reality of what had just happened stayed with her, and she cried as hard as she could; Nelson had been like an anchor to her, helping her survive her horrendous work-hours. She was only vaguely aware of Ginny’s soothing words and the plate of cookies and milk that was placed in front of her.

When she came to her senses once more, she was lying down on a bed that she recognized as being one of the Weasleys’ guest rooms. Ginny still sat by her side, stroking her hair slowly.

“What time is it?” She asked softly. Ginny answered in the same tone.

“It’s eleven, Herms.” She struggled to smile at the nickname Ginny had just called her.

“Herms,” she repeated, trying to keep a smile on her face. “The only other person to call me that was Harry, and he’s…” Her eyes blurred with tears once again, and Ginny was up, holding Hermione in her arms.

“Don’t worry, everything will turn out fine,” Ginny whispered, rocking her back and forth. “It’ll all turn out okay. You’ll begin to talk to Harry again, and your friendship will be back again, as strong as it was before. I’m sure he’ll be here the minute he finds out. He misses you like crazy, you know.”

Hermione stopped sniffling gradually. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and softly said “Thanks, Ginny.”

Ginny held her at arms length for a moment, to look into her eyes. Ginny’s eyes were strong, and without any pity. “Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?” She hugged Hermione again. She remained for most of the night, but when she left Hermione lay on her bed, those words haunting her.

Hey, that’s what friends are for, right? Yes, she told herself. Friends are supposed to be there for you through the rough times.

But where’s Harry now? Will he be here to help me now? Should I tell him how my engagement fell through? What can I really say to him?

That made her thoughts go to Nelson again, and she started crying inaudibly once again. She didn’t fall asleep for a long time.

## 3. From Hermione to Harry: January 23, 2012

Title: With Love (3/?)

Author: Seiryuu

Summary: Harry is worried that Hermione will not answer his late reply, and he wonders if he finally has pushed things too far. Ginny finds him for the interview, and accidentally lets slip about Hermione’s emotional break-up…

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The Wheel of Time series is owned by Robert Jordan and Tor Fantasy Books. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: I thank Vlada for helping me with this idea. I thank Leslie Ang for giving me feedback (yes, I will make this a happy story, okay?). Roger (Hecuba, Dumbledore, whatever your moniker is), thanks for being a great sounding board and friend to me.

Always feel free to approach me on AIM (SN: Akodo Brian) or MSN (seiryuu_avatar@msn.com). I’d love to chat with you, and answer any questions you might have about the series (or anything else).

Chapter 3- From Hermione to Harry: January 23, 2012

Monday: January 18, 2012

The hustle and bustle of the set went ignored by the star of the movie, Harry Potter. He sat in his chair, waiting for the moment when Jon Swift would call him in the spotlight once more. Only a week remained before filming for Still the One ended, and Harry would be leaving for the set of his newest project promptly after that. Of course, he would wait until after he met Ron (as he had scheduled), but after that he would go straight to Australia. Which was as far away from Hermione as he could get—whether that was good news or bad, he hadn’t decided yet.

He still wasn’t sure why he had written what he had written to Hermione. It was not in his nature to open his heart so vulnerably; she had emphatically told him that romance between them was impossible, yet he still told her he loved her? He shook his head slightly. You’re just a fool, Harry told himself. But there was a small voice inside of his head that kept insisting that he had done exactly the right thing, being perfectly frank with Hermione; it would have hurt their tentative steps toward each other if he had not been so.

Of course, Harry thought wryly, telling an engaged person you love her is hardly the right thing to do. You’ll be lucky if she sends you a note saying, “I was wrong. I don’t want to see you again. Goodbye.”

He forced his mind away from Hermione, trying to concentrate on the script. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the words that were printed on the paper.

RAND: [shouts] No! You will not kill her!

[RAND runs forward towards AGINOR and BALTHAMEL and MOIRAINE screaming loudly, hysterically. The camera focuses on his face; the sound of battle, the sound of the Forsaken laughing slows down. We see RAND’S flushed face, and we see a flash of gold pass through his eyes. He has grabbed saidin, the magical force. The camera shifts back to the overhead view. RAND is surrounded by golden light as he stands in front of the Forsaken; they turn to him, surprised. MOIRAINE falls to the floor, exhausted.]

RAND: [breathing hard] You… will… not… harm… ANY of my friends!

[He raises his hand, and the camera shifts to face him. His hands suddenly are surrounded by fire.]

Harry closed the script abruptly. The similarities between the main character, Rand al’Thor, and him were a bit too many to be comfortable. Both had inherited a legacy that neither had known; both had two close friends that followed him through all his crazy adventures. And he had been told Rand also lost his childhood sweetheart, with her marrying into a position that almost put her at odds with him…

Harry winced. Also, he thought ruefully, Rand doesn’t seem to have any problems with throwing himself directly at the main bad guy. Though I can’t say that’s a good trait, really. It’s gotten me more trouble than it’s worth.

“Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!” A young voice shouted at him from far away, and he looked in that direction, eager to keep away from darker thoughts. A young intern ran towards him in a huff, more than happy to carry instructions from the director. He paused in front of Harry for a moment, trying to talk through his heavy breathing.

“Mr… Mr. Swift says that Set … 4A… is ready to start… filming, Mr. Potter. Everyone’s… there, so they’re just waiting for you, sir.”

Harry smiled at him appreciatively. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll be there in a minute.” The intern nodded, and ran off towards another part of the studio.

Harry looked at the boy wistfully; at least he was doing a job that was his dream job. For Harry, being a Muggle actor had not even registered his ideas when he was young. Before he had learned of his wizard heritage, he had wanted to be a policeman or fireman; afterwards, the only thing he had really wanted to do was survive Voldemort’s numerous attacks.

He shook his head, berating himself for his foolish thoughts. Don’t dilly-dally; he said that everyone was waiting for you, so what are you doing standing around? He didn’t run, exactly, but he quickly made his way to Set 4A, the ‘interior of the house’ set.

When Harry arrived, he knew that the intern had been telling the truth; everyone was standing around waiting for him to come to the stage. Jon Swift, the director, walked towards him frowning.

“Harry,” he said, even before he reached Harry, “we’ve been waiting for a good fifteen minutes. Did that boy not get to you? I sent him out a long time ago. You know that we’re set up to do the first argument scene again, right? When the editors looked over the footage, they figure we need to film it in another angle or two.”

“No, no, he reached me quickly enough,” Harry said quickly, waving his hands. The last thing he wanted was to make someone lose his dream job. Even if the boy hadn’t reached Harry as quickly as he could have. “I got it. First argument—are we starting with Leslie’s line?”

Leslie Kingsley, who had been standing in her cued spot, shook her head. “No, we’re starting where I pace. You come into the scene in about ten seconds. Easy enough, right? Still remember those lines?” she offered. Harry smiled at her.

“Of course! All right then, let’s get cracking.” He walked up quickly, and went out of the ‘living room’, standing outside the fake door. The rest of the crew set up as well, focusing their lights and setting up the cameras. It was only a minute after when Jon Swift gestured to a man holding the cue.

“Scene 25, Take 1. Action!” He shouted, and the scene began.

In the beginning of the scene, Leslie paced the living room, holding a hand up to her mouth in anger. When the ‘doorbell’ rang, a noise set up by the prop master of the set, she ran towards the door and flung it open. Beyond it, Harry stood, wearing a somber expression.

“Sarah, we have to talk.” He said quietly, not moving an inch. Leslie frowned at him, the frown perfectly captured by the camera angled behind Harry’s shoulder.

“I agree, you bastard!” Leslie shrieked, and grabbed Harry by the shoulder and yanked him inside her house. She slammed the door closed behind him, and the camera behind Harry stopped rolling, having taken a beautiful shot of the door slamming closed on it.

Inside the room, Leslie stood directly in front of Harry, getting in his face (even though she was a good three inches shorter than him). She poked him hard in the chest with her index finger, and Harry stepped back a bit, a frown on his face appearing to match the one on hers.

“Who the hell is Elayne, huh? What the hell is her relation to you? Why has she been leaving messages for you at three A.M.?!” She started without preamble, without bothering to lower her voice. Her arms flailed wildly, gesturing her surprise at him.

“Why won’t you just give me your trust, huh? When have I ever betrayed you, Sarah?” Harry shouted back at her, losing his temper. His eyes narrowed, and his face flushed with anger. He stepped forward again, putting himself once again in Leslie’s face. She stared up at him without cowering.

“Why won’t you just answer my fucking question?” She screamed in his face, then moving quickly, slapped Harry in the face.

He kept his face turned away for a moment. When he faced Leslie again, it was with a bright red mark on his cheek, imprinted exactly with the shape of her hand. He visibly took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Elayne is just a friend. Nothing more, nothing less.” He answered quietly, the volume of his words belying the anger shown in his eyes and his posture.

Leslie raised her hand to slap him again, when Harry grabbed her by the wrist. She yanked furiously, trying to get away to slap him again. “Why,” she said, her voice close to hysterics, “didn’t you tell me about her in the first place? If she’s just your friend, why did you answer her messages before you answered mine?”

Harry’s mouth was left open with surprise. “How… how did you know?” He stammered, letting her wrist go. He stepped backwards, mouth working; it was apparent that he could not explain himself satisfactorily. Leslie waited a few moments, glaring at him, before speaking once more. She, too, tried to take a few deep breaths to calm herself down, but it had as little effect as Harry’s attempt.

“If you can’t answer me,” she said, tears starting to gather in her eyes, “Perhaps you should go.” Harry stared at her, shocked. He made a movement as to step forward to put his arms around her, but Leslie stopped him with a raised hand. She wiped the moisture from her eyes quickly, and met his look with her eyes.

“I meant what I said. Leave, now. I don’t ever want to see you again, Robert. You and I are through forever.” She said softly but firmly, her eyes watering despite her wishes. Harry opened his mouth to object, but he only nodded when he saw the resolve in her eyes. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them once more, tears were falling down his cheeks. He pressed a finger to his lips, then reached forward to press them on her cheek. When she moved out of the way, he flinched as if physically hit.

He retreated slowly, not turning his back to her. He reached the door, the door handle digging into his back. He hesitated even then, a step away from leaving her house. He looked at her one last time; her posture told him all he needed to know.

“I still love you, Sarah,” he said softly. When no response came, he turned and left the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

Leslie let her emotions loose when the door closed, walking unsteadily to the wall, and leaning against it for support. She took big gulps of air, crying audibly. She continued to cry until half a minute later, when Jon Swift leaned forward in his chair and yelled, “cut!”

Once that word passed his lips, everyone exploded into movement. An intern immediately rechecked the connections from his laptop to the main editing computer that sat across town. The scene that was just shot was quickly digitized, processed and downloaded for later scrutiny. An intern ran onto the set to Leslie Kingsley, handing her a bottle of water and a towel. Leslie smiled, took the water that was offered to her and wiped her tears off with the towel. She handed both back to the intern, and walked toward the director who was busy talking to a tall redheaded woman.

Harry appeared from behind the set, after having disappeared to wash the traces of tears from his face. His face was still a bit pale; although he had been acting for quite a while now, emotional scenes still got the best of him at times. It was unprofessional; it was not something that would be considered smart by any standards, but it was something Harry couldn’t help doing. Part of the reason he was an actor was to become someone completely new. The trials of being Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, were many and harsh. There was a certain… joy… in being a person who did not have the complications that being Harry Potter had. Although many problems did arise for the roles he took, all were resolved and finished by the time the credits rolled.

He walked towards the general direction of Jon Swift, turning his head often to talk to the various workers on the set. He knew many of them, and he always had a friendly word for them when they passed. They always smiled and answered back. Thus, Harry didn’t really see who was talking to the director until he was standing right in front of them.

“Jon, how was that take?” He asked, turning his head to face them. The question trailed off as he realized who had been chatting with his director. She turned to him, amused.

“Well, Mr. Potter, I take it you don’t remember that we have an interview scheduled to happen in exactly five minutes?” Ginny smiled, and raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief. “Or should I be wary of the police here? Are you going to throw me in jail here, too?”

Harry threw back his head and laughed heartily. He smiled at her, then suddenly rushed towards her, throwing his arms around her and swinging her in the air. Ginny and Harry laughed delightedly as Jon and Leslie looked on in surprise. Harry’s co-workers looked at each other, than simultaneously shrugged. It was apparent that Harry had had a history with the woman; they greeted each other with enough enthusiasm for long-lost brothers.

Harry set her down gently, and smiled at her. Looking at the other two standing near him, he spoke, the laughter apparent in his tone. “This little witch,” he said, grinning, “once managed to get arrested in London for coming into my apartment. I wasn’t in then, and she tripped off an alarm trying to snoop. Of course, she’s still as voracious a journalist now as back then, and she’ll probably make me say some stuff I know I’ll regret saying.”

Ginny sniffed. “Not so little, mind you; I’m nearly as tall as you are, Harry! And of course you’re going to say stuff you’re going to regret. That’s my job.” She laughed easily once more, then grabbed his arm. Smiling at the director and Leslie, she said, “Is there a room where I can set up my interrogation equipment? Bright lights, tape recorder, the like?”

Jon nodded. “Harry’s trailer should be more than adequate. He’s done the other interviews there, too, I believe. Harry?” Harry nodded, waved off Jon and Leslie, and started to lead Ginny away by the arm, animatedly talking. Jon and Leslie looked on for a moment, amused, before returning to their conversation.

“So,” Harry said, smiling, “How’ve things been? Any new romantic entanglements I should know about? Any Weasley mishaps? How’re your brothers?” They deftly avoided the hubbub of the movie sets as they walked toward his trailer, which lay as far away as it could from the sets. Harry couldn’t stop smiling; he couldn’t believe how good it felt to connect to one of his oldest friends. Suddenly, he felt as if he couldn’t get enough of gossip.

Ginny laughed again. “Me? Romantic entanglements? Of course! A nice bloke named Patrick chatted me up at a club recently. A great shag, and my parents love him. It’s near impossible to find anyone that fits both descriptions.” She turned her head, flipping her long red hair over her shoulder coquettishly. “The Weasleys, as always, are going about our own businesses, doing rather well. Ron won the last game, against the Dragons, I think; Bill got promoted a couple months ago. Charlie’s doing some groundbreaking work on the Welsh Dragon, and he’s made some deal to write a book about it. Mum’s overjoyed. Of course, Dad’s blissfully continuing his work in the Ministry.”

They reached the door of his trailer soon enough, with a bright green sign stating “Prongs Jr.” above the door. Ginny threw Harry a questioning look as he opened the door, and he colored slightly. “It’s a security measure,” he mumbled, and quickly herded her to a table.

Ginny took a long look at her surroundings as she sat down. Harry groaned internally—he could just picture what was going through her snoopy mind. No sign of any romantic attachments, though he’d probably have it at his hotel room. No pictures; must think it risky to have moving pictures in any of his public places. Fairly neat, but it’s likely he doesn’t spend much time here. Oh, is that a pack of cigarettes? She quickly set up her equipment professionally, setting a Quick-Quotes Quill off to the side. She took out a more conventional tape recorder, and turned it on briskly, testing both with an ease that hinted at procedure. She pulled out a laptop, with a webcam attached, then checked to make sure Harry was in the center of the feed. Harry sat in a chair across from her, and silently waited the barrage of questions that were to come.

“Well then,” Ginny said, finally turning towards him. “This is Ginevra Weasley of the Daily Prophet, here with the illustrious wizard Harry Potter himself—the Boy Who Lived. Currently, he’s a very successful actor in both the wizard and Muggle worlds, and by God, handsome as the devil. Hello, Harry. How’ve you been?”

Harry nodded. He had gone through countless interviews in his years, and thus knew all the tricks of surviving through a vicious line of questions. He braced himself internally and externally, training his expression into one of happiness. “Hello, Ginny. It’s been a great long time. And it’s been great for me recently.”

Ginny looked at a notepad she had in her lap before continuing. “Harry, before I ask you anything else, I have to ask you this. Any significant other in your life?” She leaned forward, smiling, but Harry detected a sort of eagerness in her eyes that seemed to have roots in something other than her journalistic motives.

Harry shook his head. “Of course not, Ginny. I hope your readers don’t believe all the nonsense that’s been published about Leslie and me getting together? Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Ginny leaned back, and Harry had the odd feeling that she was satisfied. “Unfortunately enough, some of the writers at our own publications have fallen so low to spread those same rumors. But it’s great that our dear readers get to hear the truth from your own lips.” She was talking to the camera as much as Harry, and he had to admit that she was pretty good at this stuff. The Quill wrote furiously, the scribbling sound filling the silence.

Ginny asked, “So, Harry, what of all things made you decide to be an actor, which is predominantly a Muggle vocation, even now?”

Harry smiled. This was a tale he loved telling over and over. “Well, Ginny, part of the reason I didn’t really pursue a Quidditch career was all the fame it brought. I hated it all, and besides, becoming a Quidditch player was so expected of me, it seemed that they had all enrolled me already onto the Cannons or some other team. My first choice of a job, an Auror, seemed moot; I was so famous, it would have gotten in the way if I had tried to go on any undercover jobs. I finally took a job as a consultant in the Ministry of Magic, Defense Department.

