Denial by goddess_of_ether

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 12/02/2007
Last Updated: 12/07/2007
Status: Paused

Hermione Granger doesn't particularly care that everyone from her mother to fellow
supermarket shoppers are telling her that she and Harry Potter would make a lovely couple.
Nevermind that her new case from the Department of Mysteries, involving a half-splinched
time-traveling wizard, has her and Harry in close quarters as they track down what exactly went
wrong. They're just friends . . . right? [Discontinued]




1. The Rise and Fall of the Gin-inator
--------------------------------------



Disclaimer: Jeez, will you get off my case already? No, I did not claim in an exclusive
interview with *Entertainment Tonight* to be the owner of the Harry Potter franchise. Well,
okay, maybe I did mention something about secret multi-billion-dollar deals . . . but that's
it! I swear!

**Author's Note:** Alright, I was all set with living life one day at a time, and not
fully committing to this fic, because God knows I'm not ready for a full-blown relationship and
all that jazz, but, well, the other day we were at an ice cream shop and just looked across the
room at one another and something just clicked . . .

So yes. My one-shot, known through the FF.net universe as one of my worst-written-stories-ever,
has been expanded into a full-blown fic. *gasp* That's well written, now. *double gasp*

We may even have more than four chapters. This, you know, would be a total record for my Portkey
account. Somebody break out the champagne!

Ah-hem. Right. Back to the story . . .

~

Denial

*Chapter One: The* *Rise and Fall of the Gin-inator*

~

*Monday, September 1**st*

Here I am - Hermione Granger, Associate Head of the Department of Mysteries' Research
Department, best friend of The-Boy-Who-Lived - and, well . . . *I'm writing in a*
**diary***.*

It's ridiculous. I should be too logical for this. Why on Earth should I need a diary? My
life is perfect (admittedly busy, but really, with my job, who wouldn't be pulling a hundred
and thirty hours a week?) and therefore I shouldn't have anything to write in a diary
about.

Yet . . .

Almost a year ago, on my last birthday, Harry gave this to me. I didn't have the heart to
tell him that I would never, even if I was threatened and tortured and forced to watch a marathon
of *The Bachelorette*, or, even worse, every Quidditch game in the World Cup championships,
write in a diary.

But Ron got engaged last week (to Luna, of all people. Luna! Back in school, he used to call her
`Looney', and yet, for the past three weeks Harry and I have been running around Diagon Alley
and Hogsmeade with him, trying to find the perfect ring. Well, Harry was. I was stuck back at home
hunched over a table, editing his proposal speech) and because he and Luna bought a house, he's
moving out of Grimmauld Place. Soon, it'll just be Harry and I.

Oh, I do seem to sidetrack a bit.

Where was I? Oh, right. So, since Ron and Harry, being boys and therefore incapable of thinking
of anyone other than themselves, chose the two best rooms in the house - in other words the two
rooms with heating that doesn't rattle and shake and moan - I've decided to move into
Ron's old room. It also has its own bathroom.

Well, mine has one too. But there's Gertrude, the ghoul, who, although she is very sweet and
constantly tells me hair-smoothing potions, makes the most hideous noises in the middle of the
night.

So, obviously, I never use it.

While I was packing up my things, I noticed this little red book sitting under the mattress. And
seeing how I never shove anything under my bed, I picked it up, brushed it off, and realized that
it was the blank diary that Harry had gotten me.

That was five minutes ago.

Now, I'm scribbling away like a madwoman with a bit of quill that hasn't been sent off
to Ron's room yet.

It's absolutely ridiculous. I am a grown woman. I'm twenty-four, for Merlin's sake!
What twenty-four-year-old woman scribbles like a madwoman in a journal? So what if Harry gave it to
me - that on-again-off-again business with Ginny has proven that he doesn't exactly know what
women want!

At this point, Luna would point to my former sentence and tell me, in that blunt way of hers,
“Well, what does Harry giving it to you have to do with anything?” If she was a Weasley (which I
guess she will be, by December) she would accompany this with a significant waggle of the
eyebrows.

And, seeing as this is a new journal and has no way of knowing this - **I am not in love with
Harry Potter**. Why must everyone assume that boys and girls cannot be friends without falling in
love?

Alright. So maybe Ron and I dated. Once! For about a month, and then he called me a bint and I
called him a lazy git, and he ran into the groping arms of Parvati Patil, and we mutually decided
that perhaps it would be better for everyone - including the innocent bystanders - if we just
didn't try out the whole dating thing ever again.

I do love Harry, it's just not in the way that everyone wrongly assumes. I love Harry in a
sisterly, protective fashion.

Even if I *was* in love with Harry (the walking-down-the-aisle type of love, not the
break-his-heart-and-I'll-break-your-arm type), well, it wouldn't change anything. As I
mentioned above, the business with Ginny would certainly destroy any hopes that I had.

Ginny Weasley is, quite frankly, Merlin's gift to the heterosexual male. She is also
apparently operating under the assumption that Merlin gave her a personal plaything, and his name
is Harry.

Because, if you think about it, that's the only explanation for this uncertain thing
they've been messing about with.

First there was sixth year, when they fell in love, and finally hooked up after all the sexual
tension buzzing around, then broke up because Harry can't resist being the
Boy-Who-Has-An-Incurable-Hero-Complex.

Once we'd put Voldemort six feet under, they got right back together. But in September,
Harry had to go to the Auror Academy, and they `took a break' - a break which lasted three
years and involved Ginny being engaged to, of all people, Viktor Krum - and when Ginny broke it off
with Viktor because he was boshing anything that moved behind her back, the two idiots got back
together.

*And then* Harry met Beth, an absolutely gorgeous Chaser on the Cannons with Ron - who was
only on the team because she took beautiful pictures, because, let me tell you, even *I* could
tell she couldn't play to save her life - and he and Ginny broke it off again. But when Beth
chucked a crystal champagne flute at his head for always being away on “unexplainable Auror
business”, Ginny was there to salve his wounds. With her *tongue*.

That, however, lasted only so long. Once all the crystal was removed and Ginny went to Fashion
Week in New York to launch her new line, she met a German model named Günter and dropped Harry as
if he were last year's Kneazle-print slingbacks.

So, really, it would be completely illogical for me to be in love with Harry Potter. Even if
Ginny has currently left him for Günter With-No-Last-Name, she's eventually going to get tired
of her boy-toy and come crawling back across the ocean like some Mesozoic slime mold.