“But one day, I was in a pub in Greater London that I will not reveal the name of, because I love that place dearly and still go there frequently. I will say that it’s a place where Muggles are given entrance, and about 9 years ago, I was entertaining fellow drinkers with an affected accent and an exaggerated pantomime when one of the Muggles asked me to step outside. I really did think that he was going to throw a few punches at me at the time, but I followed him out. I was slightly drunk, you see; I’m sure a good fight might have made me feel a bit better then.” Harry chuckled. Ginny grinned encouragingly, and Harry continued his story without further prompting.

“Luckily enough for him, the Muggle didn’t try to waylay me. His name was Peter Jackson, and he was a director looking for a villain in his film, Fire and Ice. I was fairly surprised, to say the least; I had never thought of acting before then, and I knew that the fame of being an actor is as bad as that of a Quidditch player. I said no, and he didn’t press me further on the subject. He gave me his card to call him if I changed my mind, and we went back into the pub. We had a jolly good time that night, and we departed friends.

“I re-thought my position on the whole acting thing, and I wondered if the fame would get so horrible. I was sure at the time that I was going to play this small role, and it would be it for me. I finally decided to do it at about three in the morning, and I rang him up at more decent hours. I have to admit, Peter’s lack of pretense had a lot to do with my decision, as well the fact that I hated my current job.

“So I rang him up, and one of the first things I asked him was ‘will the fame overwhelm my life? Answer me truthfully.’ I still remember Peter’s answer.” Harry stopped for a moment, smiling broadly at the memory. He leaned forward a bit for dramatic emphasis. “He said, ‘my friend, you aren’t that good.’” Ginny let out an involuntary burst of laughter, and covered it quickly with a glance at her notes. Harry nodded, happy at her reaction, and took a drink of water from his sports bottle before she continued.

“Well,” Ginny said, “I think I’m not contradicting even the harshest reviewer when I say that Mr. Jackson was quite horribly wrong. You’re an acting phenomenon, and you quite burned up the Muggle cinema scene with your debut as Mr. Stark. The film Fire and Ice was a critical success and a blockbuster in the box offices; you, Harry, were a very big factor in shoving the wizarding community towards film. Your next few films were also hits; need I mention the reaction on your award-winning performances in the Muggle films The Sword Edge, Enigma, Through the Fire, Le Mort d’Arthur and Bindings? Or your breath-taking portrayal of John in the wizard film Dancing Forever?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Nicely done,” he said, smiling, “very nice indeed. You should be my public-relations manager. How much are you getting paid in this job? I’m sure I can give you a better deal.” He pulled out his wallet and pretended to take out a wad of money. Ginny grinned. “By the way, was there a question in that lovely rendition of my filmography?”

Ginny shook her head. “You’re quite the charmer, Mr. Potter,” she teased. “Are you sure you haven’t a lover? I’m sure there are many offers all around.”

Harry’s smile definitely looked strained this time around. “I can’t abide those types of women,” he said, trying desperately to keep an angry tone out of his words. He covered his reaction by taking a long drink from his sports bottle. His smile looked friendlier by the time he continued. “I only want to fall in love with a woman who doesn’t want the Harry Potter who is famous. I want to look into my lover’s eyes and see her looking at me, not the Boy Who Lived or the famous actor.”

Ginny had the odd look in her eyes again. She coughed once, and Harry fully expected her voice to be unsteady when she continued. It wasn’t.

“Well, with a conviction like that, whoever you do end up with must be one lucky witch.” She paused slightly before turning to her next question. “Or a Muggle, for that matter. Which reminds me. I’m sure all of our readers want to know: how hard it is for you to live in the Muggle world?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s not too hard, actually. There’s of course no spell-casting in public, and no Apparating, of course. I can’t really carry my wand anywhere, as it might fall into the wrong hands. When I’m in my own flat, or my current suite, I use a lot of magic. But I have to say I’ve gotten used to the lack of magic.” He paused, his face solemn, but his face cracked a grin before too long. “Who am I kidding? It’s a bloody hell.”

Ginny asked, “So I’m assuming it’s hard to conceal your magical abilities? How many close calls have you had?”

Harry sighed. “More than I would like to have it, actually. I’m sure I created a Memory Squad for personal use in my earlier years. Back then, I made a lot of blunders, and left lots of evidence for crowds. Nowadays, I rarely make mistakes. It’s been maybe two years since a Memory Squad had to compensate for one of my mistakes.”

The interview continued without a hitch, with Ginny asking the standard questions and Harry answering easily. Finally, Ginny nodded and closed her notebook. “Well, thank you for your candid interview. I’m sure our readers will enjoy it as much as I have. Finit,” she said, and the Quick-Quotes Quill stopped writing and fell to a stationary position on the desk. She turned off the tape recorder, and fiddled with her laptop. Harry stood up and occupied himself as she finished packing her equipment.

“Well, that’s done with,” she said after a moment. Harry turned to face her.

“Yeah, and believe me, I’m glad for it. Do you want to spend a bit of time at an American bar? Or if you want, we can go to a fancier restaurant. I’ll pay, of course.”
Ginny looked distracted, to say the least. “I’d love to,” she said hesitantly, “but I really have to get back to England. I have a prior engagement with a friend.”

Harry glanced at his Muggle watch. It was the middle of the day, which meant that it was bordering night in England. “I’d love to meet any of your friends, Ginny—or is this a more of a shagging deal?” He said casually, his face not betraying his mirth.

Ginny awarded his remark with a slap on the arm. “I don’t think so, Harry James Potter. My sex affairs are none of your business.”

Harry grinned insolently. He leaned forward slightly, closing the distance between them. “You weren’t so prudish when you were talking of them thirty minutes ago,” he whispered, earning a flush. Ginny lifted her head, almost defiantly.

“Well, back then I didn’t mind, and now I do. It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.” Her expression took a more concerned look as she spoke again, this time more towards herself than to Harry.

“Besides,” she muttered absentmindedly, “Hermione really needs my support, not to see you right now.”

Harry’s flirtatious attitude left him abruptly. “What?” He exclaimed loudly, grabbing Ginny’s shoulders and shaking her slightly. “What do you mean? Why does Hermione need your support?”

Ginny looked up, startled. “Bloody~! Did I just say that out loud?”

Harry shook his head. “You’re not going to just pass this by as nothing. What happened to Hermione?”

Ginny took a deep breath to steady herself. “That’s quite a reaction about a friend whom you haven’t seen or talked to in a decade,” she said, stalling. She glanced significantly at the tight grip he held on her shoulders.

Harry started, as if realizing what his arms were doing. He let her go quickly, bringing his hands up to his head awkwardly. “Err, sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” he said, flushing. However, his eyes met hers determinedly. “No more stalling. Tell me what happened.”

Ginny spoke calmly, looking for Harry’s reaction to her news. “Hermione was engaged to marry a Muggle doctor, and he flipped out when Hermione told him about her being a witch. They broke off the engagement a week ago. She’s still shaken up about it… God, and she has to see him at work nearly every day! I don’t see how she can stand it.”

Harry’s face crumbled with despair. When I wrote that letter, I didn’t expect the sodding bastard to freak out on her! He thought desperately. He turned towards the wall of his trailer, unconsciously clenching and unclenching his hands tightly.

He heard Ginny step towards him tentatively from behind him and felt her hand fall gently on his shoulder. “Are you all right?” she asked softly. Harry nodded, silent.

“You didn’t really expect her to not get romantically involved all these years, did you? I mean, I’m sure you’ve had your conquests, despite what you said officially to me.”

Funny, Harry thought, she’s mistaken my feelings completely. “I know, Ginny.” He turned to face her, and gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Ginny gave him a worried look-over. “Are you sure? I don’t really have the time to dote on two lovesick friends, especially ones that have such a complicated history.”

Harry nodded. Trying to hide the eagerness in his voice, he asked nonchalantly, “Umm, where is she right now, anyway? Home? What’s the address?”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said, raising her voice slightly. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but she cut in before he could state his mind. She thrust a finger in his chest, stabbing at each word to emphasize her point.
“You listen to me, you silly prat, you cannot see her right now! The last thing she needs is her ex knocking at her door in her state! Just…” Her expression softened. She smiled a bit at him, though she still gave off an indignant manner with her posture. “I promise to tell you how she’s doing, and what she’s been doing. I suppose it’s a good sign that you still care for her. Maybe, you can finally get your act together and deign to be her friend again. Understood?”

Harry nodded, and Ginny stepped back. Surreptitiously rubbing his chest (where she had poked so much), he said, “I don’t want to complicate her life; that’s the last thing I really want to do.” He opened the door to his trailer then, and Ginny stepped out, the perfect picture of composure.

Harry escorted her to a safe wizard spot, where she kissed him on the cheek and Apparated away. Harry stood for a moment, staring at the empty place she had just vacated, thinking of her words.

She’s right, you know, a little voice in his mind said. Hermione will contact you when she wants to talk about it. All you can do now is wait.

But I'm best when I'm acting, not waiting!, he protested. The little voice snickered.

That’s too bad, no? The famous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, who single-handedly defeated Lord Voldemort, can’t wait a couple days for a response from a girl?

Harry snorted (eliciting a few odd stares), and turned away. His conscience seemed to be able to phrase any situation in a manner that made him feel humiliated. He really didn't need to hear this right now from anyone, let alone himself.

Saturday: January 23, 2012

Well, this is silly, Harry thought, staring at the door firmly closed in front of his face. He balanced the bouquet of flowers in one hand, then the other, trying to find the courage to knock or ring the doorbell.

I still think this is a horrid idea, the little voice in his head admonished. Harry shook his head; the voice was becoming to sound more and more like Ginny’s.

Well, sod off then, Harry thought back at the voice. It gave an audible sniff, and went silent.

That was easy, Harry thought, briefly amused. Then he returned to the situation, and the smile faded from his face.

He was standing on the porch of 56 Elm Park Road, wondering whether or not Hermione was even in the house! A modified Letter spell had let him learn her address, and after having tortured himself for the week that seemed so long to him, he jetted off to London, determined to see her. After a quick deviation from the way to her house—he dropped by his favorite florist, and picked up some daisies—he was finally standing there. And had been, for the last half hour. The sun had long since set, but he knew that Hermione, if she wasn’t out, wouldn’t have been sleeping.

I’m going to do it, he thought determinedly, ignoring the short laugh of disbelief expelled by his conscience. He raised his right hand, the one not holding the daisies, and rang the doorbell firmly.

He waited for a nerve-wracking minute, wondering if he had come all the way for nothing. But his fears were alleviated when the porch light turned on, and a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time grumbling, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” The door opened quickly, and Hermione appeared, looking disheveled.

“No, I don’t want to buy any bloody-” She stopped as soon as she saw who was standing there. She stood there in the doorway, mouth agape.

Harry knew how she must have felt; he felt the same way. His heart was in his throat, and his mouth parched up immediately. His eyes greedily drank in the sight of his former best friend, someone he had firmly trusted and loved for so long. Her hair was still bushy, and she still only came up to her shoulders, and she wore a bathrobe that was fluffy and pink. He couldn't move. They stood there for a good five minutes, before a sound of a Muggle clock bell ringing jolted both of them out of their daze.

Harry said the first thing on his mind. “Pink?”

Hermione flushed slightly, but set her jaw stubbornly in a gesture that was still familiar to Harry. “It was a birthday gift from my mother a couple of years back. I happen to think it’s very comfortable.” She turned from him, leaving the door open. “I don’t believe it; the first words you speak to me after ten years are to insult my tastes. Come in, take off your shoes on the floormat.” She shuffled off in the direction of what looked to be her kitchen.

Harry stepped in, head swiveling every direction, trying to soak in all the sights. He took off his shoes impatiently and left them in a heap near the door. He closed and locked the door behind him, and followed the path Hermione had taken just moments before.

He had guessed right; it was her kitchen, spotless and perfect as a magazine picture. It had the look of having recently been cleaned the Muggle ways, repeatedly. Harry could guess how she had been coping with her loss.

Hermione had taken out a bottle of Pumpkin Juice while he had been ogling her house, and she was pouring it into two cups. When Harry approached her, she slid the cup on the counter to him, and he caught it easily. He took a small sip of the drink, trying to keep his eyes from watering; this had been a little ritual they had gone through many times before, when they had shared a flat. They had always gotten together at the end of the day, no matter how busy their schedule had been; Hermione fixed the drink (sometimes choosing odd combinations, making both of them laugh), and Harry would tell her everything that had happened that day. Then Hermione would take her turn.

He set his cup down on the counter. “Well,” he said in a tone that was forcibly cheerful, “my day was just great. I talked shop with Neville for-”

“Harry,” Hermione said quietly, cutting him off. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to try.”

Harry nodded sadly. They sat for a moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. Harry was happy to note that the silence that rose between them still was comfortable, not awkward. Harry broke it first.

“I’ve missed you, Hermione.”

“I know,” she replied softly. She stared down into her cup, but Harry could see the tears starting to gather in the corners of her eyes. “I’ve missed you, too.”

Harry stood up from his stool, and walked around the counter to stand behind her. He smiled without happiness, to keep from frowning. “We’ve been such fools for so long,” he said. “I’ve been working so hard, going from project to project to keep myself busy. I tried to block out the fact that I had destroyed such a great friendship, and I tried to block out the fact that I haven’t felt complete since the moment we left each other.”

Hermione pivoted on her stool until she faced Harry. Without lifting her face to meet his, she spoke quietly. Her hands twisted each other in her lap.

“It’s been so hard, you know,” she said. “When I entered the wizarding world when I was eleven, I immediately met you and Ron. You and Ron guided me through what I know of the wizarding world. I didn’t know how I could have survived in the wizard world all by myself; Ron’s been so busy lately, with such a sky-rocketing career, that we rarely see each other. I guess the thing that’s kept my life moving was shoving myself into academics. I drifted more and more into the Muggle world, and that’s kept me sane over these long years.”

She lifted her face, and Harry’s eyes met hers. Both were tear-stained, and they smiled at each other. Harry lifted a hand and gently wiped her tears from her face, and Hermione did the same for Harry. Harry leaned forward, and enveloped her in a firm hug. Tight in the embrace of a good friend, Hermione let her guards down, and let the pain and reality of the break-up hit her fully. She let herself weep, and once she started, it seemed as though she couldn’t ever stop.

Harry cradled her, softly cooing reassurances that everything would be all right, and just holding her until she stopped crying. She sniffled a few times, and finally stopped crying. She hiccupped.

Harry let her go for a moment, and pulled out his wand from his pocket. “Accio tissues!”

Nothing happened for a moment, but suddenly, a stream of tissues came in to the kitchen, flying from upstairs. They started to bombard Harry, and caught him off guard enough to send him sprawling to the floor. Hermione giggled, hiccupping all the while, at the sight of Harry on the floor being attacked by tissues.

Harry stood up after he stopped the spell, and looked at the mess on the floor. He picked one of the tissues off the floor. “Uh… tissue?” He asked, offering it up to her. She smiled, and took it. Harry Accioed the bottle of Pumpkin Juice into his hand and poured her another cup. She drank it deeply, and placed it onto the counter when she finished.

This time, the silence was awkward. Harry didn’t mind with what had just happened, but Hermione was embarrassed beyond measure. She cleared her throat a couple of times.

“Harry, umm… I’m really sorry for that. You see, my fiancé-”

“Shh,” Harry interrupted. “I know all about it. Don’t worry about losing your composure in front of me. After all, I’ve bawled while you held me many times. I’m just returning the favor.” He shrugged. “No big deal. What is a big deal, however, is how you’re handling the situation. Tell me, what have you done to let your emotions out?”

Hermione floundered for a moment, trying to think of an answer that would please him. She gave up trying after a few moments. “Nothing, really.” She admitted. “I’ve thrown myself into my work- standard Hermione maneuver, huh? It doesn’t help that Nelson works at the Muggle hospital.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Nelson, huh? What’s his last name?”

Hermione frowned in exasperation. “Harry, you are not going to pull the angry-best-friend act on him. No beating anyone around here. That’s the last thing I want.”

Harry smiled radiantly. “So one day, I can get back to my spot as your best friend?”

Hermione caught his gaze. “Harry,” she said solemnly, “you were always my best friend. Even when we weren’t speaking to each other, I knew in my heart of hearts that we’d find each other again, and that we’d trust each other again.”

“And do you think your heart of hearts was right?”

Hermione closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. Harry nodded, grateful that Hermione respected him enough to tell him the truth, rather than telling him what he wanted to hear.

But that’s how Hermione is, bless her heart, he mused. Maybe we can get back to where we had been.

“Oh!” Hermione said suddenly. “With all this commotion, I forgot about it. Stay here for a moment.” She got off of the stool and ran up the stairs. Harry couldn’t tell what room she had gone to (having never been upstairs), but it was situated directly above the kitchen. While she was gone, Harry spent his time picking up the tissues by hand (and wondering whatever it could be that she was getting for him).

He was trying to decide whether it was a bowling ball or a shuttlecock when Hermione came down from her room upstairs. She ran up to Harry, and quickly handed him an envelope. “I added in a little part at the end, and changed the date, but I wrote this letter a couple of days ago. I just didn’t know if I should have sent it or not.” She looked into his eyes. “Now, I’m sure I should have.”
Harry clutched the letter in his hands, touched deeply by her gesture. “Thank you, Hermione. I—I should go. But I promise you I will stay in touch, okay? I don’t intend to let your friendship go this time around.”
Hermione smiled at him, a sight that made goosebumps rise on his back; she was so breathtakingly beautiful to him. It made his mind go numb, and his senses wildly confused.

He said some mumbled goodbyes, and he Apparated back to the United States. When he finally stumbled out of his daze, he found himself sitting on the bed in his hotel suite, holding Hermione’s letter with both hands.

I’m not going to read it right now, he told himself firmly. I’m in no state to try to sort out what I feel for Hermione. I’m going to finish reading that damn script, go to dinner, maybe watch a movie, and clear my head. When I can feel objectively towards the situation, then I’ll read the thing.

He stood up and walked into his kitchen, leaving the letter on his bed. He fixed himself a martini, and watched some TV (since it was a Saturday afternoon, nothing worth watching was on, of course). He tried to read the script, but the hero kept reminding him too much of himself to enjoy reading. Finally, he gave into his desires after two hours of dallying.

He threw the script away from him, it landing somewhere behind the couch. He ran to the bed, flinging the door open, and almost ripped the envelope in half in his eagerness to open it.

January 23, 2012
Dear Harry,

I can’t believe what’s happened since I last wrote to you. It seems like the whole world has been turned topsy-turvy. I can’t really seem to get a grasp of myself, and I find myself dazing off at odd moments, wondering if anything else could have gone any differently.

Maybe I should explain what I mean. When I received your letter, I have to admit that the clarity with which you saw my position shocked me. Without thinking more about the situation, I told Nelson, my fiancé, that I was a witch. He completely freaked out, broke off the engagement, called me a freak of nature, and everything ended with a nice Memory Charm by Mr. Weasley.

I just… I don’t know how to deal with failure, Harry. Remember third year, when we had to face the boggart for the Defense Against the Dark Arts final? My worst fear was failing all my tests. Failing. God, even writing the word down right now in association with me is depressing. Silly, I know, but I’ve always equated success with happiness (as I’m sure everyone else in the world does). But the way I see it, failure means I’m not the best at something, and I need to be the best. I’m babbling, not making sense, and so I’ll just get to the point.

I know marriage isn’t a contest, or anything like that. Rationally, I know that I’m not trying to beat the record for being a good wife, or a good girlfriend, but I get to thinking. If that girl over there can make him happy, why can’t I? Why can’t I take care of someone perfectly, make them love me and do anything for me? I’ve had one relationship that I thought was going to be “Happily Ever After”. We both know where that ended up.

Sometimes this past week, I’d wake up in the morning, sit up in my bed, and think “Ah, my nightmare’s over. I’m fine, and I’ll see Nelson later in the workshift, and we’ll have a great dinner together.” Then it all hits me again, in full force, and it nearly rips me in two every time. It’s hard, Harry, and it’s killing me. Then I have to go to work, and see Nelson, and I’m reminded of everything.

[At this point in the letter, the handwriting hurried slightly, and the ink was much brighter than before.]

You see now why I didn’t send you this letter? It’s awkwardly written, I don’t think I know what I was really talking about. Don’t spend too much time trying to decipher what I wrote; it’s some stuff that I felt like I needed to release from my system. My letter to you seemed to be the perfect place to do that.

I can’t believe how easy it was for us to connect like that. I have to admit, when I heard the doorbell ring, you were the last person I expected to see (well, perhaps other than Voldemort. Now THAT would have been scary). But we connected so easily, so quickly; you fitted into the role of my best friend as well as you used to back in Hogwarts days. You held me and let me cry; that helped me more than you can know. So thank you.

I’m not promising that we’ll suddenly be the best of friends again. I’m sure we’ll run into some snags along the way. But I promise you, I will be there to hold your hand when you need it. And I hope that you’l l be there to hold my hand too.

With Love,
Your Herms

Harry looked up from the letter. Perhaps his life would now, finally, get back to where it needed to be. If he had Hermione to walk beside down the road, what need he fear? Suddenly, he felt more relaxed than he remembered ever feeling since the Hogwarts days. And he smiled.

## 4. February 9, 2012: Conflict

Chapter 4- February 9, 2012: Conflict

The game had ended quickly; so quickly, in fact, that most fans had not yet found their seats when a large collective groan was heard from the American contingent. There was a lot of grumbling to be heard as people walked out of the stadium. “How much were those tickets again? And for what? Five minutes?” A few of the more adventuresome had even tried to storm the ticket office demanding a full refund.

Even though the California Falcons were considered one of the best of the American teams, currently leading the Sierra division by 140 points, today was not their day. The Cannons star seeker, John Sparks, caught the snitch in near record time. He had just throw the falcons for a loop, performing the very difficult Krum Maneuver, when the snitch suddenly appeared right under his nose. It actually took a minute or two for him to realize what had happened. The rest of the team had their own problems, however, and were unaware the game had come to an end until three loud and long whistles were heard from the referee.

In the post-game interviews, James Carter the Cannons coach was quick to admit he felt lady luck had certainly changed her address today. He had noted that if the Snitch had not been found so early, the Falcons’ offense very well might have crushed them in the end. Within that ten-minute span, the Falcons had scored four goals and kept the Cannons chasers stymied, not allowing a single point. The game had ended, rather anti-climatically, 150- 40.

Most of the more devoted fans stayed, since they knew that they would not be entirely disappointed. As expected, the players stayed on the field, performing midair stunts and handing out free merchandise for at least an hour after the game’s end. Near the end of the hour after the show, the players swooped onto different parts of the stands and signed autographs for their fans. The players basked in the glow of the fan worship, smiling cockily as only professional athletes could.

Harry Potter was a bit displeased to note that Ron Weasley, famous Chaser of the Chudley Cannons, had landed in a section of the stands that was as far away as he could have been from Harry. Harry looked at the crowd, trying to find a way to get through the fans without being swept up in the mass himself. Luckily, John Sparks landed only a few rows down from Harry, causing a flood of fans rushing to meet him, and leaving Harry an open path to where Ron stood.

Harry quickly ascended the stairs. To avoid the occasional fan wanting to meet the famous ex-Seeker, Harry had taken a precaution to prevent being recognized. Instead of seeing the famous face with the green eyes and the messy black hair, the curious bystander would see the round, happy face of Neville Longbottom, Harry’s friend and lawyer. A little bit of Polyjuice Potion had transformed all but his voice, and Harry was in no mood for chatter.

Harry waited quietly on the outskirts of the fans gathered around Ron Weasley, standing unobtrusively and waiting for the hubbub to settle down. He waited nearly ten minutes before he remembered the fanaticism of most Quidditch followers. I could be waiting here a long time, he thought wryly to himself, and decided to step forward and make himself heard. He nudged past a few of the other fans, drawing a few grumbles and a few stares.

When Harry reached the front of the crowd surrounding the Chaser, Ron was busy signing the T-shirt of a pretty girl, grinning all the while. With a black sharpie, he scribbled something that could barely be recognizable as “Love ya, Ron Weasley” on top of her breasts. The crowd surrounding him cheered wildly, and the girl reached up and kissed him on the cheek. She whispered something in his ear, and his grin grew even bigger as he released her.

Harry cut in front of the next fan getting ready to talk to Ron, drawing a muffled curse from the fat man. Ron looked at him, his face unrecognizing, and Harry waited until he saw the recognition flood his eyes.

“Well I’ll be,” Ron said, smiling, “if it isn’t Neville Longbottom from Hogwarts! How’ve you been, man? Come here!” Ron leaned forward and hugged him tightly.

“Actually, not quite right,” Harry said quietly in Ron’s ear, not disguising his voice. “Remember a little potion we made in Myrtle’s bathroom second year?”

Harry had to give Ron some credit- neither his posture nor his expression changed in the slightest way when he heard Harry’s voice. He simply released Harry from the hug naturally, slipping a pass into Harry’s hand discreetly. He smiled at the rest of his fans, and mounted his broomstick. A loud groan slipped out of those who had not had the chance to talk to him yet, and Harry saw out of the corner of his eye many angry glares directed at him.

Before anyone could throw projectiles or insults at Harry, however, Ron lifted into the air. The crowd quickly quieted down once they saw that the famous Quidditch player had something else to say.

Ron waved again, giving a cocky grin as he guided his broomstick to a halt ten feet from the stands. “Thank you all for your support,” he shouted. “We’ll be back for the Inter-Continental Quidditch Cup Finals, I promise! And I’ll be keeping you in mind!” he grinned and pointed to the pretty girl whose chest sported Ron’s autograph. A roar answered him, and the girl blew him a kiss. He turned around and zoomed away out of sight, towards the exit. As if his exit was a cue, the rest of the Quidditch players that had been greeting their fans lifted into the air, and left the stadium.

Everyone seemed to realize that the show was now finally over. Groups and groups of the wizards were still arguing loudly over which player was the hottest or the amazing moves pulled by players on both teams (no one disputed the fact that Michelle Tea, the California Falcons Chaser, had been the best player out of both teams on the pitch). They walked through the exits en mass, creating a jam worthy of any logistician’s nightmare. It was apparent that wizards were no better than Muggles in keeping in an orderly fashion.

Harry slipped through the crowd, after having read the inscription that Ron had written on a note on top of the pass:

Meet at Gate 3B
Show this Pass to the Door Guards
Bring Your Transport There

His transport, as Ron had so briefly stated, was an old model BMW. After the Second Great War, when terrorism had almost completely destroyed three Quidditch stadiums during matches, anti-Apparating charms had been places on a great number of public places. It was a slight inconvenience, but after ten years of finding ways to show up at the games, the wizards found it hardly a nuisance now. Most wizards saw it as good fun, and driving a car to the match had become as much a part of the whole ritual as eating hot dogs at Muggle baseball games.

Gate 3B was a mostly unknown exit from the Quidditch stadium. Unlike most of the exits, which led straight into Los Angeles, 3B led out to a parking lot that led straight to the California Freeway 10 West. Only a few miles out of Los Angeles, it was an easy act to drive back into the city. And there was the added bonus of less traffic.

The front passenger door opened, and Harry/Neville stepped out. He took a quick glance around the scenery, and took in the guards in front of a nondescript door. He nodded, and ducked his head back inside the car. He said to Neville, who was driving, “Looks like this is 3B. I’ll go check things out.” The Neville-driving-the-car nodded.

Harry/Neville stepped around the front of the car briskly, and walked calmly towards the two huge guards. They didn’t budge as the ordinary-looking Harry approached, only staring back at him through those opaque black sunglasses. The muscles on their arms bulged as they simultaneously crossed their arms across their chests.

“May I help you?” The one on the right asked in a vapid voice. Harry was instantly reminded of the finer days, when Draco Malfoy always attempted to bully him with his two cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. This man was the splitting image of what Harry imagined Crabbe would look now. His hands itched to yank those glasses off his face, to see if he had the same squinty eyes.

“I was told to meet Ronald Weasley here. Has he come by yet?” Harry asked in a soft, commanding voice. The two guards looked at each other, only moving their heads, then stared back at him. Faint grins grew on their faces. They tilted their heads slightly, to tower more over Harry. Harry, nonplussed, stared back into the black glasses of the one who had spoken to him. After, all, Harry had fought face-to-face with Voldemort. No silly guards could intimidate him after that experience.

Finally, the guard spoke. “No. No one is allowed here- this is restricted to Quidditch players only. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Harry shook his head. “As I stated before, the Quidditch player Ronald Weasley told me to meet him here with my car. Here’s the note he gave me.” He pulled the small note out from his coat pocket and shoved it towards the Crabbe look-alike. He made no motion to grab it out of Harry’s hand, but only tilted his head down further.

After a slight pause, he shook his head. “I don’t know Mr. Weasley’s handwriting, nor would I let you in even if I did know it. Rules are rules. Leave now or I’ll be forced to take you out by force.” The other guard nodded slowly.

Despite his many experiences with obstinate, idiot guards, such as the one in front of him, Harry began to feel a bit annoyed. After all, hadn’t he shown the guard the evidence? Despite his wishes, Harry started to frown, and unconsciously began to tap his foot on the floor, irritated.

Before things could escalate further, however, the door suddenly opened, and Ron stepped out. His hair was freshly combed, and his skin had the look of having been recently washed. He flashed a winning smile at the two guards and walked forward towards Harry. He said over his shoulder, “Good job you two are doing. Thanks Patrick, Jason.”

Patrick - the guard who had been so idiotic with Harry - gave a silly grin, and replied, “We’ll see you later, Mr. Weasley.” Harry shot him a dirty look, then turned and walked with his friend Ron.

“Hello, Ron, it’s great to see you. I must say, great security this place has,” Harry said. “I’m sure I could have stunned both those idiots and barged in through the restricted area in five seconds flat.” He directed Ron towards the BMW, and reaching there first, opened the back door for Ron. “Get in.”

Ron smiled. “Hey, Harry my man. I’m sure you could have gotten past those incompetents. Then you would have been stopped by the anti-terrorist Auror team that was lounging inside maybe twenty meters away.” Ron ducked his head to enter the car. He glanced at the driver, and started at seeing another Neville. He nodded at Neville-driving-the-car. “Hey, Neville- or should I say, Dean?”

Neville smiled back. “Hey, Ron. No, it’s really me, Neville. Now get in so that we’re not wasting the A/C. I’m killing the environment plenty already.” Ron leaned into the car and sat down on the black leather seat, not hurrying in the slightest. Harry closed the door, ran around the front of the car, then entered on the front passenger side. Almost immediately after Harry closed the door, the car leaped into motion, turning towards the exit in a squeal of tires.

It was silent inside the car, except for the almost imperceptible drone of the air conditioning. Ron and Harry both clipped on their safety belts, using the time to try to ready themselves to break the awkwardness between them all. No one knew how to broach the reason why they had stopped being part of the Trio, and no one knew which memories would be too touchy to talk about. Neville looked intently for signs directing him where to drive, but none appeared. He stopped the car at a crossroads, pulling over to the side, and turned to face Ron.

“You’re looking as fit as you did at the Scotland Quidditch Championship, Ron. Have to say that the goal you made against Steve Zilstra cinched the win. Too bad Ms. Tea rolled over your team today like you weren’t even there!” He said, grinning. Ron shook his head and raised his hands in protest.

“It was all Nicky’s doing, I tell ya. And it’s not my fault- Michelle is amazing at handling her broomstick.” All three in the car nodded thoughtfully. Ron grinned mischievously. “Wonder how good she’d be at handling mine?”

Good-natured groans came from the front seat. “Lord, Ron, you haven’t changed a bit since joining the Cannons. Still acting like you're trying to beat Wilt Chamberlain's record, huh?” Neville said, smiling. He put his hands on the wheel again, and turned his head to look towards the right for oncoming traffic. His eyes caught Harry’s for a moment, and Harry could read clearly the message written in Neville’s eyes: Things have changed, Harry.

Yes, things have changed, Harry thought, but perhaps not for the worse. Nothing ever stays the same, after all. Perhaps I could become the best of friends to this Ron, just as we were in Hogwarts.

"Who's Wilt Chamberlain?"

"Don't worry about it, Ron. Just a joke."

The car began moving again, cutting through Harry’s thoughts. The BMW swerved as it took the tight turn that sent all three straining against their seat belts.

“Hey!” Ron exclaimed as he was yanked to the right. His body immediately rebounded, pulled back by the seat belt. “Neville, don’t do that! And for your information, I prefer the term ‘fan relations.’”

Harry nodded. “He’s right, Neville, don’t drive so quickly. We’ve got nothing but time.” He looked back at Ron once more, who had a discomforted look on his face. His eyes flickered between the two sitting in front of him. Suddenly, Harry understood.

“Don’t worry, Ron, the Polyjuice will wear off in a bit,” he said grinning. Ron could tell that it was so; at that moment, the round face characteristic of Neville began to give way to the more angular features of Harry Potter. Ron leaned back and sighed.

“I must say,” he said, grinning slightly, “That’s a relief. It’s more than a bit unsettling to see two Neville Longbottoms sitting at the front of the car. Sod it all; I’d never have guessed that bumbling old Neville would be driving a car. I’m still half-expecting him to drive right into the tunnel wall!” With a loud chuckle, he leaned back into the seat of the car and stared at the ceiling of the car. His two old friends laughed along with him, sounding only slightly uncomfortable.

Neville cleared his throat. “You do know I’m sitting like a foot away from you, right?”

Ron shrugged. “Despite what you said earlier, I’m still hoping that you’re Dean or Seamus or someone else Polyjuiced. I’m still waiting for your face to melt off.”

Neville shook his head. “Don’t try to joke anymore, because you just can't cut it. The last two you said were horrible! And that old joke about the broomstick riding? They’re worse than the ones Flitwick tried to tell us when we were leaving Hogwarts!”

Harry almost snorted when the awful memories of those horrible puns hit him once more. Ron gasped theatrically, grabbing at his heart. “Oh, you do me wrong!” He exclaimed. They broke out into skittish laughter, then went quiet.

They continued down the tunnel in a tensed silence, a tension created by years of neglect and politely ignoring each other at public functions. Each kept his own thoughts to himself, wondering about a few things that were closer to the others’ thoughts than they would have guessed. The black BMW moved briskly through the tunnel, lit hauntingly by the occasional yellow halogen light dangling from the ceiling. The silence grew longer; the tension became as palpable as a hazy fog, enveloping everything in the car.