There is *no way* that I could love Harry. There just isn't. Nope.

So there.

Oh dear. I just counted, and I denied being in love with Harry three times. According to my
father, who watches far too many reruns of that American show, *Law & Order*, for his own
good, the witnesses who deny it three times are the ones who are lying.

But that doesn't make any sense.

I would *never* be in love with Harry; it'd be like falling in love with my left arm.
And I would know, wouldn't I? It'd most definitely be one of those things I'd be able
to tell. I know my own heart, for Merlin's sake.

And what does my father know? He went to school, met my mother, married her, had me, and
retired! About as risky as he gets is going sock-less to the market in February! Does this seem to
be the sort of man who would know about the trials of love?!

No.

Well, I'm not going to trust my father - or his addictive American crime show - with my love
life. Not that what I have with Harry in any way constitutes a `love life', with the possible
exception of a `sisterly love life'. However, seeing as how I'm not sure if
sisterly-love-life is a term, we'll just stick with my original assertion.

Merlin, what *was* that? It sounded like a cross between the noise Ron makes when he
stumbles down to the kitchen for breakfast, steps on Crookshanks' tail, and Crookshanks in turn
sinks his teeth into his foot, and an elephant suffering from a digestive disorder walking through
a wall.

I should probably go and investigate, because if it involves Crookshanks no doubt someone is
going to spray blood all over my carpeting.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

*Five Minutes Later*

I cannot believe it.

A second - well, more a split-second, if I ran as fast as I think I did - I walked into
Ron's room, a *Scourgify* on my lips, ready to clean up any mess caused by Ron
inadvertently stepping on the tail of my cat.

And what, you ask, do I see?

Well, I see Ginny and Harry snogging the life out of each other, that's what.

I did, in all seriousness, think about knocking on the doorway and making one of the snarky
replies that Draco Malfoy is known for, like, “If I'd known we needed loud, scary noises I
would've just called down Gertrude”, or something, but I seemed to just freeze in place.

For a moment, I couldn't do anything but watch in horrid fascination like the people who
witness car crashes do. They know that it's going to scar them for life, but they just
can't tear their eyes away.

But then common sense walloped me on the side of the head, and I tensed, prepared to dash off,
completely forgetting about the creaky floor plank. I took a step back, and managed to put my toe
directly on it. By now, I've gotten used to stepping around it, but in my revulsion I sort of
forgot.

Bloody plank.

“**INRUDERS! HOW DARE AN INTRUDER PUT A FOOT INSIDE THIS NOBLE HOUSE, HOME OF HARRY POTTER? WHO
ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, COMING INTO THIS HOUSE? SOMEONE, QUICK! CATCH THEM
BEFORE THEY GE—”**

Harry and Ginny pulled apart with a noise that, if bottled and sold, would have made a fortune
in the toilet-cleaning industry.

“Hermione?” Harry's glasses were hanging, somewhat askew, off of the lampshade on the floor,
the only thing Ron refuses to take with him to his and Luna's new flat. He's blind as a bat
without them, but seeing as how I was the only one in the house other than he - and apparently
Ginny - it wasn't that hard a deduction to make for someone who flew through the Auror Academy
at the top of his class.

As Harry fumbled for his glasses and Ginny, lips all swollen and hair all mussed, glared at me
nastily, I muttered something unintelligible, turning an unattractive shade of pink, and dashed off
to my room at a speed that no doubt broke the sound barrier. There, waiting on my bed, was this
little red book.

Without even thinking, really, I grabbed it and the spare quill and ink perched on top, and took
the stairs at the end of the hall to the roof. I have a pretty good feeling that Harry will have a
hard time finding me up here. That is, if he's looking. Which I doubt, because he and Ginny are
probably still licking each other's tonsils.

Not that I care. Really. The only reason I'm disgusted is because I had to watch the two of
them go at it in Ron's old - wait a second! *My* room! They were snogging in MY ROOM on MY
BED. Granted, `my room' is empty except for Ron's left-over lamp and my mattress, but still
. . .

Merlin's socks, I'm never going to use that mattress again. The second that the coast is
clear I am going down to Diagon Alley and buying a new mattress. And - ew! - who knows what they
might be doing on my bed *right now*?

UGH.

That's just disgu- oh, look who decided to emerge from the depths of the tentacles of the
Gin-inator. What does he want? I'm going to ignore him. The whistling wind (which doesn't
actually exist yet, but if I can hook my toe around my wand, I can probably conjure it up) makes it
impossible to hear him.

Harry: Hermione? Hey, are you okay?

Me: Yes. Just peachy.

I can't see him right now, but I have a nasty, niggling little feeling that's telling me
why he tried to find me. So I'll change the subject.

Me: Isn't it beautiful up here? The sunset is gorgeous.

Harry: Yeah.

My, aren't we an articulate pair? He's just walked up next to me. Both of our backs are
to the door, and we're leaning on the black iron balcony that circles the roof. The formerly
non-existent wind has kicked up without any magical help from me; just in time to pull his hair in
alternate directions (he really should get it cut - he looks like a delinquent now, not the
high-level, workaholic Auror Beth accused him of being) and is probably making mine into a
rat's nest.

I bet if Ginny were here, her hair would be doing exactly what it should be, blowing back in a
sophisticated, model-esque way. No doubt she and Günter make - or is it made? - an absolutely
stunning pair. This I don't mean in an envious way; quite simply, the two of them are drop-dead
gorgeous. Not that Harry isn't as attractive as Günter. He's just ruggedly handsome, as
opposed to gorgeous.

Now there's just silence. The sun is blood-red, and we're both watching it disappear
over the rooftops of the rest of Grimmauld Place. Even those annoying children next door have
stopped shrieking for a few moments. It's almost too peaceful to last . . .

Uh-oh. He's clearing his throat. He's about the breech the subject of him and Ginny.

Harry: Hermione . . . I know that you saw . . . what I mean is, I'm sorry that you had . . .
it's just that Ginny and I, we never . . . you weren't meant to see . . . well, what
I'm trying to say is that, Ginny and I, we . . . kind of . . .

He's pushing his hands angrily through his hair, and mussing it up even worse. I'm
fairly certain that the only reason that I'm still writing in this is to keep myself from
reaching up to smooth back his hair for him. In a sisterly, protective fashion, of course.

Maybe if I say something he'll go away.

Me: Harry, just, next time, put a locking charm on the door.