Then, like a boon given by the gods themselves, the tunnel finally ended. The dreary repetition of flickering lights gave way to the welcome light of the sun, bathing them all in its golden light. The three blinked simultaneously, and Neville flipped down the sun visor quickly. The car sped up a little, no longer confined within the narrow walls of the exit tunnel.

There was a visible change in those old friends. A slight relaxation of the shoulders, a leaning back in the chair, an uncurling of the fingers; they were all insignificant nothings, below the notice of everyone else. But still, those nothings began the healing process, the process to heal the gap that had been laid between them by the years of adulthood. Neville changed lanes quickly and expertly through the traffic, and finally arrived in the left-most lane.

Harry leaned forward and pressed a button on the dashboard, and instantaneously the smooth voice of Frank Sinatra filled the air. Harry sank back into his leather chair, and turned his head. “You remember, Ron, when we knocked Snape across the room together with our spells?”

Ron laughed out loud. Leaning forward enthusiastically, he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “Or when we Body-Binded poor old Neville here? Now that was funny!”

Neville took his right hand off the wheel for a moment and hit Ron on the top of his head, but he was smiling as he did so. The car swerved slightly, but returned to normal as soon as Neville put both hands back on the wheel.

The car sped along towards the heart of Los Angeles in the carpool lane, blazing past the countless cars stuck in the jam that epitomized Los Angeles traffic.

“So,” Ron said, “What are we going to do?” Having just stepped out of Harry’s BMW, he shut the door and stretched his arms.

Harry turned to face him and cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean? After all, you’re the one who wanted to meet me. Don’t have anything planned?”

Ron shrugged carelessly. “No, not really. I didn’t have anything specific to tell you, really. I was in the area, and I know that we haven’t been exactly the best of friends lately. I just wanted to spend some more time with you.” Something in his face changed slightly, and he looked more serious. “I rather wish that I hadn’t sided with Hermione so quickly, that I hadn’t talked to you in so long. I’m sorry for that.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a little bit as both Harry and Ron chewed over that statement. Neville stood to the side, uncertain whether he should intrude on this scene.

Harry moved his head slightly, and he smiled brightly. “Well, that’s all in the past now. I’m sure we can get our friendship back to what it was. And to tell you the truth, Ron, I hadn’t really planned anything. I’d sort of thought that it was all your show. I was just going to enjoy seeing my former best friend again.”

Ron smiled back, then shrugged his shoulders. “Hmm… how about the three of us spend some time at our old haunts? Go to Hogsmeade, or to Diagon Alley. I know you haven’t been there too recently. I think you spend just way too much time on your job! Live it up! Have some fun!”

Harry squirmed inside, feeling guilty for keeping some secrets from his friends. Unbeknownst to all his friends, Harry had actually been in Diagon Alley only a few days earlier, eating at a café with Hermione.

Before he could say anything to the contrary, Neville spoke up. “I think that’s a great idea. We’ll go to all the old places we used to go as teenagers. Maybe the Drunken Sailor, too?”

Harry smiled. “I could go for that. Just Apparate to London, meet at the front of Diagon Alley?”

Ron grinned very widely, which Harry instantly recognized as a “show grin”, or a grin used by many celebrities when meeting the press. It always seemed so horribly fake to Harry, and he hated it. (He saw it as one of the reasons why Hollywood was so horrible: everyone was so fake. Harry had sworn to himself after attending his first Academy Awards night to never use such a smile.)

Ron and Neville agreed, and soon they were on their way to London.

That day, Harry broke the Apparating regulations for the first time in seven years. A young man on the Memory Squad assigned to the Southern California area noted the illegal procedure and noted that it was Harry Potter and Ron Weasley that were breaking the rules. He sent a discreet phone call to his contact in The Wizarding Enquirer, who paid dearly for any news on Harry. Satisfied, he then sent the standard call to the rest of his teammates, and they left to clean up any trace of magic residue left in the area.

Harry met Neville and Ron just outside the entrance of Diagon Alley and entered together.

They started walking forward to mingle with the crowd. As they walked forward, Harry drew a pair of black sunglasses from his jacket to attempt to become more anonymous. Ron shook his head at the move.

“What? I don’t want to be recognized!” Harry protested. Ron laughed.

“Harry, my friend, they’ll know who you are even with those glasses. You aren’t exactly a John Doe. Your features are pretty distinguishable.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry grumbled, “I know that. Still doesn’t mean I have to flaunt the fact that I’m here. I like to be just one of the guys, you know what I mean?” Ron and Neville stopped in front of a wooden door, and Harry stopped also, puzzled. He looked up to see the sign of the establishment. He was bewildered to find that no such signs existed. “Ron? Neville? Where is this?”

Ron smiled. “It’s the Three Broomsticks.”

Harry frowned. “That’s owned by Madame Rosmerta, and it’s in Hogsmeade. It has no business doing anything in Diagon Alley. Is it lost or something?” All three of them pressed closer to the wall to let an unusually large wagon to pass by.

It was Neville who answered him. “It’s Rosmerta’s sister’s place. Rosmerta passed on a few years ago, and Ashleigh moved it here. She likes the city a bit more than Hogsmeade.”

Harry nodded. “Rosmerta’s gone… has it really been so many years? Where did our youth go?”

Ron shrugged. “Who knows? For me, it’s been a decade of doing the three things I love the best: playing Quidditch, earning money, and meeting some fine young ladies, if you get my drift.” He winked. “But I like this life. For once in my life, I actually have enough Galleons to do whatever I want to do. I don’t have to count every single Knut to make sure I don’t have to buy second-hand robes.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but a shriek cut him off. All three turned to look at a young girl who was shocked at meeting not only one celebrity, but two! “Mr. Potter! Mr. Weasley!” She screamed again, getting the attention of everyone walking by. The door of the Three Broomsticks slammed open, and a crowd of unbelieving wizards and witches began to draw close.

Harry sighed inaudibly, and walked forward into the shop to greet his fans. They enveloped him quickly, thrusting pieces of parchment and pens at him. They shouted at him to sign them autographs and get pictures taken with them. Harry knew then that his afternoon was finished, that he would spend the rest of the time that he had meant to spend with Ron to satisfy the public.

As he signed those autographs and smiled, and gave comments to his fans, he glanced at Ron standing next to him. Harry was immediately startled at how at-ease he looked. Ron seemed in his element, signing shirts and napkins and pieces of parchment. It seemed as if he knew what to say when to say it, how to connect with those faceless fans that awaited him.

He’s changed, Harry realized. He’s always loved attention, of course; I remember in our third year of Hogwarts, when he was happy to be out of my shadow. He’s always loved the crowd, and always loved being unique. He’s almost the exact opposite of what I am.

He’s become Hollywood. He’s embraced everything that comes with being famous and rich, and he loves every bit of it. He’s become as fake as the rest of them, and he doesn’t seem to notice how much he’s changed.

And Harry realized at that moment that he and Ron would never be best friends again. They had both changed too much for them to fit as well as they used to. This Ron wasn’t the same Ron that had gone with Hermione and him to find the Philosopher’s Stone, and Harry was no longer the same Harry that had stood by and watched as Ron attempted to have a relationship with Hermione.

Nothing, not even friendships, could turn back the hands of time. Of course, he’d still be friends with Ron, and would try to accept him for what he had turned into, but the sad truth was that they no longer had anything in common. All they had left together was the past, but the past grew further and further away by the moment. All in all- they couldn’t relate to each other anymore.

Harry didn’t smile much for rest of the day.

There was a serenity that came with being alone with one’s thoughts. Harry Potter stood in front of his bed in his suite, the half-full suitcase lying open on it. He took the shirt that was in his hand absently, and expertly folded it into a neat square. He could have charmed the suitcase to automatically pack everything he needed, asmost people did, but he liked destroying personally thehomes he hadcreated for himself. He didn’t have to worry about appearances in his own suite, the one he had lived in for three months. Putting away the personal items that had made it his room was a sad affair, just as packing up to move from a home would be. It had to be done with a solemn ceremony, and it came from the attention he paid to every picture, every shirt.

He thought of nothing at all, and he thought of everything. He smiled at the bittersweet memories the items drew out from the crevices of his mind: the first train ride, Hedwig, the graduation, the first kiss with Hermione, the Fight, when Harry’s wand had snapped, along with Voldemort’s.

He was almost always constantly moving because of the different shoot locations, and the flat he owned in London—if he could really call it his home—was as impersonal as any hotel room. He hated it.

He always packed in silence, and today was no different. So, even though the bedroom was two rooms away from the door, Harry immediately heard the telltale slam of someone entering his suite.

He was up and next to the bedroom door in an instant. He looked frantically for his wand for a tense few seconds before he remembered where he was once more. He was usually able to overcome his old wartime reflexes, but sometimes it still managed to get the best of him.

Shaking his head ruefully, Harry Potter walked through the bedroom door to greet whoever it had been that had opened the door- most likely Neville, who was one of the only two that had the keys to his apartment. His guess had been correct- Neville stood in the middle of the living room, striding back and forth, a newspaper in his hand.

Harry grinned. “Neville, what’s up? Here to escort me to the airport? I’m just about fini-” Neville cut his greetings off with a sharp gesture, and Harry stopped, startled. Neville was never impolite.

“Harry, did you reply to Hermione’s letter that she wrote to you a month ago?” Neville asked. Harry searched Neville’s expression, looking for clues, but his mood was as unreadable as a statue’s.

“Err… let’s make up a hypothetic situation here and say that I did. What of it?” Harry responded cautiously.

Neville frowned. “Did you then continue to have any sort of extended correspondence with her, exchanging several letters, possibly containing romantic undertones?”

“I can’t say the romantic undertones were mutual, but—I mean, that’s quite possible. What’s this all about?” Harry asked, looking slightly flushed from the interrogation.

Neville refused to give up his questioning. “And if we follow this train of thought further, could the two of you have spent some time together in London and Wales, enjoying the sites, drinking tea together, and going to the Library of London? Only in this unlikely scenario, of course.”

Harry gritted his teeth. When Neville wanted to, he was damn good at sarcasm. “All right, come off it. I admit that we’ve spent some time together. How’d you know all that much, anyway?”

Neville shook his head sorrowfully at Harry’s apparent lack of concern. “Harry, I know I support you in most of what you do, but… I think this time, you might have made a horrible, horrible mistake.”

Harry stared at him, mouth agape. “Wha- what? You told me to answer her. You told me that to get the old friendships back together would be amazing! What’s this going right back again and telling me that I made a mistake?” He narrowed his eyes, and he raised his chin slightly, challengingly. “I don’t agree with you at all, Neville.”

Neville took a deep breath. After he released it, he was visibly calmer. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t mean to insult you or your friendship with Hermione. I’m still a bit shocked myself at what’s happened. It’s going to be very bad for you for the next couple of weeks.” Neville raised his hand towards Harry, and held out the newspaper for Harry to take.

Harry reached out and took the issue of Wizarding Enquirer from Neville and glanced at the front page. His eyes bulged slightly in shock, and he grabbed the offending news with both hands. His hands shook as they tightened around the page.

The title, brazenly spread out over the front page in large, blinking letters, was: Who’s Harry Potter’s New (Old) Love? Harry read on, his mouth set in a grim line. As his eyes scrutinized the article, the frown that had shown up on his face grew bigger and bigger.

The first things to catch his eye (after the garish title, of course) were two pictures, both enlarged to fit half the page (celebrities as big as Harry Potter of course warranted such coverage). One, placed on the second page of the article, showed Harry and Hermione walking in the streets with dark glasses on, laughing and talking silently to each other. The other, placed on the front page, showed Harry and Hermione sitting at a café talking to each other. The photo-Harry and Hermione smiled at each other, laughed silently, stared into each other’s eyes, and under Harry’s disbelieving eyes, leaned over the table and held each other’s hands.

Even more troubling was the content of the article. Some of their oldest friends had been interviewed, including Dean, Parvati, and Oliver Wood, all saying that “they had been a perfect couple, and I was always sure they’d get together.” Rita Skeeter had somehow also managed to get a copy of all the letters that Harry and Hermione had sent to each other. The more sensational sentences were sprinkled into the article. Sentences that were burned into Harry’s brain, such as ‘I felt like weeping, laughing, and screaming at you, although you wouldn’t have been able to hear me’ from the first letter that she had sent him. Harry’s ‘because here’s the big crazy revelation: I can’t live my life without you’ from the first letter he had sent, and many more snippets which made it seem as if they were completely in love with each other. The article ended with a quote from Hermione:

But I promise you; I will be there to hold your hand when you need it. And I hope you’ll be there to hold my hand too.

Harry looked up at an equally-worried Neville. “So,” Harry muttered, “Rita Skeeter did have a plan in mind.”

“I’m afraid so.” Neville said. “We’ll have to work quickly to minimize the horrible exposure this will put on you and Hermione.”

Harry nodded. “All right. First thing, I’m Apparating to the London Wizarding Hospital and explaining to her what’s going on. She deserves at least that much from me before the everything hits the fan.” He threw the wizard newspaper to the floor, and turned to do as he said. Neville stepped in front of him quickly.

“No!” Neville shook his head vigorously. “You can’t act as if this allegation is true! We just have to keep to your normal schedule and get you to Australia as soon as possible. That should make it easier for us to deny this and hope it blows over quickly as horrible gossip.”

Harry frowned again. “Fine, fine. Doesn’t mean I have to like all this crap. I’m going to write her a letter, trying to explain what all this is. I hope all the media exposure doesn’t overwhelm her. I’d hate for that to happen to her.” Harry caught Neville’s eyes with his own. “Make a statement for me. Try to contain this, okay?”

Neville nodded solemnly, but Harry didn’t see it. He turned around without waiting for a response, his mind spinning with incomprehensible thoughts. He looked around for a pencil, a pen, a quill, anything to write with. He went to his bedroom where his half-packed suitcase awaited him. He began to frantically take out the carefully packed shirts, the toiletries, searching for it. A hand touched his shoulder and he spun around quickly, knocking the hand away from it. “What?” Harry said harshly.

It was Neville, of course, holding the quill that Hermione gave to Harry a long time ago. “Harry… calm down. Here’s a quill. Sit down, take a few deep breaths, think a while about what to put in your letter. Here, go,” he said, shooing Harry to the living room, “there’s some parchment in my briefcase. Take it and write. I’ll finish packing for you. Don’t worry about what’s to come— we’ll take care of it together.”

Harry yielded to Neville’s pushes and let himself be guided out of his bedroom. He stopped for a moment and dragged his hand through his still somewhat-unruly hair. He took the quill out of Neville’s hands and took a few deep breaths.

He glanced at Neville and gave him a haggard smile. “Thanks Neville. You’re a great friend. It’s just… I don’t want anything to harm Hermione, ever.” Harry closed his eyes briefly. In a much softer voice, he continued, “I love her so much.”

Neville smiled kindly. “Don’t forget to put that in the letter.”

A/N - The link is to the Pumpkin Cafe, my Yahoo Group. For those who don't want to go to the hassle of joining, it's just a short article written by Rita Skeeter.

2 Chapters left!

## 5. From Harry to Hermione, February 11, 2012

Chapter 5: From Harry to Hermione, February 11, 2012

When she had heard that Louise had contracted Wizard pneumonia, she was more than happy to cover for one of her best friends, even if it was the graveyard shift. Of course, that Friday had been one of two days that week she was not scheduled to work at the London Wizarding Hospital, but that meant nothing to her. Hermione was Hermione- and she had always been the same since the day she was born. The basis of Hermione lay in her utter loyalty to her friends.

So, even though she was exhausted from the previous five days of drudgery, she donned her uniform and trudged her way to the London Wizarding Hospital. After a quick spell to put aside her weariness until the shift would mercifully be over, Hermione walked through the doors of the hospital with a cheerful smile on her face. As usual, the night guards smiled back at the doctor who clocked in more hours than any other employee.

Everything came off as routine to her; she had traced and retraced those steps to the doctors’ offices of the hospital so many times over the years that she could probably make it to her office half-asleep and blindfolded. She passed by many of her co-workers, all working on their own cases. She paused to talk to the ones she knew closely, exchanging pleasantries and inconsequential nothings. By the time she reached her office, her mind was at rest, and she was ready to go on her rounds.

She walked to the desk, reviewed the patients that still needed special attention, and reviewed the treatment that the patients had been given while she had been away. She sighed. No matter how much time and effort she put into her work, she was not able to magically heal every person that was placed in her care. Despite the best spells, potions and charms that could be given to the ill, three of Hermione’s patients had shown a negative reaction to the treatment that had been given over the week. The treatments had all been treatments that Hermione herself had proscribed. All of these treatments had been considered standard in The Book of Healing VII: Ridiculously Advanced Stuff, but none of the patients had reacted as the book had foretold. It was as if the writers of the book had randomly thrown darts at a board to chart out the results: nothing made sense to her. It was driving her mad.

She pushed open the door to room TK421, the first of her many scheduled stops that night. She quickly recalled the information she knew about this particular patient: he was a Quidditch umpire who had been injured by curses thrown at a Wasps-Cannons game that Hermione had forgotten to watch to support her friend, Ron. Christopher Ignatius Durang looked to be in as bad of a condition as he had been in last night. His eyes were wide open; he seemed to be unaware of the fact that it was close to midnight.

“Hello, Mr. Durang. How are you feeling tonight?” Hermione asked in what she referred to as her ‘Novocain voice.’

“Hi doc. My leg’s still twitching a bit, but I think I’m getting better.” His eyes followed her as she moved across the room and to the bedside, where his medical condition was still being dutifully logged by the Vigilance Charm. He watched as she pressed a slim finger to a button on the side of the bed, and as she read the display that he could not see.

“Well,” Hermione said, smiling, “It looks like the latest infections in your wounds are finally disappearing. You’re reacting favorably to the potions! If you continue your recovery at this rate, we’ll be able to heal your wounds tomorrow, and you could be out of here by next Wednesday!” She tapped the button again, and the display shut down with a click. Chris smiled, his eyes growing even wider at the great news. He had perfect faith in the abilities of the lovely doctor, and the high-spirited words that she had just given him raised his hopes immensely.

Hermione stepped out of the hospital room, smiling widely. Despite the cheerful words she had given to Mr. Durang, she had been sincerely worried for her patient. Since he had been admitted to the hospital, things had truly looked dire for his future. She leaned against the wall in the corridor, closed her eyes, and gave thanks to whatever gods there were for saving her patient.

When she opened her eyes again, the radiant and perky face of Nurse Mary filled her vision. Hermione realized who she was immediately; she was rather notorious among the staff for flirting with the handsome patients. She was grinning mischievously, something that she was known to do a lot of the time: but she was young, and Hermione remembered wistfully the days when she herself had been 22. Thoughts of her happy relationship with her best friend arose, but she forced herself to push them aside—after all, such thoughts always took too long to process.

Hermione smiled, ignoring her weariness along with any distracting thoughts. “Hello, Mary. How are you today?” She gestured in the direction of the patient room she had just vacated. “Room TK421. Why aren’t you at your post?”

Mary replied quickly, her happy, cheery voice filling the corridor. “Well,” she said with a slight blush, “I was just down checking on Mr. Tibbs. Is there something wrong? Is everything okay?” She asked, sounding a bit worried; she knew she had been spending too much time recently with the roguish Auror down on level 5.

Hermione nodded. “No need to hurry, Mary. Everything seems to be fine.” She said. She took a deep breath of relief. “I feel great today. In fact, I feel as if a great load has been taken off of my shoulders. That’s one thing I don’t have to worry about any more.”

Mary nodded sympathetically. “I know what you mean. The pressure, knowing that all those people would jump over you if you mess up… I don’t think I could handle it. How long have you been holding it to yourself?”

Hermione nodded, leaning her head back to look at the ceiling. “It’s not too easy to have my job, you know. I’ve had this burden almost since I started to help him. He was so broken then; he needed almost my full attention to make sure he could survive. And now- I know he can.” She murmured the last words under her breath, so Mary could only hear a snippet of the sentence.

Mary apparently got the gist of the sentence, for she grinned rather widely. “I bet. When did you start seeing him?”

Hermione shrugged and looked at her, raising an eyebrow at her odd question. “When he first came here, of course. That was, oh, three we—"

Mary cut her off, her eyes wide with excitement. “He came here? To this hospital? Wow! I thought you went looking for him at his house or something! Wow! How romantic of him!”

Hermione frowned. Romantic? What the—? She thought, completely bewildered. She reached out and grabbed Mary’s wrist gently. She spoke slowly, enunciating each word, as if speaking to a wayward child. “I’ve been talking about the recovery of Mr. Durang, the man in this room you were supposed to be checking.” She paused. “What have you been talking about, Mary?”

Mary’s eyes widened in surprise, and she raised her hand to cover her mouth in embarrassment. “Oh, oh- oh my god!” She exclaimed loudly, starting to blush. “Oh— I’m so sorry—I mean, I—that is, I have so much to do— paperwork to fill out, you know how that is—oh, thank you for talking—I mean, it was my pleasure—I mean—” she babbled. She twisted her wrist slightly, and tried to hurry past Hermione without any sort of explanation.

“No, wait!” Hermione cried out, trying to prevent the young nurse from leaving without giving an explanation, but it was to no use. Mary slipped from her grip, as if she had cast a Liquidize spell to aid her escape. Hermione watched as Mary practically ran in to Mr. Durang’s room in a flurry of long hair.

What was all that about? Hermione wondered; she could feel a small sense of foreboding settling in the bottom of her stomach. She sighed. She wondered briefly how she had survived those critical years as a flighty young woman. It seemed to her now that nobody at such a young age could be given any sort of responsibility to handle.

She thought of returning to Mr. Durang’s room and demanding an explanation from Mary; of indulging in the freedom that no longer existed for her, of losing her cool in front of the patient and the nurse and anyone else that wanted to see. She had nothing to hide, after all. She was Doctor Hermione Granger, and she no doubt merited a yelling spree once in a while.

The thoughts passed through her mind in an instant, and were gone as quickly as they had come. She shook her head, chuckling slightly at her foolish thoughts, and started to walk down the corridor towards her other patients’ rooms. After all, she was no longer as stubborn or hotheaded as she had been in her late teens. She was now a full-grown woman, a woman who had learned to be as patient as possible over the years. And anyways, the outburst by the young nurse was probably a remnant of a rumor passed around the water cooler that Hermione had not had a chance to hear.

She had a busy night, making sure all her patients were sleeping and in a stable condition; by the end of the hour, she had completely forgotten the incident.

By the time she clocked out of the hospital at seven AM, the sun was already rising and the inhabitants of London had begun to stir about their everyday business. Of course, all this activity went unnoticed by the tired doctor, who had had to handle too many crises that night. As she walked towards the lobby, where the hospital Wizard Junction stood, Hermione could feel her eyes closing without her consent. The charm she had cast earlier had finally begun to wear off. She struggled against her tiredness to walk without a stagger. She stumbled slightly when she reached the station, and caught herself almost instantly.

Her lapse in control did not go unnoticed, however. Steve, one of the technicians always around to aid problematic Apparations, walked towards Hermione, a worried look on his face. He held out a hand in front of her, a hand Hermione gratefully took. She closed her eyes, gathering strength, despite her aversion to show her weaknesses in front of others. Steve waited patiently until Hermione released his hand on her own accord.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” Steve asked, the concern evident in his voice.

Hermione smiled graciously. “Yes, thank you, Steve. I’ll be fine once I get my bearings. I’ll be out of your hair in a moment.”

Steve nodded, but it was obvious to Hermione that he didn’t believe her. But, respecting her wishes, he stepped back to give her room (though he looked ready to step forward at any provocation).

After a moment, Hermione nodded and smiled at Steve. “Thank you for your concern. Have a good day.” With that, Hermione concentrated on the image of her living room, and focused her power to transport her there. With a tingling feeling overtaking her skin, Hermione started to disappear to her apartment.

With a start, her eyes widened as her concentration faltered and she felt the magic she had gathered begin to pull her in two—she could feel her arm start to separate from the rest of her body in an intense surge of pain that spread throughout her entire body. Before she could cry out in pain, an external force flooded her body and seemed to sooth all her burning muscles. The hospital, which had remained in her sight, swept away from her eyes with a bright flash.

And just like that, the crisis was over. Hermione appeared in the living room of her two-story house, her chest heaving with exertion and sweat running down her face. She was surprised to find herself shaking. She blindly groped her way to a couch and collapsed onto it like a marionette with its strings cut off.

She couldn’t stop herself: she had never come so close to splinching before in her life. She had always prided herself in always knowing the limits of her abilities. But tonight, the endless shifts all in a row had finally gotten to her. And, to add to the cosmic joke of all jokes, she now had a shift at the Muggle hospital to take care of.

Without further ado, she put her head to one of the pillows left on the couch and closed her eyes, her shoulders tight with tension. She didn’t notice, but she was still shaking when she finally drifted off to sleep.

A sudden jarring noise from outside jerked Hermione awake, her body drenched with sweat from a dream she could not remember. She rubbed her eyes and opened them slightly, staring at the Muggle clock that hung over her television. It was nearly 2 PM, which meant that she was right on schedule. She slowly trudged her way upstairs and into the shower she desperately needed. She disrobed with her eyes still welded shut with sleep, and turned the shower knob furthest it could go to the left.

She waited a bit for the water to get hot, and then slipped in and closed the glass door behind her. She stepped to the middle of the roomy booth and let the soothing water wash over her body. She spent an extraordinarily long time in the shower, getting her mental state ready for the grueling task at hand.

Hermione stepped out of the bathroom after toweling off, and it was as if the shower had thrown a switch in Hermione. Her movements were now brisk and businesslike, a complete 180 degrees from the tired shuffling before. Though the blinds were firmly closed, keeping the midday sun out of the room, she had no trouble finding the clothes to wear. She was back inside the bathroom in ten minutes, getting ready for the day swiftly. It seemed a bit louder outside than normal, but she gave it no thought and continued to dress.

She grabbed the lab coat from her closet and threw it on quickly; she was now ready. She opened the medicine cabinet and drew out the Time-Turner that she had grown dependent on over the years. She put the gold chain around her neck; her fingers closed the clasp behind her neck with ease of years of repetition.

Hermione brought the hourglass up close next to her mouth and said in a clear voice, “Marsden’s Wizarding Junction.” She turned the hourglass over three times, and her house dissolved from her eyes.

She no longer really felt the sensations anymore; it was as if her body had grown accustomed to falling backwards and no longer responded to it. She felt slightly nauseated but when the world came into focus again, she was back to normal. Without a pause she slipped her Time-Turner underneath her blouse and checked her watch. A satisfied smile grew on her face and she started to walk out of the room.

It was now 6:50 AM. The smile stayed on her face as she waved jauntily to the wizard technicians manning the Junction. She still had it as she walked through the doors of the hospital, focusing her mind to the work at hand.

After all, it was such a pleasure to be on schedule.

Work at the Royal Marsden Hospital was not as stressing as her work at the London Wizarding Hospital for many reasons. The chief reason was that at the Marsden she didn’t have patients under her care. In the Muggle world she was a researcher, laboring in the constant pursuit of that one ‘magic pill’ that would solve humankind’s problems. Her work in the Marsden Hospital harkened back to her beloved school days with many a happy hour spent in the library looking up just one more arcane reference. The pace of the Royal Marsden was slower and more professional than the frantic pace of the Wizarding Hospital. Most of her work involved chemicals and experiments on animals than actual humans. (She had involved herself in treatment of cancer patients in her earlier days with the hospital but stopped after only a few months. The fruitless battles to contain the diseases had broken her heart and very nearly destroyed her health.)

She worked closely with eight other doctors every day on her current project, a rather ambitious project to attempt to find a cure for lung cancer. They jokingly called themselves the “Fellowship of the Ringer’s,” as their current approach to the cure incorporated certain anomalies related to Ringer's Lactate, a simple electrolyte solution. Being the only non-Muggle in the group, Hermione had been amused greatly that she had been christened Gandalf.

It was slow and quiet that day; only three other doctors had come in that day, so the morning meeting (which took on average 3 hours) passed by twice as quickly. For the rest of the shift Hermione experimented with gusto, relishing the fact that she had the rest of the day free to do whatever she wanted. The only thing that came to mind was a nice warm bath and a good eight hours of sleep.

Hermione had been in the middle of cleaning up her workstation when the phone suddenly rang. She picked it up absent-mindedly, and said “Hello, Dr. Granger speaking,” while putting away a Petri dish. A very familiar voice came from the other end.

“Hello Hermione,” he said, his voice deep and full of concern, “it’s Nelson.”

Hermione stopped, her hand hanging in midair. She shook her head and forced away all the memories rushing through her. She nodded to herself. “Yes, Nelson, what is it? I thought you weren’t coming to work today?”

“I’m not,” he replied. “Hermione, I’m worried about you.”
Hermione sniffed audibly. “Well, there’s no need,” she said, her voice unnaturally high, starting to speak faster, the way she still did whenever she was miffed. “I’m perfectly fine. So I’ll just finish cleaning up here, and I’ll see you at the morning meeting tomorrow, okay?” She took the phone away from her ear, and moved as to turn it off, when Nelson yelled “DON’T!”

Startled, Hermione actually placed the phone back to her ear. It was so out of character for Nelson to lose his cool like that… In fact, the only other time that he had ever lost his cool in front of her had been after he had learned of Hermione’s…

“Hermione?” Nelson asked, his voice calm once again.

“Ye-yes?”

“Have you seen today’s newspapers?”

“No, Nelson, I really haven’t had time to sit about doing the crosswords.” She replied sarcastically (although she did love doing them).

“I want you to check out today’s tabloids. I think it’s very important that…”

Hermione cut in, angry at his commanding tone and at his presumptions that she would be interested. “Dr. Spencer, I am a research scientist. Unless you have information pertaining to our current project, you are wasting my time. I’m not at all interested in what latest floozy has decided to ‘bare her all’ on page 3! Do you have any such information?” She asked acidly.
After all, the tabloids had to do with a certain celebrity every other week, and Hermione had no intention of hearing about Harry Potter’s new floozy.

She heard Nelson sigh over the phone. “Don’t be angry, Hermione, I’m trying to he—”

“No? Then good bye.” She hung up the phone angrily and without a second glance left the room.

She met one of her other colleagues just outside her door; he had a small smile on his face. “Was that Strider, Gandalf?” Dr. Carl Erickson asked. Tall, handsome, blond: he would have been the poster-boy for Hitler’s Aryan Empire. As it was, he was Jewish and rather resented the sentiment.

“Yes, it was. Do you find something funny, Boromir?” Hermione asked, the edge still evident in her voice. It wasn’t that she was angry at his insinuations, but she was still riled at Nelson’s audacity. And it wasn’t really Carl’s fault, Hermione knew; he didn’t know the real circumstances behind their breakup. In fact, none of the Fellowship knew about what had transpired between Hermione and Nelson. They had rooted for them while the romance had bloomed; they had aided all Nelson’s attempts to gain Hermione’s affections. They had been as happy as the pair themselves when they announced their engagement: their puzzlement at the breakup had been as extreme, and still lingered.

What added to the problem was the explanation Hermione and Nelson had given the rest of the group for their breakup. Arthur had done a great job in obliterating Nelson’s memories of Hermione’s confession, but he had left it up to Hermione to make up a reason for the breakup. Rather than complicate things, Hermione had refused to talk further about it.

Naturally rumors ran rampant as to what actually caused the falling out. Lately the two most convincing theories were that either that Nelson could have done something completely insensitive and offended Hermione horribly, or Hermione could have been too afraid of the commitment to go through with the wedding plans. Most had known Nelson longer, since he had worked at the hospital for ten years before Hermione arrived, and they could not imagine he would do anything to hurt her to that extreme. The majority of the staff leaned toward Hermione breaking it off. Interestingly, only a few of the women thought Nelson was to blame. Now, everyone had made a bit of a game out of trying to get the two back together.

It was rather a bit of a bother to Hermione, at least: it seemed Nelson still held a small hope of getting back together (although in his mind, he was the one who broke the engagement off).

Carl shook his head. “No, nothing’s funny at all, Hermione, nothing at all. I definitely think that there’s nothing still going on between you and Nelson.” Carl grinned roguishly and winked.

Hermione fumed silently, and walked past him without another word.

“Hey wait!” Carl called to her, right as she reached the elevator. “Hey, Gandalf, don’t be mad! I was just trying to get your goat.”

“Congratulations, you got my goat,” Hermione snapped. “You can keep it and have it for a nice supper for all I care.” And the elevator doors closed between them.

Though she gave the customary responses to fulfill etiquette on the way from the hospital, her mind was still on the presumptions of Nelson, the immaturity of Carl, and the idiocy of the entire male community. Muttering to herself under her breath, she reached the underground parking structure in record time. Reaching the car that managed to appear in her parking space every night, she got in quickly and left for the comfort of home. (She figured the car trick had to do with a nuance involving the Time Turner; she had researched the phenomenon for three days straight and had only found little.)

Even through her haze of anger, she drove under the speed limit.

Her anger had dissipated by the time she turned left onto Elm Park. What remained was merely a sad resignation to her fate; she knew it had been a horrible day and that her close encounter with Splinching during the night was a huge factor in her current state. She knew that she would have to recheck all the research she had done today in the library to make sure the information had not been tainted by her mood.

But that would be another day. For today, all she wanted to do was relax and sleep until it was time for her shift again.

As she drove closer to her house, she saw an abnormally large number of cars parked near the end of the street. Many were double-parked and even triple-parked, blocking the street entirely; it would have been impossible for Hermione to drive through them to get to her house.

With a frustrated growl that spoke of her misadventures earlier that day, she parked her car neatly on the side of the street right before the huge mass. She wasn’t quite sure what all the fuss was about- it was probably just a neighbor having a huge party or some such- but she didn’t care at the moment. She just wanted to go to sleep.

She popped out of her car and with a righteous air gathering around her she marched towards the clump of people standing next to the cars. But as she passed the many cars and vans that made up the blockade she noticed with a start that many of the vehicles had emblems on them. She paused mid-stride and stared, shocked, at them.

What is this? She wondered, shocked. The BBC, National Enquirer, Newsweek, Entertainment Weekly, The Times, the Brazilian News; these are all sorts of newspapers and TV stations from all over the world. What’s all this about? She moved closer to the reporters, and suddenly stopped. There, hidden behind seven Muggle Aversion Enchantments each, were newsvans for the Wizarding Enquirer, the BWBC, Witch Weekly, and the Wizarding Times.