I've decided that perhaps it is prudent not to mention the whole mattress thing. Now,
I'm expecting him to shoot off a grin, like he usually does. Instead, his eyes darken.

Harry: To tell you the truth, I have a feeling that I won't need a locking charm. Not with
Ginny, anyway.

Even though he's gripping the metal bar like it's going to keep him from tossing himself
off the roof, I'm feeling a very un-Hermione-like jubilation (because I have my faults, I
admit, and being nasty is not one of them). Perhaps Ginny and I do not have the most loving and
caring of relationships, despite the fact that her brother and I are best friends.

He's probably expecting me to say something, and frankly, I want to fish for more
information.

Me: What do you mean?”

Harry: Well . . .

He's trailing off again, but I know, instinctively, that this is a sentence that he's
going to finish. I bet I don't look sympathetic, writing down this conversation, but I
can't stop. It's like I have Rita Skeeter's quill nailed to my hand. From the way
he's mussing with his hair again, I doubt that Harry's even noticed this journal.

Harry: Ginny and I - we've been trying to make it work. Too hard, really. All this time, we
thought that our relationship was going to fit into the mold that everyone else wants it to fit in.
But . . . today, when you were in the doorway. I dunno; something just . . . didn't make sense
about all of it. Nothing was clicking. What was I doing with her? So . . . Ginny and I . . .
we're . . . over.

Yeah, right. I've heard that before.

Me: Well, Harry. I'm sorry that it didn't work out, but I'm glad that you realized
it.

Harry: Are you really? I always got the impression that you didn't approve. Of me and Ginny,
I mean.

WHAT?!

Harry's never really been that observant about people and relationships. Well, alright,
he's fantastic at catching Death Eaters, but no one with two functioning brain cells would let
Harry into an interrogation room. How, then, can he have noticed that I've developed a slight,
well, *dislike* of little Ginny Weasley, with her designer job and her constant model
boyfriend and her perfect petite body and the way her eyes glint maliciously when she notices
something she can manipulate into submission . . .

Ahem.

I've been silent for longer than probably seemly.

Me: Approve of you two? Well, I have to admit that I flashed on Henry VIII . . . with Ginny as
Henry.

He's trying to figure out my metaphor, his eyebrows forming a little right angle in the
center of his forehead, and all the darkness has left those beautiful green eyes of his.

Now he gets it, because he's smiling like crazy.

Harry: You're the only person who would ever say that.

Before I'm done writing this down, he's darted forward and given me a quick kiss on the
check, brushing across my skin before vanishing.

Now he's returning inside, hands stuffed into his pockets against the bitter wind. That
delinquent hair is whipping around happily. I'm glad someone enjoys this weather.

He's stopped now. I'm not watching, but his footsteps have paused.

Harry: Thanks. For staying.

He doesn't have to finish his sentence - now that Ron is going suburban, with the wife,
house, dog and potential 3.5 kids, it's going to be just be us in large, lonely Grimmauld
Place.

Well, and Crookshanks of course.

Me: You're welcome.

I still refuse to turn around. I can hear the door slam behind him. The wind's died down,
and the moon is hanging in the sky before me, and Ron's probably all ready to Floo his stuff to
storage. And however ridiculous it is, I can still feel the tingle of his lips against my
cheek.

Which is stupid.

Because in no way am I in love with Harry Potter.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

WELL . . . what do ya'll think? Has it got potential? Because I'm seriously worried that
it'll flop so hard you'll hear it hit the water in the benthic zone.

Ahem. Right. No more Bio references.

Anywho, onto the interactive part of the evening! See, now that you're done puttering
around, reading my story and correcting my grammar and tsking as all my mistakes that I have made,
you get to go down to that little, eensie-weensie box and type in all that stuff that miffed you
off! Have fun, be creative!

But gimme some love, too, if that's deemed acceptable.

Toodles!

-->



2. The Mysterious Lives of the Non-Mysterious
---------------------------------------------



Disclaimer: Despite all begging and pleading and bribing on my part (“Do you like cookies? I
make some mean chocolate chip cookies . . .”), I have not been able to procure the copyrights to
the Harry Potter franchise. Curses. Foiled again.

**Author's Note:** I tried to get this put by Valentine's Day, honest. But the stars
just wouldn't align and Jupiter and Mars got all wonky when Venus decided to run off with
Pluto, who's miffed about not really being a planet . . . and, well, you get the picture.

**Second Author's Note:** Okay, partly what made this take so long was the decision that
I made to make this have a plot. Obviously some kinks had to be ironed out, etc. Forgive me?

**Third Author's Note:** Please don't kill me! *cowers in a dank corner, alongside
the splinched half of Terence Haverford* Right. You'll get that once you read the chapter.
*If* you read the chapter, after all the horrendous abuse I put you all through by not
updating.

FORGIVE ME!!

~

Denial

*Chapter Two: T**he Mysterious Lives of the Non-M**ysterious*

~

*Tuesday, September 2**nd*

It's at times like these when I wish that Marishka Grumbdell would simply keel over dead in
her cubicle and save me the trouble of having to arrange the perfect murder. I mean, really, one
must wonder about where that woman gets off.

Do you know what was on the cover of *The Daily Prophet* this morning? Unfortunately, up
until five minutes ago, neither did I. This means that when I walked into the lobby of the
Ministry, juggling all of the Haverford files and one of those ridiculously flimsy cups of
take-away coffee, I didn't know why the gaggle of schoolgirls on a tour had snarky looks on
their faces when I stumbled past them. When Melinda shot me a sultry grin and a lascivious wink as
she dropped my morning cranes on top of the pile in my arms, I thought it meant she'd finally
gotten to that fellow of hers up in the Magical Games and Sports division.

But no. Melinda had *not* gotten laid last night; those silly schoolgirls in the lobby were
*not* just snarkily glaring at random passerby. This I soon learned when Weatherby sauntered
over to my desk and said in his usual bitter little voice, “How nice of you to show up, Miss
Granger, what with all of this drama in your life.”

Normally, I am far better constrained around Aldrich Weatherby than I was this morning. However
annoying and infuriating he is, the man has a fair hand with Arithmancy. Normally, you see, I
respond to his snake-like voice and snidely spoken comments with a disdainful look and artfully
raised eyebrow. However, due to the scarring experience of walking in on my best friend playing
tonsil quidditch on my mattress with a woman whose vileness could be equated to that of a badly
written romance novel, I found myself unable to respond in a restrained fashion.

“Get stuffed, Weatherby,” I growled.