Hermione frowned, her mind racing. She was the only witch on her block, and for there to be both Wizarding and Muggle publications it had to do with either a huge event that had to do with both wizards and Muggles, or… it had to be about her. And since she hadn’t heard anything earth-shattering happening around her neighborhood…

She turned and started to walk as fast as she could back to her car. However, before she even reached the furthest line of cars, she heard a man shout from behind her, “There she is! Quick!” She ignored it, and continued to walk out of the situation, but in a matter of seconds that was no longer an option.

She was surrounded by journalists, broadcasters, and news anchors instantly, all talking a thousand words a minute. Photographers began to shoot off as many pictures of her as possible, blinding Hermione with a million flashes; the clicks from the cameras going off filled her ears. People bustled to get closer to her, and it seemed that a loud obnoxious mob had suddenly situated itself around her. Even her neighbors, who had seemed to Hermione the most unobtrusive people in the world, opened windows and began to stare at the debacle.

What was even worse was the barrage of questions that seemed to assault her from every angle. Respectful yet forceful ones came from the more distinguished journalists, but bawdy, even downright rude questions were thrown at her from the trash writers. Everything from her former and current work to cure cancers to her turn-ons in bed was questioned loud and repeatedly.

“Stop!” Hermione yelled, trying to gain control over the situation, but no one seemed to hear or care. No one even paused in their questioning and microphones of all sorts (some were actual microphones, and some were Transfigured Quick-Quotes Quills) were thrust right in front of her.

Finally, as she felt the endless questioning begin to overwhelm her senses, she felt strong arms grab her from the back. A deep, manly voice refuted the journalists in a calm and commanding voice and gently guided her through the crowd. Hermione couldn’t tell who it was, but at the moment, she didn’t care. She felt a sense of comfort radiating from the warm body holding her, a sense she let envelop her. She leaned her head on the shoulder of the man, who pushed through the crowd and to her house.

She heard him murmur close to her ear “Keys, Hermione, we need to get in.” Unresisting, Hermione dug into her purse and pulled out the keys; her hands shook and they dropped the keys three times before she managed to put the right key into the lock. He waited patiently, shielding her from the shouts and cameras of the press. She finally got the door open and she walked into her house angrily. Looking for something to vent her anger, she picked up that day’s mail and threw it violently against the wall. It hit the wall without any satisfying sound and disappeared behind the sofa.

She bit her lip, knowing that if she let loose a cry, the paparazzi would hear and know that they were getting to her. She threw her jacket on the coat rack and walked into her living room. She plopped down on the couch and put her head in her hands, trying very hard to keep her emotions in check.

Footsteps grew closer and Hermione lifted her head, wiping the moisture away from her eyes before they could fall. She smiled weakly in the direction of her benefactor, who was coming into the kitchen. “Thank you for helping me, Ha-” Hermione stopped abruptly, stunned beyond words.

Nelson dropped her keys on the kitchen counter, and walked around to the couch where she sat. “No problem, Hermione. You know I’d do anything for you,” he said quietly, and sat down next to her. “You know what this is all about, don’t you?”

Hermione nodded. Nelson sighed and pulled out of his jacket a bulging brown folder. “I don’t think you really want to read all this… but as it is about you, I brought it anyway.” He paused for a moment. “Is… is it true, Hermione?” He asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Silence was his answer.

“I know I broke it off with you. But did you really want out then? Have you been seeing this actor since—”

Hermione leapt to her feet, her eyes flashing with anger. “You daft, arrogant prick! You dare suggest that I’m a sort of… sort of…” –In her anger, the only insult she could think of was the term that Rita Skeeter had so long ago assigned to her— “scarlet woman? Some… whore who picks and chooses while playing the bloody field? You… you…”

Nelson blinked, puzzled at her outburst. “Calm down, Hermione, you know that’s not what I was say—”

“That’s exactly what you were saying!” Hermione screamed, her face flushed with anger. “Get the hell out of my house!”

Nelson stood up, hands held out as if to appease her. “Hermione, you shouldn’t be alone right now… what you need is a friend to help you through this mess.”

Hermione was staring daggers at him, ready to forget her stand against non-violence. When, as if on cue, her front door was opened to the cacophony of the press outside and a female voice yelling “no comment.” They turned toward the disturbance, daring the unexpected visitor to intervene.

It was Ginny. “Hermione, I just heard on the radio—” she stopped short, seeing Nelson standing there with Hermione. She gave a thin smile to Nelson (it was apparent she hadn’t forgotten anything about the night they had met), and walked towards Hermione. “Hello, I’m Virginia Weasley.”

Nelson, struggling to keep his civility, nodded to her. “Hello, I’m—”

“—Leaving,” Hermione finished, giving him a deadly glare. Nelson stopped and looked into Hermione’s eyes for a long moment; he could find only anger and determination in them. He took a deep breath, coldly nodded to Hermione, and left the house. As soon as he left the room, Ginny engulfed Hermione in the tightest hug possible.

“Oh, honey, I just heard the rumors and came straight over. Are you all right?”

“I’m… it’s really not been a good day,” Hermione said with a self-pitying laugh.

Ginny nodded. “I know, Hermione. Molly’s waiting back at the Burrow for you with a nice cup of tea and the tub’s ready to be filled with some Hermione! No questions asked.”

No questions asked, Hermione mused as Ginny flittered around her, gathering things she might need for her stay at the Burrow. I think I’d enjoy that. Ginny finished in an instant, and both of them Apparated away from the house surrounded by opportunistic journalists to a home filled with love and care.

Hermione drifted off to sleep almost immediately upon reaching the Burrow. No one could blame her. While she slept in Charlie’s old room, the Weasley family gathered and discussed how best to help her in the situation. Fred and George immediately volunteered to blow up their joke shop in Hogsmeade to gather attention away from Hermione’s situation. The suggestion was knocked down instantly, but no one else could think of anything to do.

Finally, they decided to stick to what they were best at doing: supporting Hermione with their love and care. Bill left to bring back cartloads of her favorite drinks, pumpkin juice and boodles and tonic (with two limes for each glass, he remembered); Fred and George left to their joke shop to grab Cheering Powder to sneak into the aforementioned drinks. The rest of the gathered Weasleys stayed at home to be around when Hermione needed them.

She woke up after thirteen hours of sleep, and the first thing she did was ask for a leave of absence from both her jobs for the period of one week. Both her superiors were aware of the unusual situation and granted her the request without question. That day, she lounged around the Burrow, helped de-gnome the garden, and laughed at all of Fred and George’s antics.

Following Hermione’s lead, they all avoided the topic of Harry Potter.

That evening, the Weasleys and Hermione were watching the Wizarding News on television when the subject of Harry Potter and Hermione came up. They watched without commenting as the history of Hermione Granger and Harry Potter unfolded in front of them. The story lasted a full fifteen minutes (which was highly irregular for a news program), starting with their first meeting over twenty years ago and leading to the recent articles published in practically every scandal sheet in existence.

“Mr. Harry Potter released a statement today through his agent, Mr. Neville Longbottom,” said the news anchor. “And I quote, ‘Miss Granger and I have had some romantic entanglements in the past and have recently begun to rebuild our friendship. Please respect our wishes and give us the privacy and space that any person deserves. Thank you.’” The news anchor, a popular one named Garcin, looked up from his notes to the camera once more and continued. “Harry Potter is currently in Australia filming his new movie, Wheel of Time: The Eye of the World, and was unavailable for comment.”

The television clicked off, and the Weasley family watched in silence as Hermione left the room.

The week off had been the best idea Hermione could have ever taken. The Weasleys were the least pretentious people she knew, despite the success of some of its members; they were there to make her laugh, and keep her mind off her current woes.

Arthur still worked at the Ministry of Magic and was only around mornings and nights, yet he always had a warm smile and a kind word for the honorary Weasley. Percy worked alongside his father, and while his intentions were clear, his pompous nature often made Hermione laugh. Ginny, working hard to write articles for the magazine Circe, had decided to do her work at home instead of at the office to stay with Hermione. Bill, still working for Gringotts, Apparated home every other day to talk to Hermione. Charlie came home from the Dragon Preserve in China to show his support. Fred and George had trustworthy personnel that operated their joke shop, and so they stayed around the Burrow to make Hermione laugh as much as possible. Even Ron came to the house as often as he could—which still wasn’t too much time, considering his busy schedule.

After the delicious dinner Tuesday night, Hermione excused herself from the group and walked outside. Staring at the stars, she leaned against the front of the house deep in thought. Her contemplations were interrupted when the front door opened again and Ron came to join her. He leaned against the wall to her left and stared at the stars along with her.

“Hey you.”

“Hey.”

They were silent for a while and they stood, enjoying each other’s presence. Ron shifted to look at her face; he stared at her, as if entranced by what he saw. Hermione turned and looked at him, eyebrow raised.

“What?”

His voice was quiet, more so than normal. “It’s just… it’s been a long time, you know. I can’t remember the last time you, me and Harry just enjoyed our time together. I haven’t felt this at peace since…”

“I know.” Hermione nodded, and smiled. “I was just thinking of that time. May 19, 2002. We argued about—”

“—Whether it’s courtesy or not for actors to sign autographs when they’re out with family. I remember now.” Ron gave a snort. “How ironic, huh?”

“Yes, fate seems to have a way of mocking us.” There was a pause in their conversation where both of them looked out at the stars once more. This time it was Ron who broke the silence.

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh, you know, just on top of the world, that’s all. I mean, the last time Harry and I broke up I felt so good that I feel like doing it again for kicks.”

“You’re not going to break up this time.”

There was silence once more as she considered his answer. Suddenly, Hermione smiled.

“That's very sweet, Ron. It’s rather out of character for you!”

“Yeah, I have my moments.” Ron shrugged. “I only wish that life hadn’t spread us apart so much. We’ve rarely talked these ten years.”

Hermione nodded. “I know.”

“You have the same look in your eyes.”

“What are you talking about? What look?”

“The Look. You’re in love again. With the same person, no less. How likely is that?”

Hermione stopped for a moment, stunned by his words. She quickly smiled and said, covering for her lapse, “Stop that, you’re scaring me. Where’s the insensitive Ron we all know and love?”

“He’s probably out shacking up with some random girl somewhere. That’s what you’d expect him to do, right?”

Hermione laughed. “What, are you going to try to deny it?”

“Deny it? Hell, it’s half my reputation!”

They shared a laugh, and smiled at each other once again; they could feel the old friendship start to boom once more.

Hermione walked past Ron. She opened the door and smiled at her best friend. “Well, it’s been just marvelous chewing the fat with you, but I better get inside and get some rest.”

“Wait.”

She stopped and looked at him expectantly. Ron looked Hermione straight in the eyes.

“Believe me when I say this: you’re not going to break up this time, Hermione. I mean it.”

Hermione leaned against the doorjamb. “I’d really like to believe that, Ron… but whenever I try to figure out if this is all worth it, I come to the same question: why wasn’t Harry there for me when I needed him? I love him, I really do; but I have all this anger at him that I can’t seem to get rid of.” She trailed off, staring off into the wall. Then she shook her head, smiled embarrassedly, and murmured a “good night, Ron” as she walked inside.

Ron stayed outside for a little longer, contemplating on her words. Suddenly he shook his head, and smiling, returned to the living room.

On the seventh day, God rested from all that he had created.

On the seventh day of Hermione’s rest, all hell broke loose in the Burrow.

It started out calmly enough. The Weasley clan and Hermione gathered bright and early to enjoy a good breakfast. In an event rarely seen, all nine Weasleys sat around the table eating and bantering across the table. George had snuck a Duck a la Weasley into Ron’s food, making Ron quack and turn in circles for thirty seconds. The entire Weasley family (excepting Molly) burst out into laughter, and when Ron returned to normal he joined in.

All the antics were stopped, however, by a loud (but polite) knocking from the door. Everyone looked nervously about, trying to avoid the obvious. Because of the anti-paparazzi Charms placed by Bill (a rather new invention from the goblins), everyone knew it could only be one person at the door.

Hermione stood up, used a napkin to brush over her mouth, and quietly said, “I’ll get that.” She left the room quickly, with a glint in her eye that Ron used to refer to as her “warpath look”.

Hermione opened the door and stood face to face with Harry Potter.

She felt no sympathy for him at all, but he didn’t look to be in the best of conditions. His white dress shirt was rumpled, as if he had been sleeping in it for the last four days. His black pants had a lot of dirt and looked scuffed. The eyes behind his glasses were reddened, and obviously tired.

Harry Potter shook his head. “God, you’re a sight for sore—”

“Save it,” Hermione snapped. “What do you want? And give me one reason I shouldn’t slam the door on your face.”

Harry frowned. “Don’t take that tone of voice with me, Hermione, don’t you dare—”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Hermione asked loudly. “Why should I be gentle with you when you abandoned me to those vultures? You let me be enveloped by those arseholes!”

“Abandoned?” Harry said angrily. “Abandoned? I did everything in my power to divert attention from you. I practically sold my soul, working all night to think up ways to keep you out of this. Neville and I—”

Hermione snorted rudely. “Oh, that’s bloody great. You tried,” Hermione said, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “You deserve a bloody prize, you do. A star next to your name and everything. Just wonderful.”

Harry stepped forward. “I sent you the quickest express note possible, warning you that the situation was going to happen—”

Hermione frowned. “What note? I didn’t get any note from you, and it’s been seven days since the day I got ambushed by the press!”

Harry took a deep breath and leaned against the wall next to the door. “Close the door, the whole world doesn’t need to hear this.”

“That’s the only intelligent thing you’ve said all day,”Hermione said, and closed the door firmly. She turned to Harry with her hands on his hips, a position males have known since the beginning of time to be 'danger.' “Tell me, Harry Potter, why the hell are you such an idiot?”

“Why don’t you tell me why you think so?”

“Why haven’t you contacted me before this?”

“I’ve been working with Muggles, Hermione, in Australia. It’s not too easy to slip out for a quick Apparation whenever I bloody want, with their security cameras and all.” Harry shifted his feet. “I would have given anything to have been able to be there when everything crashed around you. But I couldn’t. That’s the simplest way I can put it for you.”

Hermione frowned. “Don’t you understand? I needed you. And you weren’t there. You didn’t help me at all! Not even a bloody ring on the phone!”

“Don’t you know that your phone lines have been busy since last Friday? I’ve tried a thousand times to get you on the phone, and nothing’s worked. And I thought you’d understand after the letter I sent you!”

Hermione exploded. “One thing I never want you to do to me is lie, Harry James Potter! There was no letter, there is no letter, and there never was a letter! Don’t try to cover up your mistakes and say it’s the bloody post that’s screwed up!”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I. Sent. You. A. Bloody. Long. Letter. I explained everything that was happening!”

Hermione slapped him hard. “Hollywood’s changed you, Harry. I thought deep inside you were still the sweet guy I used to know, but you… I still remember what you did to me ten years ago. You are a lying, manipulative bastard all bent up to get inside my knickers! Well, you're not going to find me pining away after the dream anymore!” Hermione turned, and ran up the stairs. A moment later, the door slam resonated in the house.

Harry stood in one place, fuming at her audacity. By the time Ron, Ginny and Molly reached him he was no longer angry; now only sadness filled him, sadness at having lost a connection he had tried for so long to reconnect.

Ginny smiled sadly. “You sent a letter.”

Harry nodded slowly, closing his eyes. Ginny threw her arms around him and hugged him; he didn’t respond. She leaned forward and whispered in Harry’s ear, “Things will work out, Harry.” She then headed up the stairs to Hermione’s room.

Molly placed a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat?”

Harry shook his head. In a hoarse voice, he replied, “I have to get back. But thanks, Molly.” He walked to the front door and opened it slowly. As he left the house, Ron followed him and grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

“Harry, I need to talk to you, and it’s quite important.”

Harry hesitated. “Now’s not the best time, Ron—”

“Sod that!” Ron exclaimed. He continued in a much calmer voice, “Harry. Listen, and listen well. Look, don’t lose hope. Hermione’s just mad at the circumstances, not at you. You’re the only thing she can lash out at about this whole affair. Once she’s had time to think things over, I’m sure she’ll come to her senses.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, my friend, but I don’t think things will be that easy to fix.” Harry said. He shook the hand of his former best friend, and walked to the curb. As he Apparated out of the country his thoughts were drawn to the last words Hermione had said to him; he could concentrate on nothing else for the next week.

Hermione watched from her window as he disappeared from sight with tears in her eyes.

End of the Chapter

A/N: Wow. Editing that took me quite a lot of time. Man, this chapter was really bad off before.

Review! Just a week left 'til Chapter 6 and the Epilogue!

## 6. The Climax

Title: With Love (6/6)

Author: Seiryuu

Rating: PG-13.

Summary: Our story finally comes to an end.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The Wheel of Time series is owned by Robert Jordan and Tor Fantasy Books. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author’s Note:Thanks to mor levi for dragging me out to finish this story; god knows it’s long overdue. There’s many, many reasons why it took so long to come out, but suffice it to say it’s rather boring and we should just get to the fiction.

Apologies if it’s not up to the usual standards: I’m out of practice.

Chapter 6: The Climax

February 18, 2012

“Harry! Harry!”

He turned around and smiled when he saw who it was; rather, who they both were. He leaned against the wall and waited for the pair to catch up to him. “Hey guys. What’s up?”

They flanked him and each grabbed one of Harry’s arms. “Let’s go back to the Burrow, where you belong,” Fred said with a frown on his face.

“You don’t intend to leave now, do you?” George asked.

“After all, Hermione is vulnerable right now-” Fred said.

“And she needs everyone she trusts and loves with her-” George continued.

”Which, of course, includes you.” Fred finished.

Harry shook the twins off of him and glared at them. “I think Hermione’s made it perfectly clear where she wants me to go,” he said. “I don’t see a point in sticking around to support her when she doesn’t want any of the support. She doesn’t even believe me! How can she not even believe-”

Harry stopped himself, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. After a moment he opened his eyes and looked at each of the twins in the eyes. He smiled – a painful smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Look, mates, I appreciate the thought and I know you care about what’s going to happen. But I can’t stick around when she doesn’t even want to listen to what I have to say. She looks like she’s in good hands, and I don’t need to be here.”

The twins talked one after another in the rapid-fire way that was trademark.

“What, are you deliberately being stupid?”

“Don’t be such a daft prick.”

“We love both of you equally. Still, you seemed up to handling the mess. We would’ve helped you too if you needed it.”

Harry nodded. “I know. That goes without saying.” He shrugged the twins off his arms. “Besides, I have to Apparate back to Australia as soon as possible before anyone notices I’m gone. We’re not shooting for a few days but I should be back to answer questions if I need to. Thanks for coming to see me, Fred, George, and I’ll definitely keep in touch.”

Harry smiled at them and turned around. He had taken only a few steps when George’s voice came from behind him, loud and cutting.

“Running away again, Harry?”

Harry stopped in his tracks and turned around. “What did you just say?” he asked in disbelief.

For once there was no humor in George’s face, no twinkle in his eyes. He crossed his arms across his chest. “You heard me. Are you going to just run away again, like you have with so many of your problems?”

Harry stared at George. He opened his mouth and closed it again as he tried to figure out what to say. He had never seen George this angry before.

George smirked and spat, “It’s just so much easier to retreat, isn’t it Harry? Just go off to a different continent, run off and hide halfway across the world. Forget that there’s a woman crying back at our home because of you. Really brave of you, Harry. Really bloody Gryffindor of you. I’ll see you when you’re done being a sodding idiot.” He turned around and walked away without a glance back. Fred looked at George then turned back to Harry.

Harry looked back at the twin, half-expecting to Fred to start into him too. Fred raised an eyebrow at Harry. He grinned and shrugged. “I’ll see you around, Harry. Keep in touch,” he said, and stepped forward to give Harry a big hug. He winked, turned and skipped toward his twin, whistling all the while.

Harry stood for a moment, completely shocked. Slowly, he broke out of the daze. He looked at his watch and walked toward his destination, ruminating on George’s words. It seemed the Weasleys always could throw him for a loop, no matter how much time he spent with them.

By the time Ginny knocked at the door she had finished crying and wiped her eyes clear. She had gotten used to the thought of Harry’s betrayal days ago and she had truly surprised herself by getting so emotional at watching him leave. Honestly, it had felt so good to yell at Harry in his face. She was able to vent her frustrations on him and say the things that had stewed in her mind ever since the whole disaster began. So now he was gone.

Good riddance, she thought. Maybe things will go back to the way it was before I was stupid enough to send him that owl. I’ve survived for ten years without him and I’ll go on for as long as I need to. I don’t need to speak to Harry Potter.

He is now officially the past and it is past time for me to move on.

The door opened.

“Hermione?” Ginny said tentatively and walked into the room. Hermione turned around to meet her friend. “Are you alright?”

There was an odd look on Ginny’s face that Hermione couldn’t recognize. “I’m fine, Ginny, really,” Hermione said. I’ve learned that it was definitely a mistake contacting Harry again. His lifestyle and mine… they’re too different to mix. I’ll just treasure the memories of him that I still have and keep it at that because the Harry of today is someone I do not want to mingle with.”

Ginny frowned. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Hermione, this is Harry we’re talking about. He’s your best friend. And you might think that he’s changed over so many years but honestly he hasn’t. I’ve been able to interview him several times now and he’s just the same person he used to be. This is a tough spot, sure, but you have to work past that together.”

Hermione smiled grimly. Ginny knew that look. It meant Obstinate Hermione had now taken over, and no form of persuasion would take her off the path. “Look,” Hermione said, “I don’t want to talk about it. I have only a few days left of my vacation and I think we should enjoy it together as a family.” She walked forward. “No more distractions, no more bad thoughts. Let’s just enjoy the rest of the time we have together, right?”
Ginny grinned at her best friend. “You know,” she said, “I’m supposed to be the one to say those lines. You’re much too rational for your own good.”

Hermione smiled back. “Well, that’s hardly my fault,” she said breezily. “You’ve known how I am for long enough. You should’ve expected me to be in control of my emotions.”

“I guess a part of my mind did expect you to act this way,” Ginny sighed. “Come on, let’s finish lunch.” She hugged Hermione and together they walked back to the dining room.

The Weasleys and other close, personal friends of Harry and Hermione expected the fight to blow over in a matter of days. After all, they were Harry and Hermione. They understood each other more than anyone else could. Surely they would come to terms with the disagreement, have a long talk, and everything would be as they should be.

Days turned to weeks. Harry flew back to Australia and Hermione resumed her duties at the hospitals.

His coworkers did not ask him anything about the media fiasco or the brief trip he took back to England. They were used to the horrors of the paparazzi and commiserated with him. They simply treated him as a friend, and that was exactly what he needed.

Some of her coworkers approached her about the scandal but met a stony wall of polite silence. The whole matter eventually winded down to whispers in the break room and pointed looks, ignored steadfast by Hermione.

Weeks turned to months. Still no reconciliation.

Life, it would seem, went on.

May, 2012

It was such a hassle to put his new costume on every day, Harry mused, as two men helped to place the medieval style armor on him. Most of the time he simply wore tunics and simple clothes, but for this week when they were filming the great attack scene he was forced to wear shiny plate mail. It was hot, sticky, heavy, and worst of all, it started to smell after a few hours in the sun.

He sighed. Such were the perils of being a fantasy film actor. Of course, he put up with it because it was his favorite director, after all, and the script had been fabulous.

He watched, amused, as his helpers began to lace up the breastplate to his chest and attach the arm pieces to the breastplate. “You guys are, as usual, excellent,” Harry said. “Thank you, David, Adam.” He raised his arms slightly about shoulder length in habit, to let the man lace up under his arms faster.

“Thank you, sir,” David said softly. He finished lacing up the arms then looked up at Harry’s face. He paused. “Sir,” he said slowly, “are you all right?”

Harry said, “Never felt better. Why, what’s going on?”

David shrugged. “It just looks like you haven’t been sleeping very well, sir.”

Harry tried a smile. “Do I look that horrid, then?”
David and Adam looked at each other then turned back to him. Silence reigned in the dressing room as the two refused to answer.

Harry glanced in the mirror and could not help but release a small chuckle. He had yet to go through makeup, and the sight that reached his eyes was a shock. Big, black bags rimmed his eyes and his eyes were swollen and slightly red. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Wow,” Harry said. “You guys weren’t kidding.” He self-consciously scratched his head. “I hope that can be fixed in makeup or Peter’s going to kill me.”

“I know this is none of my business, sir,” David said hesitantly. He paused a moment, unsure as to whether or not he should continue. He visibly gathered his thoughts and in a rush of words, he blurted out his concerns. “I know that the press is rubbish and Rita Skeeter is especially so.”

Harry raised an eyebrow and looked at David and Adam in turn. “You read the Wiz— I mean, the Enquirer?”

David smiled. “I was in Hufflepuff four years after you, Mr. Potter, and Adam here went to a Wizarding school in Australia.”

“It’s taken quite some restraint, mind you,” Adam added, “to stop from throwing myself at your feet for getting rid of You-Know-Who.”

“Please, call me Harry,” Harry said with a grin. “Thank you for your moderation. I’m not sure how I could respond to that.”

“I know that I shouldn’t pay attention to a trashy old rag like the Enquirer,” David said, “but I read it and it felt true. It didn’t feel like a bunch of lies.” He coughed. “I know that the article caused you quite a bit of distress, Mr. Potter, and I know it’s none of my business.”
“What makes you think that it’s true, this time?” Harry asked.

David shrugged. “Well… it’s Hermione Granger.”

“I know that Hermione and I made a lot of headlines when we were going out right after the War, but—”

David cut him off with a quick shake of his head. “Oh no, sir, it’s not the media hubbub that I’m thinking of. I remember watching you during your Seventh Year. All of us boys from our year did, I think. We were all impressed by everything we’d heard about you, everything you’d done. You were a legend! I watched you every moment I could. Watching you, I watched Ms. Granger as well.”

He looked to the side, as if embarrassed by his admission of hero worship. “We were all taken aback when we heard you separated. It was the talk of the school for weeks,” he continued. “If you would have asked any of us who watched you, we would have sworn that you and Ms. Granger were going to be forever.”

Harry’s gaze fixed on the wall. He spoke in a voice so quiet that David and Adam could barely hear him. “I thought we were, too.”

After makeup was finished (the artist had clucked her tongue in horror and did the best she could) Harry stepped out of the room and headed toward the set in a daze. He could not help but remember exactly how it had been ten years ago, when his relationship with Hermione Granger had imploded. David’s question reverberated in his head and he silently answered him. It felt, he thought, as if the world had ended.

He was now ten years older and (he hoped) ten years wiser. For the life of him, he could not figure out how he had survived, so long ago.

“Look alive, Harry,” Neville’s voice suddenly cut through Harry’s thoughts. Harry looked up at the familiar, friendly face beaming at him. Suddenly, the smile faded and was replaced by a look of concern. “Is something wrong? What’s on your mind?”

“For Heaven’s sake—” Harry said and shook his head. “I’m an actor. Am I that transparent to everyone today?”

“I’m your friend, Harry, and I know you. Mind you, it wouldn’t take much of a friend to see that you have that look in your eye.”

“Which look?”

Neville gave him a you-know-exactly-what-I-mean stare. “Like you’re lost and wandering alone in the wilderness.” Neville put a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Talk to me, Harry. You look like you need it.”

Harry looked around. Neville had maneuvered him to a small corner of the room, isolated from the hustle that characterized the set. Harry sat down as Neville stepped away for a moment. He flagged a production assistant and talked to him in a low voice. The young boy nodded and ran off toward the set.

“I told him we’d be delayed a few. If I remember from the schedule, you’re not really wanted for most of the day anyway. So we’re free.” Neville sat down next to Harry. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s just— I was thinking, if someone had told me in sixth year that I would not speak to Hermione Granger for ten years, I would have laughed in his face and called him a loon,” Harry said quietly.

Neville sat down next to him with a small sigh. “I never could get the hang of Divination and neither could you,” he said after a long pause. “But if we’re being honest here, I don’t think I could have imagined the word Harry without a ‘Ron, and Hermione’ following it. And yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” Harry agreed.

“You know, Harry,” Neville said hesitantly, “I never did figure out what led to Hermione and you separating after Hogwarts. I didn’t mean to pry or bring up bad feelings. But… what happened between you two?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You never knew? I thought the papers covered it quite extensively. The Prophet had a column about it running for close to six months.”

“I never read any of it,” Neville replied. “It was probably a huge pack of lies. Let me guess at the contents of the columns — exclusive interviews with people who claim to have slept with you or Hermione, detailed accounts of arguments, and reports from experts on why your relationship was doomed because of what the tea leaves said.”

Harry chuckled. “That about sums it up, I think. I’m afraid Hermione took the brunt of the media attack. After all, I was still the poster boy. In their eyes, Hermione was nothing compared to me.” Harry stopped, frowned, and shook his head. “I never thought that, you know. She was more to me than just another girl. She meant the world to me.”

Neville was quiet as he waited for Harry to explain at his own pace.

“I can’t believe I’m talking about this in this… ridiculous getup,” Harry said, looking down at his armor. Neville chuckled but didn’t say anything.

“Life,” Harry said at last. “Life wore us down and made us part ways.”

“Life?” Neville echoed.

Harry looked at the ground, unwilling to look his friend in his eyes. This was a part of his life that he was quite ashamed of, and it was no easier to recite it now with the distance of time separating him from them. “Do you remember the years after Voldemort’s death?” Harry asked. “There wanted so much from us. Endorsement deals. Interview requests. Job offers. I wasn’t even out of Hogwarts when they started to send me the owls, so by the time I was done with school I didn’t want to look at any of them.”

Neville shrugged. “That’s what you get for killing a Dark Lord. Fame and fortune come hand in hand with saving the world, or so I hear.”

“Well, I didn’t want any of it,” Harry said flatly. “I just wanted a normal life, you know? I didn’t want to become a Seeker, as much as I loved the game, just because I knew that it would separate me from the real world. I would still be in the spotlight. I wanted to become an Auror, but I don’t think I could have really pulled it off. Too famous as it were already, you know? So I didn’t accept anything and tried to go on with my life. For the first time in my life I didn’t have Voldemort hanging over my head. I wanted to relax.”
“You moved in with Ron and Hermione after school, right?”

Harry nodded. “It was nice for a while. We had a lot of fun and it was great to know that my two favorite people in the world were living at the same place. Mind you, it took a lot of adjustment for us to get that far. Hermione expected us to live up to her standards, and we were a pair of teenage boys. We took a lot of training before we picked up after ourselves and looked after the flat.”

Neville grinned. “I moved out by myself after Hogwarts, and I tell you it was a quite a hassle trying to make the apartment clean enough for Gran’s standards every time she visited.”

Harry smiled back. “Even still, you were never as bad as the rest of us, mate. At Hogwarts you never left your clothes on the floor or your books all strewn about everywhere.”

“Only because I feared that one of you would pull pranks on me,” Neville said. He raised a finger to block Harry’s protest. “And I might add that you did pull pranks on my stuff in the first and second year. I wasn’t just being paranoid. I learned fast.”

Harry laughed. “Fair enough, fair enough. Well, Ron and I weren’t so used to cleaning up and I remember the mess would stack up. It was worst on my end. I’d stay home most of the time and lounge about while Hermione and Ron went around trying to build a foundation for their careers. They were happily busy, and I…”

“You weren’t,” Neville said tactfully.

Harry ruefully shook his head. “I was happily restless. Hell, I don’t even know if I was happy but I was certainly restless. All I did was watch the telly and wait for Hermione and Ron to return home. I’d listen to their excited stories and smile and applaud them with all my heart.”

“Hermione wasn’t happy at your inactivity, she starts nagging you, and—” Neville guessed.

“No, it wasn’t like that,” Harry corrected. “We knew each other so well. She knew that the War had taken a lot out of me. She waited for me to get out of it myself for a handful of years. I didn’t. She tried to push me to get out there and find out what I wanted but there was honestly nothing I wanted to do but be with my friends. In the end I took that consultant job in the Ministry for want of better things to do.”

“Horrific decision,” Neville said. “Still can’t believe you did that.”

“I know,” Harry said. “The moment I stepped into that cubicle, I knew it was a mistake. I loathed that place. Still, I couldn’t go back and tell them I changed my mind so quickly, you know? So I told myself I’d go back and quit after a few weeks. Weeks turned into months, months into years…”

“I’m just glad you got out when you did, mate.”

“Thank Merlin. I didn’t know it at the time, though. I was just miserable for months and months on end but I didn’t want to admit it to anyone else. Didn’t want to look like I couldn’t cope in the grown up world, you know? Trooped on and stubbornly said I was just fine whenever anyone asked. No one does stubborn like I do, so eventually Ron and Hermione stopped asking. Hermione didn’t like seeing me hurting, but most of all she hated being helpless to change it about me. She started burying herself in her work.”

Neville whistled tunelessly. “So… life.”

Harry nodded. “It wasn’t her fault. I don’t know what I would have done if I were in her shoes. I just remember the strong feeling of abandonment. I didn’t handle it well.” A beat passed. “Still don’t, really,” he admitted.

The silence filled the air between them once more as Neville sat there, digesting the information. He looked up at Harry. “Thank you for trusting me, Harry.”

“You’re my best friend, Neville,” Harry said softly.

Neville smiled and patted Harry on the shoulder. “You know that Hermione isn’t used to the media attention like you.”

“Yeah.”

“Fred told me what happened the last time you returned to the Burrow. You can’t let it end like this.”
Harry didn’t answer. Neville wanted to say something but held back. Harry had to come to the decision himself, he decided. He could see the question behind Harry’s eyes and the years of heartache was etched on his face. They sat there for a long moment as turmoil churned inside Harry’s mind.

Neville saw the change in Harry’s eyes. They firmed with resolve and he looked up at Neville, a grin slowly growing on his face. Neville smiled back and gave a hoot of triumph. A passing assistant turned to him in surprise but he gave it no heed.

“You’re wearing the hero’s armor,” Neville said gesturing. “So, go be a hero!”

“Doctor Granger,” a voice came from behind her. Hermione didn’t turn from her desk. Her test samples seemed to have taken a step for the worse over the last week, and for the life of her she could not find out why. She was surrounded by her research papers and her desk seemed to be covered with hundreds of pages of notes. She intended to go through every line of her work from the beginning to see if she had made any mistakes.