Then, in a truly annoyed fashion, I slammed my purse, insubstantial coffee cup, two feet worth
of parchment and half a dozen cranes onto my desk, before giving him what Harry and Ron have
dubbed, after a particularly mind-numbing drunken escapade, the Glare to Signify the End of the
World. As can be expected, Weatherby took three quick steps backward, and as his reply shoved a
crumpled copy of the *Prophet* in my general direction.

I snatched it out of air as he hastily retreated and smoothed out the front page . . . only to
see a picture of myself and Harry outside of the Muggle ice cream parlor around the corner from our
apartment. Harry had a towering cone of chocolate in his left hand that was tipping at a dangerous
angle because he was laughing hard enough to be almost doubled over. I was joining in his hysterics
as I attempted to wipe a smudge of chocolate ice cream off of his nose.

Underneath was a second picture of Luna and Ron in the sushi restaurant where Ron had proposed.
Picture-Luna's eyes were glittering with tears as picture-Ron, no doubt for the sixtieth time
this morning, slid a silver ring with a large oblong opal onto her left ring finger.

The huge headline, which occasionally turned pink and spitted spurts of tiny red hearts into the
margin, read: **RONALD WEASLEY ENGAGED TO** **QUIBBLER** **EDITOR LUNA LOVEGOOD: Hermione
Granger, Heartbroken, Seeks Solace in Arms of Harry Potter**.

I have to admit that this wasn't the first time that rag has attempted to link Ron, Harry
and I into some sordid love triangle - sometimes for kicks they add in Luna or the Gin-inator - but
this was the first time it was on the *front page*. Usually they stuffed it in some dank
corner far back enough that I could happily ignore it.

But no - this was scrawled out in huge letters directly underneath the *Prophet*
letterhead, which, as I stared in horror, was drowned in a flood of little red hearts. The article
took up the entire bloody page.

At that moment, I truly regretted getting my parents a *Daily Prophet* subscription. My
father was waking up right now, taking his morning cup of Earl Grey from my mother, sitting down at
the cheery breakfast nook in the kitchen . . . and seeing a front-page article speculating on the
sex life of his daughter.

Poor Mum. She's been after me for years to settle down with “some nice boy” and get her
grandchildren. I've told her and Dad for years to never trust anything written in the
*Prophet*, especially about me and Harry, but I doubt she's going to heed this advice when
she sees this bloody article.

Harry! Damn! If I don't intercept the *Prophet* on its way to his office, I won't
have to worry about Marishka Grumbdell keeling over dead because a certain high-profile Auror is
going to do the honors for her. I better get up to the Auror department . . . Weatherby better not
get in my way, or else someone's going to be growing incisors out of their ears.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

*11:47 a.m.*

Yes, well, it's all good and well that *Ron* finds this all so amusing, but some of us
have sociopathic coworkers who would like nothing more than to make our lives miserable. Some of us
have parents who actually take the *Prophet* at face value. Some of us can't wander around
laughing about this sort of thing. Some of us have to latch our friends to their desk chairs with
their tie to keep them from murdering a prominent *Daily Prophet* reporter.

So while Ron may laugh, I just spent an hour talking Harry out of a one-way ticket to Azkaban.
“Oh Harry, Grumbdell's just a hairy old hag” is what he said when he finally wanders in. And
then laughed. “Hermione,” he continued, “untie Harry before he implodes.”

Being momentarily stunned that he properly used the word `implode', I found myself unable to
comply. “Hermione,” sighed Harry finally, wiggling his fingers in my general direction, “I'm
the second ranking Auror in the entire Ministry. I could get out of this with one eye and no wand.
Please untie me.”

Somewhat suspiciously, I did so, and when Harry ruefully rubbed his wrists, I felt the teensiest
bit of guilt. Then, upon remembering what he would have done had I not tied him down, I squashed
all guilt beneath the heel of my eminently sensible thick-soled shoes.

I have no doubt of Harry's wand prowess - after all, we've worked on a few cases
together, not that he'd remember, due to the Ministry-standard *Obliviate* that follows
all cases when Mysteries work with Aurors - so I didn't point out the obvious, which was ask
why he didn't untie himself if he could do it with one eye and no wand.

“Honestly, the two of you should realize that this is a conclusion the entire Wizarding world
has already come to,” pointed out Ron lazily from the doorway as Harry undid his tie and attempted
to retie it around his neck.

“What?” I asked, my voice veering onto shrill. From my position hunched over the side of
Harry's desk, I whipped around to look at him.

“You and Harry live together,” pointed out Ron. “Everyone at the Ministry knows that the three
of us shared a flat, and everyone also knows that Luna and I are getting married. You don't
need to be an Auror to work out that you two are going to be together alone. And seeing as how
Ginny was seen pretty cozy with that Gunerth fellow at some posh place on numerous occasions, and
Viktor Krum's snogging his *male* teammate, that leaves the two of you desolate, seeking
solace in each other, right?”

“Günter,” I corrected absently, reaching across a messy mountain of paperwork - honestly, Harry
*has* a secretary, he might as well use her - to assist Harry with his tie. I hated realizing
this, but Ron actually had a point. Was the entire Wizarding world really thinking this? It did
make a great deal of sense, if one considered it logically . . .

“Hmm?” asked Ron and Harry at the same time, the later giving me a grateful smile as I pulled
the deep blue silk - my recent Christmas gift - out of his clumsy fingers.

“Günter,” I repeated. “Ginny's model. His name in Günter, not Gunerth.” Now that I thought
about it, Lavender Brown had made the strangest comment the other day at the Order reunion,
something about if I'd considered a baker for the wedding, seeing as how her cousin Brooke had
a magic touch with pastry. At the time, I'd thought she meant Ron and Luna, but I should've
known better, especially where Lavender is concerned.

“Riight,” replied Ron skeptically, leaning his lanky form against the doorframe. His grasp of
foreign affairs (and pronunciation) is as abysmal as it was when we were in school, despite the
fact that I heard him distinctly converse with Harry once, pre-Luna, on the merits of women of
certain cultures. They were far more enthusiastic in said conversation than they would have been
had they known that I was still in the house.

The corner of Harry's lips twitched as I finished his knot, and he said, “Thanks for the
insight into the mindset of the Wizarding world, Ron. Because Hermione and I wanted to know that
everyone thinks we're shagging.” He rolled his eyes.