“Doctor Granger,” the voice insisted, and Hermione turned around. It was one of the new doctors on staff who specialized in biochemistry, and one of the handful of witches on staff.

“Yes, Doctor Chu?” Hermione asked. The woman held out a small scroll and placed it on her desk on top of her research material. Hermione glanced at it. ‘To Hermione,’ the scroll read, in an achingly-familiar handwriting. Despite her convictions, her heart thumped loudly in her chest.

“The owl’s waiting for a reply, Doctor Granger,” the woman said, smiling. “Shall I have it directed to your desk?”

Hermione stared at her desk. The sight of the scroll made her mind waver, but the papers under it also caught her eye. The research papers. Her work. I swore it was the past, Hermione told herself. Open that back up, Hermione, and you’ll only be inviting trouble.

“No thank you, Doctor Chu,” Hermione said, turning back to her colleague. “You can send the owl on her way. There won’t be a reply.”

A slight frown passed over her face, but the young doctor nodded and walked away from Hermione’s desk. She pushed the scroll to the side and tried to return to her work. Formulas and test results flooded her mind once more, but try as she might Harry’s letter stayed in the corner of her head.

The letter stayed in her mind, but everyone knew Hermione could give Harry a run for the tile of Most Stubborn. The letter remained unopened.

Harry visited the hospital every day for two weeks, and each time he returned home without success. Doctor Granger is too busy, the receptionist told him with a sympathetic frown. She will call you when her workload allows her some free time, the receptionist said.

Hermione never did.

January 2013

Hermione Apparated into the Weasley’s living room and was immediately swept into a hug. She grinned happily and hugged Ginny back with all her strength.

“Congratulations,” she murmured into Ginny’s hair. The lively Weasley pulled back and smiled widely.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Hermione,” Ginny said. The excitement in her voice was palpable. “I know you’re busy—”

“Ginny, don’t think of finishing that sentence,” Hermione warned with a wave of her hand. “You don’t get engaged every day! I made time. Speaking of engagements…”

Ginny smiled and raised her hand. The ring glittered in the light. They chattered and laughed over the jewelry as if they were young girls with nothing on their mind. It truly felt good to let go for a while, Hermione admitted. The past few months had been murderous. She had found one error in their work, and now they raced to regain months of lost time. It took so much of her time that she had asked for a sabbatical from the London Wizarding Hospital to fully devote herself to the work.

Tonight, Hermione promised herself, none of that mattered. Ginny was giddy enough for the both of them and her attitude felt infectious. Hermione found herself truly smiling, for the first time in what felt like forever. She was surrounded by almost all of the Weasleys (Ron being off on one of his Quidditch tours and unable to make it back to England). She felt at home.

They gathered in the living room, and Ginny’s fiancé Patrick was in midst of an amusing anecdote when the pop of Apparation came from the kitchen. Hermione looked up at the sound. Ginny leaned in close.

“Hermione,” Ginny whispered quickly, “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier — I didn’t even know if he had time in his schedule for—”

Harry stepped into the room, an apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry I’m late guys. I was caught up in the studio re-recording, you should’ve started without—” His gaze fell on Hermione and his breath caught in his throat. The smile disappeared, and an unreadable look crossed his eyes. “Me,” he said softly.

Before the situation could get awkward, Ginny rose from her seat next to her. She began to speak rapidly and her hands gestured wildly in the air. Patrick rose and extended a hand toward the newcomer, but Hermione didn’t hear a thing. Her eyes focused in on Harry and she drank in the sight. She hadn’t seen Harry in months, afraid that her resolve would break once she drew close to the man. She was right.

It was Harry. Her Harry, and he was still her Harry, standing in the same room. He looked so worn out and tired, Hermione thought. Immediately she regretted her decision to leave his letter unread. He had extended a conciliatory hand, and she had slapped it away. She had struggled with the decision for weeks but had finally come to terms with her logical decision. And now, here he was, making her decision a mockery. Dinner began, and over her mashed potatoes Hermione realized that she could no longer hold to that conclusion.

For his part, he did his best to ignore her existence. He didn’t look at her once and instead chatted to Ginny, Patrick, Fred, Molly, Arthur. He spoke wearily about the last minute preproduction recordings he was doing for his movie. He talked of filming in Australia and its trials and tribulations. He was the perfect guest, and the Weasleys pretended that the tension in the room simply wasn’t there.

Dinner passed in a blur. Hermione knew that he would want to escape early and she stole away toward the restroom and waited. Sure enough, Harry began to make his excuses shortly after the group moved back to the living room. “Work beckons,” he said with a smile.

Ginny stood up and gave him a hug. “Thank you so much for coming, Harry,” she said.

Hermione could hear perfectly from her position in the hallway, and his response made her heart ache. “Nothing could stop me from coming to my friends’ side, Ginny. I’m so happy that you’re happy.”

Hermione waited as the Weasleys talked to him in turn, thumping his chest and making him promise to return. Harry laughed softly and swore. Several moments later, Harry headed in her direction. Still hidden in the side room, she struggled with the decision to speak up. He passed her. She stepped out into the hallway.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione said quietly. He stopped in his tracks. He turned around slowly and met Hermione’s gaze.

“Well, you should be,” Harry snapped back. His eyes burned with anger.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. It was a look that sent Harry back a dozen years at Hogwarts, when he would see that same expression on her face directed toward one of Ron’s insensitive statements. “Excuse me?” she asked.

“I said that you should be sorry,” Harry repeated.

“Do you want to get into this now?” Hermione said. Despite her previous thoughts, she could not help but get angry at his tone. She struggled to keep the volume of her voice low. She gestured around the Burrows. “Here?”

Harry seemed to have no such qualms. “Why not?” he shouted back at her. “Is this a bad time? We’ve already subjected the Weasleys to a row, maybe we can make a ritual of it. Every ten years, you can contact me out of the blue. We can try to reconcile and then you can shut me out whenever we run into a rough spot. You can forget years of friendship, years of love, and just throw me out of your life. That seems to be your favorite way of dealing with me!”

Hermione’s expression changed to one of shock. She had not seen Harry so angry at her since… the time we broke up, she finished the thought.

“You don’t know what I was feeling then, what I feel now,” Hermione said. “Don’t you dare trivialize what happened to us, and don’t you dare presume to think you know my thoughts.”

Harry’s voice lowered, but his words were still charged with intensity. “You’re right, Hermione,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. I don’t know what you were feeling. But that’s not my fault, is it? You shut me out! You and your damn logic decided to throw me and our relationship away and there’s nothing we can do to change that now. I tried to apologize, Hermione. I tried to make it right. I blew off filming for half a month to try to explain. How did you respond? You shut me out. Again.”

Despite her anger, despite everything, tears stung her eyes. At the sight, Harry deflated. He stopped raging and simply looked at her for a long moment. The sadness in his eyes was palpable, and Hermione swallowed. Even after the decade of estrangement, Hermione could still read his emotions.

“I never thought,” Harry started to say. He grimaced, but the expression was gone in an instant. “I never thought for a moment that I would ever live without you. I never thought that I’d be a stranger to you.”

But you aren’t, Hermione wanted to cry out, you never have been. But she could not say it past all the heartache and months that lay between them. So she was silent and remained still as Harry Potter turned around and walked away from her.

Unable to face the Weasleys after that loud row, she Apparated out.

She lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She turned to her side and stared at the electronic clock. The red lights noted 4 AM. She brought herself upright in bed and pushed her hair out of her face. The night’s events played over and over in her mind. It had been like her conscience given voice and form. She closed her eyes and countless images and feelings assaulted her. Harry’s hand clasped with hers. Harry’s smile. The complex and utterly hopeful sensations that had danced in her mind when they had reconnected, after years of separation.

In the middle of the night – alone in her house – Hermione admitted he was right.

She got to her feet and headed to her study. The lights turned on automatically as she entered the room, a magical feature she had installed since Nelson no longer visited her home. Her desk was overflowing with papers from work, but for once in her life, her work didn’t matter. She pushed the papers aside and reached for the very back of the desk. Her hands closed around a scroll that crackled as she placed pressure on it, and pulled it out of its place of hiding.

She opened the scroll and leapt into it without delay.

May 02, 2012

Dear Hermione,

How did we ever come to this? How did we let the media and all the world interfere with us? How did we let the years creep back into our lives, crippling us and forcing us apart? And our rehabilitation had been going so well. Being here away from you for so long made me recognize the truth. It’s been hard to swallow, but I’ll man up to my mistakes.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there. You were right. Come hell or high water, I should have dropped everything and been there for you. There is no excuse. All I can say is that I’m sorry. I let life – the world – in between us. You should come first before everything and in the future, I swear you always will.

Being with you made me feel more alive than I have in years. A decade, really. I know you felt the connection sparkle between us once more. We’ll kindle that spark and make it rage into a healthy flame once more. I know I need to have a gentle touch — if I handle the spark too rough, it’ll disappear without a trace. But I’m patient. I can bear that duty. Let me.

When we were young, our love illuminated the world. I’m tired of being in the dark. I’m tired of being without you.

The past will always be there, Hermione. We will never be able to change the mistakes we both made. What we can change is how we greet the coming days. I don’t want to do that without you.

I know we’ve hurt each other in the past. I know you’re scared. So – let me prove my devotion. I’ll come to you. I’ll show you that you matter to me above all else. If you agree with anything in this letter, Hermione, just accept me back into your life. Let me be your friend again. Let me be your Harry again.

With Love,
Harry

She sat there, staring blankly at the wall. Then she acted.

She didn’t even know where to start to look. It was too early to call Ginny, who would surely know the information she needed. She paced in her study for a few minutes as she tried to plan out her course of action. She scrounged through her materials for a quill and parchment and agonized over what to write. She stared at the final product, completely convinced it was exactly the wrong thing to say. Still, she rolled it up and closed it with her seal.

Neville! She stood up and quickly made her way to her mobile. She flipped it open and tapped in a number she hadn’t called in ages. She hoped he was awake, but by her calculations it was still 8:30 PM in Los Angeles.

“Hello?” Neville said. There was a ruckus behind him, and Hermione pulled the phone away from her ear a bit.

“I hope I’m not calling at a bad time, Neville, but I’m in a fix,” Hermione said. “I was hoping you could help me out.”
“Well that depends entirely on what that would be,” Neville answered. “You’re my friend, Hermione, but if I had to take sides…”

“Trust me, Neville,” Hermione said quickly, “I’d be on that same side. I’ve come to a decision I should have months ago, but I don’t know where to go.”

There was a long pause as he digested the information. “Harry’s staying at the London Marriott, under the name Thomas Dresden.”
A rush of relief flooded her senses. “I owe you one, Neville. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Neville said. “Show me you mean it.”

Hermione intended to. She rushed out of the door.

There was a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the knob but Hermione paid it no mind. She stepped forward and knocked loudly against the wooden door. There was no response. She looked at her watch and bit her lip. It was only 7 AM, and while she was used to earlier mornings because of her work she hadn’t considered the idea that others could have different hours. Perhaps movie stars woke up at noon, Hermione thought, and he was still sound asleep.

She bit the bottom of her lip and frowned. This was a bad idea, she thought. She gave one more wistful glance at the hotel door then turned back toward the lift.

“Hermione?” Harry said, and she immediately turned around. He looked like he had just gotten out of bed, his head even messier than usual (if that was possible, a fleeting thought said in Hermione’s mind).

“I know you don’t like it when I get the last word, but you have to admit this is a bit ridiculous,” he said. Despite his words, she noted that he no longer sounded angry.

Hermione’s mouth opened and she couldn’t figure out how to say the feelings she wanted to convey. “I… no, Harry, that’s not why I came.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I came here to apologize, Harry. I shouldn’t have ignored you when you came back to England. I was being stupid.”

“Water under the bridge,” Harry said. She could tell from his tone that he didn’t exactly mean it. He crossed his arms in front of him. “Is that all?”

Hermione shook her head. This was not going as she had planned. “No, Harry—” She stopped. “Can I say this inside? I’d rather not fuel the gossip mill any more than I have already.”

Wordlessly Harry moved out of the way and Hermione walked into the room. The suite was beautiful but she didn’t notice any of it. She noticed the small personal changes in the room. Pages, copiously marked with red pen, were spread out over the coffee table. A still steaming cup of coffee stood on a coaster on that same table. She stepped forward and sat on the couch. Out of the corner of her eyes, Hermione caught sight of a small, simple frame on the edge of the table. She picked it up. It was the picture they had taken so long ago, during graduation. The miniature Harry and Hermione smiled in delight and grabbed hold of each other.

A cough broke her out of her revelries. She looked up at Harry.

“Well?” Harry said. He gestured to her. “You’re inside. Speak.”

Now, facing Harry once more, she felt her stomach tingle with expectation. She had rehearsed, of course, but suddenly it felt like entirely the wrong thing to say. Her fingers unconsciously played over the edges of the picture frame. Where could she start? What could she say?

“I read your letter,” Hermione finally said. “It’s a little late, but I thought it needed a response.” She pulled out a scroll from her bag and offered it to him. Harry nodded and leaned forward to take it. He held the scroll in one hand but made no movement to open it. His eyes remained fixed on her.

“It wasn’t easy, that decision to ask you back into my life,” Hermione said slowly. “I’d lived so long without you that I’d almost forgotten how strong our bond was. I missed talking to you and being your friend, but I think in my heart I really missed loving you.”

A small smile broke out over his lips. He stepped forward and sat down at the other end of the couch. Encouraged, Hermione continued.

“I was so happy and in over my head. It felt like I had denied a part of myself for years and talking to you again after so many years had freed that part of me.”

“It felt like I had been underground for so long I had forgotten what sunlight felt like,” Harry said. Hermione blushed.

“Exactly that,” Hermione said. She looked down at her hands and realized she was still fidgeting with the picture. Quickly she set it back on the table. “I know you must still be mad at me, Harry, but I wanted to come here and tell you that I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad,” Harry said. She looked at him. He looked sad, and a little resigned. “I got it out of my system last night, I think.”
“You have every right to be,” she replied. “You should be.”

Harry laughed slightly, and her heart fluttered at the sound. “I admit I was resentful for a few months. A tiny bit.”

Hermione was glad he was amused, but it was still too fresh for her to joke about it. “I didn’t expect the uproar, you know? We were famous in our teens but it never got so intrusive. I couldn’t go home, there were so many cameramen. I had to stop working so it wouldn’t disrupt the hospitals, and you know how much I love my work.”

“I know it was rough, Hermione. I’m sorry you had to deal with it alone.”
“I wasn’t alone,” she replied with a smile. “I had the Weasleys. They took care of me. It just felt like I was being punished for trying to have you again.”
Harry’s face darkened. “Rita Skeeter set us up,” he said. “Maybe she was just lucky, or maybe she had a contact that told her about our messages. Still, she brought it all on our heads as revenge for what we did to her, so many years ago. I guess she’s the type to hold grudges.”

Hermione grimaced but quickly pushed the thought aside. It would be time for her revenge, soon. There were more pressing matters at present.

“I lashed out at you because it was convenient,” she said. “My brain told me I would never have been involved with the paparazzi if I hadn’t tried to talk to you again. I got that idea into my head and it riled me up, made me angry.”

“You weren’t wrong,” Harry said softly. “It was because of me. You wouldn’t have been hurt if it hadn’t been me.”
“You said it yourself. It was Rita Skeeter.” Hermione shook her head. “You should never apologize for what your fame brings you. I used to handle it before, but I was just out of practice. Give me a few more months and it’ll be nothing to me.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Months? Are you sure?”
Hermione nodded. “Will you let me back into your life, after I’ve hurt you so much?”

Harry smiled. “It’s not fair, you know. I was ready to storm off in righteous anger, but seeing you here… You’ll always be my friend, Hermione.”

He got up and moved toward her and she instinctively stood up. They hugged for a long time. She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes, reveling in the moment. She had missed this. She had missed being in his arms.

“If you want, you can take a guest bedroom,” Harry said in her ear. “You look knackered.”

Hermione opened her eyes and stepped back out of his embrace. “No, I’m okay. I just had one more important thing to tell you.”

Harry cocked his head to the side. “What is it?”
Hermione gestured to his hand that still clasped her unopened letter. “Maybe you should just read it? I think I expressed it a bit better in that.”

Harry opened the scroll and his eyes scanned the contents. It didn’t take long. The letter was succinct.

“I know I’m thrusting this decision onto you,” Hermione said. Her nervousness took control of her and she kept on talking. “I don’t know if I’m overstepping the bounds of our friendship, especially since we just renewed it a minute ago. But I couldn’t wait to tell you because it’s important that—”

Harry stepped forward again and took her into his arms. Startled, she stopped mid sentence.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry said. He smiled, leaned in, and covered her lips with his. Her mouth turned upwards into a smile before she raised her hands to his face and began to return the kiss in earnest.

The scroll fluttered to the ground unnoticed. It lay gently on the floor and uncurled slightly.

It read,

January 11, 2013

Dear Harry,

Will you carry the burden of tending to that spark? Will you care for it, nurture it, make it grow?
I’m ready to find out. I’m ready to place the spark in your care.

I love you, Harry Potter.

Always, your Hermione

THE END