“You look like a teenage girl when you do that,” pointed out Ron, and when Harry attempted to
stop swallowing his tongue, Ron turned to me and said, brightly, “Luna wanted me to send you a
crane about stopping by tonight to help her start with wedding plans, but I might as well tell you
now.”

And then he was gone, in the usual Ron fashion, and Harry grimaced. “Sorry about going off like
that,” he said apologetically, pushing the knot up to his throat. “Sometimes it really gets me what
they put in the *Prophet* headlines.”

Headlines? “Harry,” I asked slowly, “did you actually *read* the article?” I'd assumed
he had, by the shagging comment, but he could've just inferred that from Ron's wordy
explanation.

“No, why?”

And if he was that incensed over the headline, then the innuendoes about former threesomes were
going to assure Grumbdell's future dismemberment and hairy death.

“No reason,” I said as cheerily as I could, surreptitiously sliding his copy of the
*Prophet* off his desk. “Just don't. It's complete trash.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

*2:31 p**.m.*

I told myself that I was going to put away this ridiculously juvenile little red journal, and
take out the Haverford file - honestly, you have to wonder about men like Terrance Haverford, who
splinch themselves across dimensions; how much free time does one need on ones hands to travel
ones' left side into the Regency era - and get to work on the Arithmancy equations that
Weatherby was supposed to have on my desk two hours ago, but I've discovered something a little
strange.

Haverford's equations work out perfectly. I've checked and double checked and triple
checked, and even gone so far as to have the odious Weatherby go over them for me. There is no
explicable reason why he should have splinched himself, other than that his magic was a tad
dotty.

But in the past few weeks I've been going over his personal history and all of his written
records, and frankly the man is something of a magical genius - it took me a little less than a
month of nonstop research and experimentation to even *access* his files, they were so heavily
warded. It is highly improbable that his magic is suspect. I'd even say it was impossible, but
I've been working in the Department of Mysteries too long to make such wide-sweeping
declarations.

Still, it's absolutely peculiar that a man known throughout the intellectual world for
impeccable equations and faultless magical theory would bungle up the project that he's been
working on for decades with a smidge of spotty charm-casting. Haverford's in his fifties, his
magical prime, with no recorded health defects, and I'm having a hard time explaining his
mistake.

Because, as far as I can tell, he didn't even make a mistake.

Even Melinda pointed out over sandwiches from the cafeteria - I had to skip lunch with Harry,
due to the multiple checking of Arithmancy equations - that the whole situation is a bit off. And
while I'm not exactly going to go about trusting staff that's just out of Hogwarts and
reads *Witch Weekly* with enthusiasm normally reserved for the birth of new family members or
a first edition Sir Walter Scott, Melinda is an extraordinary witch; else she wouldn't be
working for me.

I'd go and ask Harry's opinion, if it weren't for the Secrecy Oath that I had to
take up accepting a position with the Department of Mysteries. I'd like to keep the
*Obliviat*ing of my friends down to bare minimum.

Of course, now that I've written all of this down, I suppose I'll have to go through the
trouble of bespelling this journal, won't I? At least it'll give me something to do, other
than stare in frustration at the mounds of scribbled files on my desk. I desperately need someone
to bounce ideas off of, someone who understands my thought process, and however bright Melinda is,
she simply won't do.

I suppose I'll bespell this, go over these equations one final time, and then go owl Grey.
Of all the times for his wife to be having triplets, it had to be now, hadn't it?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

*8:21 p.m.*

I deserve to be shot. Honestly, how could I have been so stupid? Of *course* Haverford
would have monthly rotating wards - he had enough material that it would take at least three to
read all of it, and another to put it all together. I should've known that three weeks was too
little time to disable the wards of someone as intelligent as Haverford.

After owling Grey - a useless enterprise, seeing as how he has yet to reply - I decided to do a
bit more reading about the history of Haverford's research, and found that the pages and pages
of his writing were about as legible to me as Gnomish, meaning I could pick up a phrase or two, but
not really the entire idea.

Damn. *Damn*. I should've taken precautions when I finished disabling them. I am so
absentminded I could bash myself over the head with Melinda's solid marble bust of Mageret the
Bulbous-Nosed. Argh. Grey honestly couldn't care less - Haverford may have splinched himself
into the Regency era, but apparently his left half is stuck in the dank corner of some abandoned
monastery where no one's ventured for centuries for fear of ghosts, or some other superstitious
nonsense, and thus utterly safe - but I hate to face Weatherby and see his smarmy grin.

It doesn't matter that I'm well aware that Weatherby couldn't disable
Haverford's wards with both hands and a Remembrance - I'm just completely annoyed with
myself.

To make things worse, when I went out to get some take-out supper at the market on Birchwood
Street, I must have hit some sort of geriatric rush hour, because every woman over the age of a
hundred and thirty was there shopping.

I got stuck in line behind two of them that were particularly slow. The one directly in front of
me turned as the first shuffled off with her groceries to say to me in what I suppose she
considered to be a conspiratorial whisper, but was really terribly loud, “My, you are certainly a
lucky young lady.”

I was mentally calculating if I had enough cash on me to pay for the sandwich and lukewarm
coffee, and for a moment wasn't sure what she was talking about. “I'm sorry?” I asked
politely, leaning forward.

“That man of yours is quite handsome,” she declared, and gave me a crusty wink as she pushed her
small basket towards the bored cashier whose entire forearm rattled with bracelets as she reached
for a box of cornstarch. I wondered for a moment if she was mistaking me for someone else, when she
gestured to the rack of *Daily Prophet*s across from us. “You'll have absolutely beautiful
children, you know. All that lovely hair of yours with his complexion.”

I could feel my cheeks flush with blood as the cashier ceased snapping her gum and shot me a
look of interest. The three old women who had piled up behind me leaned around to see where she was
gesturing. Their eyes landed on the *Prophet* and lit up. “Oh no,” I corrected her quickly,
willing the flush to leave my cheeks. “Harry and I aren't dating. That's a load of
rubbish.”

She frowned, returning her gaze to the picture for a moment. It was just my luck that
picture-Harry chose that moment to attack picture-Hermione with his chocolate ice cream cone, and
the two tumbled off into the corner of the picture, still laughing hysterically. The cashier and
women behind me gazed on in rapt enjoyment as she continued, “Well, the two of you certainly seem a
bit more than friends.” She looked significantly at the picture. “. . . and I do insist that your
children will be lovely.”

There was a chorus of agreement from the three other patrons as she held out a few coins to the
cashier. I distinctly heard one mutter knowledgably to another, “In my day, we didn't call a
kneazle a jobberknoll, you know,” as the woman before me gathered up her small bag of groceries and
hobbled out of the store.

I handed the cashier my Galleons as quickly as possible, eyes averted to over her right
shoulder, as she looked me over with obvious interest. “You know,” she said in a raspy voice as she
thoughtfully handed me back a few Sickles, “the woman does have a point. I mean, you an' Harry
Potter an' all. That Ginny Weasley seems a lit'le like a bitch, don't she?”

My eyes snapped to meet hers, encrusted in heavy black eyeliner and bejeweled fake eyelashes,
and I smiled at her companionably as I gathered up my sandwich. As confused as she may have been
about Harry and my relationship, she saw through the clever disguise of the Gin-inator, and that
deserved a little recognition.

Goodness, why is my clock ticking at me angrily like that? It's only 8:30 . . . oh no! Damn!
Dinner with Ron and Luna! Oh, this ridiculous Haverford file is driving me positively
*bonkers*. No doubt Ron will be alight with delight that Hermione Granger is late for once in
her life.

Hmph.

-->



3. Of Secretary-Stealers, Black Vortexes, and Yellow Frocks
-----------------------------------------------------------



Disclaimer: Oh, just shut up already.

**Author's Note:** In regards to the OotP trailer, I have to say: oh my god, Daniel
Radcliffe, stay away from the cutting shears. What the hell is up with that crew cut? For god's
sake, use your hotness for the power of *good*, not evil.

*~ Note: Wow . . . totally weird. I wrote that after the first OotP trailer came out . . . and
now the movie's in theaters!! ~*

Anywho, thanks to all of you for the MARVELOUS reviews! I mean, god, I have 75 reviews for two
chapters at this point. It's amazing! I feel loved, I tell you, positively *adored*.
*sniffle*

**Second Author's Note:** *hums off-key* Due to the precipitous occasion of the BEGINNING
OF SUMMER (whoot!) I hope that I'll be able to post quicker than usual (my anal-retentiveness
means that it takes me two days to write the chapter and two weeks to edit it) . . . but yaya! Hot
weather! Cool pools!

. . . I love life.

**Third Author's Note:** (written a week later) Okay, so I sort of missed the beginning
of summer mark. Whoops. I honestly intended to have this up before I left for London, I did! I bum
internet off of my neighbor's wireless sometimes, and unfortunately their system was down, so
no uploading could be done. But ignore my rambling. Enjoy!

~

Denial

*Chapter Three:* *Of Secretary-Stealers,* *Black Vortexes**, and Yellow
Frocks*

~

*11:57 p.m.*

I love Luna, I really do. Goodness knows that she's my best friend - of the female gender,
at any rate - and we do get along marvelously; but there are times when I wonder about where her
rather . . . *exotic* tastes stem from. The Lovegoods are from Ottery St. Catchpole, which is
hardly a neighborhood that is of the eccentric persuasion. Admittedly at times I wonder about the
MacMillan family, but it's Ernie's fault for thinking he could change Romilda Vane simply
by marrying her.

Anyway, upon stumbling, in a somewhat unattractive fashion, through the soot-encrusted fireplace
in Ron and Luna's newly-shared house, I discovered my aforementioned best friend sitting
cross-legged on her striped blue and magenta sofa, flipping through bridal magazines. A whole stack
of them, all portraying attractive society flirts in dresses that varied from prudish to garish to
downright revealing, was perched on the Eiffel Tower of brown cardboard boxes. There were similar
structures arrayed about the living room, all evidence of Ron's recent defection from Grimmauld
Place.

She looked up as I staggered out of their red brick fireplace - which was in desperate need of a
good dusting, seeing as how neither Luna nor Ron are terribly worried about cleaning things -
coughing up approximately half the alveoli and their respective capillaries in my left lung.

“Hullo Hermione!” said Luna brightly, tossing aside her bridal magazine and receiving an
indignant huff from the jet-haired hussy on the cover. She hopped up from the couch to help me with
my bags, a half dozen of which contained the Haverford files, which were so heavily warded by their
esteemed writer that I only needed to bother with a few minor distraction charms. Luna's
earrings, a pair displaying a cluster of ceramic spinach leaves dangling from a red wooden bead
that I had gotten her for Christmas before last, were horridly tangled in the wispy blonde hair
that had valiantly escaped from her semi-drooping ponytail.

“I was thinking yellow,” she declared in a voice that was terribly firm (for Luna, anyhow),
settling my bags on a ratty leather armchair that looked as though it had seen better days, no
doubt around the era that Henry VIII was still on his third wife. Confused, and still slightly
breathless, I could only silently follow her through a Minoan labyrinth of cardboard boxes to the
kitchen.

“Yellow,” she continued as she pulled down two mismatched tea cups and saucers from the cupboard
above the stove. “Chamomile? Or peppermint?”

“Peppermint,” I wheezed, coughing up a small plume of black smoke. Luna, appearing not to notice
the rapid change in air composition around me, mumbled something about raspberry-glazed biscuits. I
politely refused and, grimacing, accepted the tea she proffered and took a delicate sip. It spread
across my soot-lined throat and washed away the acrid taste of burnt metal that had been lingering
on the back of my tongue. Absentminded Luna may have been, but she could brew a cuppa with the
best.

Mind you, Luna's not as loony as she was before the Second Blitz roared over London. I
suppose that most of the time she acts that way, pretending, like we all do, that those horrible
years never really happened. Ron's the same way; there are times where he'll be so utterly
responsible and deviously clever that I'll think, in a most unflattering way, that it almost
isn't Ron. Because Ron, you see, is blunt without exception; never *dense*, per se, but
he's also not the sort of clever that makes Lucius Malfoy's perfect hair turn green with
envy. But then the strange moment passes and he's back to being the old Ron, crabby and
impolite, but still just dear old Ron.

And Harry hasn't been able to shake that dark glint in his eyes, the one that I know Ron and
I can see, and sometimes share, but maybe it isn't quite as visible to anyone who doesn't
know him as well as we two do. It's from killing them, I know, all of those Death Eaters and
Voldemort, the ones who deserved to rot away in Dante's seventh circle of Hell for all of
eternity, but whom we still had to kill to put there.

I worry about Harry, because I know that being an Auror isn't all paperwork and stake outs
and information gathering, it has its dangers and its violence - not as much as when we were in the
War and it was just a handful of competent Aurors and schoolchildren against one of the most darkly
powerful wizards the world has ever seen, but the danger is still there - and I know that in his
mind he's wondering whether or not he's become too good at being detached, at killing them,
and that he isn't suited to doing much else. That's when the glint gets bigger, and his
green eyes harden as if his heart is doing it as well.

He looked like that when he killed Voldemort, when all that light rushed around them, leaving
just Harry's dark eyes.

*Alright.*

No more talk about Voldemort, not now, when I've got Luna's ridiculous wedding plans to
dissect. Because, you see, while I (rather naïvely, I hesitate to admit) assumed that she was
talking about the *Quibbler* when she rambled on about yellow, she was, instead, talking about
her bridesmaid dresses.

*Bright* yellow. When she showed me a photo of the particular swath of fabric she had in
mind, which turned out to be a tablecloth, of all things, at the post-nuptial soiree of a young
fashion protégé's spring wedding, my retinas all but screeched in mortal agony.

“Erm.”

“Isn't it marvelous?” gushed Luna, gazing down at the glossy magazine page happily. “I know
that brunettes with your porcelain skin tone are supposed to be lovely in yellow, or so assures
Margery. Ginny's dress might need a little work, but I suppose we could lighten it up a bit,
and she'll look fine.”

I tore my eyes from the page to Luna's wide blue eyes, framed by the haphazard fringe that,
despite its lack of care, manages to accentuate her long face perfectly. The view was obscured by
scattered white splotches in the general shape of a series of square tables. “Yellow?” I repeated
dumbly. In my mind I was divided between making a mental memo - *Note to self: Hex Luna's
secretary* - and imagining gleefully the stunningly beautiful Ginny in a garishly yellow
bridesmaid gown bedecked in ribbons and lace; I imagine that despite this, I quite resembled a
landed cod as I gaped at her.

I'd realized after so many years of friendship that Luna's tastes were terrible, but
goodness, not *that* terrible.

“Yes, yellow,” replied Luna patiently. She looked down at her swath of fabric and gestured
vaguely in the general direction of the napkins folded under bright purple cocktails in the next
picture. Luckily, this yellow appeared to have been bleached heavily of its neon undertones;
unluckily, it had sparkles.

“I figure that if I show Madame Malkin these pictures, she'll be able to rustle up some
fabric to match. Mrs. Weasley's offered her help with making the dresses; isn't that kind
of her?”

My nose twitched as I attempted to calmly take a sip of my tea without snorting. The day I
allowed Mrs. Weasley within three hundred yards of my wedding plans was the day that my groom was
Draco Malfoy. It isn't as if I don't love Mrs. Weasley, because I do. But I'm afraid
that our tastes don't mesh terribly well, and I am perfectly aware that we are both just too
stubborn to ever compromise on any of our disagreements.

But then again, Luna's bluntness allows her a certain amount of leeway when it comes to
dissenting opinions with Mrs. Weasley. I suppose that's one of the reasons why she's
marrying Ron, and I dumped a bowl of boiled greens over his head two hours after he told me he
fancied me.

I spent the next two hours talking Luna into a more tolerable shade of creamy yellow (that would
better suit both complexion and optic nerve) for the bridesmaid dresses and writing innumerable
lists about the wedding. While neither Luna nor Ron appear to be that worried about the fact that
their wedding is two months away, between Mrs. Weasley and I all necessary worrying is covered.

I suppose that if they wanted a small wedding then it would be a different matter altogether;
but when the Weasleys are involved, nothing can ever be completely *small*. There's
Ron's parents, his five siblings, their significant others (or, in the case of the Gin-inator,
insignificant other), their children, plus aunts, uncles, cousins, and work *and* school
friends. Then there's Luna's family, which is surprisingly large, considering how I always
got the impression she and her father were awfully lonely.

Then again, it's always surprising how many relatives come out of the woodwork when one is
getting married. It's rather like coming into a large sum of money, I imagine.

But either way, Luna's wedding is going to be quite large. Considering how the
*Prophet* latched their teeth into the proposal (although I suspect that it had more to do
with me running, desolate, into Harry's eagerly awaiting arms), I don't doubt that the
bridal magazines Luna was drooling over will be sending her owls soon. Luna's far too sensible
to actually entertain such notions, but we'll have a good laugh or two over them and their pink
stationary.

I made it back to Grimmauld Place, leaking notebook paper, just in time to see a heavily made-up
Gin-inator stalk angrily out of the house. Behind her, the door shut with a great *clang*, the
peeling paint at the top swaying back and forth on their precarious perch. The top two buttons of
her clingy crimson blouse were undone, and I, with great relish, stopped her to point out that the
lacy top of her brassiere was showing. She shot me an evil glare that would have meant hairy death
in any language, and flounced off, the spindly heels of her stilettos *clack*ing against the
cement squares leading up to the house.

I found Harry hunched over a few fingers of Firewhisky in the parlor. Because he looked like he
needed a distraction, not my unmitigated glee at the failure of the Gin-inator, I shuffled into the
doorway with a huff. “Care to give a girl a hand?”

He looked up, and I could see he was grateful by his smile and the way he quickly placed the
crystal glass of liquor next to the decanter on the rickety mahogany side table. “Planning on
invading Poland?” he inquired politely, taking more than half of my overflowing bags and shoving
them onto the couch with barely visible effort. I attempted not to be jealous and failed
miserably.

“Goodness no,” I declared, adding the last few to the pile and sinking down into the dusky green
Queen Anne chair nearby. “That's just to get me across the Channel. I'll have to double it
at least for Poland.” Harry quirked an eyebrow in reply, but I could already tell that his fingers
were twitching towards the sofa. “Oh no you don't,” I said warningly, pulling myself out of the
delicious warmth of the chair and propelling my body between my housemate and paperwork.

“What, is it Mysteries business?” inquired Harry, grinning. I'd explained to him once how
those within the Research subsection of the Department were called Mysteries, while everyone else
were referred to as Unspeakables. He'd found it highly amusing, and made some good-natured
rumblings as to how it was the perfect place for me, as even the nicknames were organized. Ever
since he'd made sure to use the proper nomenclature of the Department of Mysteries
personnel.

“Yes,” I replied, sniffing as haughtily as I could. I came off my high horse as I burrowed
myself between two leaning towers of files on the sofa with a contented sigh. “I'm hungry
enough to eat a horse,” I continued, reaching up a leaden hand to massage my still-sore eyes. “One
look at the fabric Luna wanted for her bridesmaids' frocks and I lost my appetite completely.”
Harry raised an eloquent eyebrow, reaching out to take a sip of his Firewhisky, and I told him the
entire story, complete with adjective-riddled descriptions of the fabric swatches.

He clucked sympathetically at all the correct moments, and when I finished we moved into the
kitchen, where he made me a thick turkey sandwich that we split and enjoyed in companionable
silence. I ultimately decided against bringing up the amusing anecdote of the geriatric supporters
of our non-relationship - and *not* because I thought it would raise any awkwardness between
us, due to unacknowledged romantic feelings, or other ridiculous somesuch.

I didn't tell him because I saw no reason that he would get any merit from it, other than a
good chuckle. So I decided to save the anecdote for a particularly thunder-riddled rainy day, and
lugged my fourteen thousand pounds worth of paperwork up to Ron's my bedroom to do some
late-night work.

I always do best at the ten-to-one in the morning hours, so in reality I should probably be
working on decoding Haverford's notes, not writing about my daily escapades in this journal at
midnight. However, this has become surprisingly addicting. Who would have thought that sensible
Hermione Granger with her sensible shoes and such would become addicted to journaling?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

*Wednesday, September 3**rd*

This is complete and utter bollocks. Honestly, who does Grey think I am? Grunheld the Explorer?
Do I seem to be the type who would work better while “in the field with first-hand information
coming at me?”

Really? Do I? I guess I was under the rather *mistaken* impression that the reason I work
in the Department of Mysteries, rather than in the research division of MLE, is that I cannot think
on my feet, and would most likely be blasted into a pile of ash if I ever ventured out onto the
field against an opponent more dangerous than a diricawl. Because I had thought that during my
interview with Grey when I said, “Sir, I can apply myself best in a library environment,” I was
telling the truth.

I suppose, though, I must be mistaken on this account. Because, you see, Grey has decided that
rather than letting me sacrifice the next seven months - which is a conservative estimate, I have
to admit - to unwarding Haverford's files, instead he's going to send me, along with an
Auror, the Regency era and that dank little monastery to convince Haverford to give me the
codecharm for his notes.

I asked why I needed an Auror to accompany me - after all, they catch dark wizards, and from
what I've read on Haverford (and believe me, with Delta Spark clearance I have access to all
sorts of restricted files) the man was just about as dark as a billywig - and Grey replied, his
mysterious tone somewhat belied by the screeching of his newborn triplets, “If you're right,
Granger, and there was nothing Haverford did wrong, then someone decided to interfere with his
work. The Auror's there to make sure that he or she doesn't splinch your large brain in
half, too.”

Somewhat mollified by this - but not enough to ignore the loud *danger! danger!* shrieks in
the back of my mind - I opened my mouth to protest when Grey quickly withdrew his head from the
fireplace. Harrumphing, I settled back on my heels. My office isn't really a proper office at
all, although I do have a strange sort of half-wall that rises slightly about the height of
Harry's head and is thick enough to hold a fireplace. In front of that is my desk, where I
quickly relocated to sketch out a request for the Auror department. It was all the classic
paperwork sort of thing, until I arrived upon the *purpose and destination* part.

Somehow I had a feeling that “Grey intends on sending an Auror and I into the Regency era to
possibly find a dark wizard who is willing to splinch a man in half in order to keep easier methods
of time travel undiscovered” wouldn't be what Kingsley meant by purpose and destination. So I
meandered around the issue, making rumblings about possibilities of danger and only mentioning the
Regency era once in passing.

I folded up the parchment, tapped it with a few wards, and made my way out of my oasis of
isolation to find Melinda. I had to weave around the two lumpy armchairs and the half-moon of
filing cabinets holding the shrunken reports of every case I've ever worked on (and a few that
I haven't) in order to leave my office/clearing. Finding my way to the front doors involved
meandering through the stacks upon stacks upon stacks of bookshelves that extend endlessly on three
sides and only moderately so on the fourth (so I can leave my office without having to bring along
rations). It was along the fourth side that I traveled, which lead to Melinda's desk beside the
large double doors that lead back into the main foyer of the Research Division.

After Lucius Malfoy revealed, under Veritaserum at his trial, that he and other Death Eaters
posing as Ministry officials had been hacking into the classified owl posts between departments,
the Ministry had stopped using owl posts and instead had Auror-couriers, a useless and inefficient
system involving Aurors having to carry their own messages for the cases they were working on.

The odious Weatherby and I - in our only collaboration - jointly petitioned the Minister to
install a new system that was neither inefficient nor easily intercepted, and we ended up with the
Black Box system. A square opening about the size of a first edition *Hogwarts, A History* is
cut into the wall, where it accesses the `black vortex' (or so Harry called it, rather
unprofessionally) that goes fluidly throughout the entire Ministry building. With a tap of the wand
of anyone working in the office, the black box is operational, and one simply says the office name,
puts in the piece of parchment or package, and the walls carry the message to the requisite
office.

Unfortunately, my office has no walls connected to the Ministry building, so I have to go to
Melinda every time I wish to use my Black Box; I sent Grey a petition months ago asking that he get
in a maintenance worker to connect my false wall to the floor, but he went on paternity leave not
long after, and his secretary isn't terribly trustworthy.

I arrived at Melinda's desk to find it deserted. She had left a piece of parchment on her
desk explaining that Weatherby had rudely demanded her assistance with some meaningless chore, and
she would be back by eleven at the latest. Honestly, Weatherby has to stop his aggravating attempts
at bothering my work flow - Melinda is *my* secretary, and he and Tennebaum share Yewdell, who
I know is quite capable of doing his job properly! His office politics are absolutely
juve----------

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I am still not terribly experienced at portraying how a character is startled and jerks their
pen off the page, because whenever I do it in real life, I get ink all over my neat handwriting and
the letters turn unintelligible . . . But I hope I got the point across.

Anywho, I have returned from my vacation in London/Spain . . . and then my vacation in Chicago .
. . and will post this chapter. Never fear! Summer is here, thus my time spent on this story will
increase exponentially. However, I sort of drowned my iPod in London, so first dibs on time goes to
the job paying for its replacement. Me sorry!

P.S. I realize, as someone pointed out, that I wrote in passing that Harry and Hermione share a
flat in the last chapter. I apologize. This is actually the only fic I've really written where
they share Grimmauld Place . . . it was habit, which is my only excuse.

-->



