Small Change by romulus lupin

Rating: G
Genres: Angst
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 24/02/2003
Last Updated: 24/02/2003
Status: Completed

What happens when our favorite poster couple have a drag-down, no-holds-barred fight? What did
they fight about? And how will they make up?




1. untitled
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Small Change
**Title:** **Small Change**
**Author name:** romulus lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione
**Rating:** G
**Spoilers:** PoA, GoF
**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 Notes:** This came out of a discussion on the HMS Pumpkin Pie at
Fiction Alley some time back: “How will Harry and Hermione make up after a fight?” The idea spurred
a plot bunny which became this story – and at the same time, is a “tribute fic” to the many, many
fanfic writers who sail the HMS Pumpkin Pie.

**Small Change**

*“Women!”* the man sitting at the bar snarled, “*You can’t live with them …”*

“… And you can’t live without ‘em,” Tom, the wizened bartender and owner of the Leaky Cauldron,
completed the statement. His customer glared at him, emerald-green eyes blazing from behind round
glasses, pushing back the sweaty, unruly black hair that had fallen over them – for a moment
showing the lightning-shaped scar that at least three- quarters of humanity would have easily
recognized.

Tom looked back calmly. ‘*Been there, done that*’, he thought wryly. Sooner or later it
happened even to the best of them – and when it did, they almost always found their way to the
Leaky Cauldron, or the Three Broomsticks, or the thousands of other bars and watering holes that
populated every city, town or municipality around the world. Wizard or muggle, they’d walk in as if
pole-axed, wondering how the wonderful woman they had married or were living with could turn so
suddenly into a raging virago or screaming banshee – and seeking the solace of a bottle or other
scarred veterans of domestic battles, venting their ire and frustration to the friendly (but deaf)
ears of a million bartenders or their own circle of scarred friends …

Except that he couldn’t believe that *that* would be happening to the person in front of
him. If there was any one couple that he would have bet the Leaky Cauldron on to have beat the
odds, it was *those* two … he’d first noticed it seven years ago, when Hermione Granger
stumbled coming out of the fireplace, falling into a surprised Harry Potter – and the two
practically snogging on the floor of the Leaky Cauldron!

Accidentally, of course. But he could never forget the look on the faces of those two – as if
they had both discovered a basic *truth* about the universe … and that, from then on, because
of that knowledge, *nothing* would ever be the same again.

He sighed, and shrugged. Philosophically, he repeated the line to himself, “It happens to the
best of ‘em!” and mentally braced himself for the emotional onslaught he knew was coming.

“So what was it this time, Mr. Potter?” he asked, cautiously, in his best
lending-an-ear-and-sympathy manner to his current customer. “Money troubles … where to go on
vacation … who gets to wear the pants in the house? Or did you forget something that was important
to her?”

The green eyes blazed, and Tom involuntarily took a step backward. For the briefest of moments,
Tom wondered whether those fiery green eyes were the last conscious memory of
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before his final defeat at the hands and wands of Harry Potter and
Hermione Granger.

But then, the eyes dulled, as if a curtain had fallen over them – and Tom breathed a sigh of
relief. Harry Potter whispered to himself, “Something like that …” and then slapped the shot glass
he was holding down on the bar, with a loud “Hit me again, Tom!”

Tom was about to protest, but decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and poured
another measure of fire whisky into the glass. Harry held the glass up to him in a silent salute,
and chugged it down his throat – and started coughing madly as the alcohol bit his throat and
burned its way to his stomach.

He looked at the old bartender, tears in his eyes (whether from the alcohol or the emotional
turmoil within him, Tom couldn’t tell) and said, in a choked voice, “I’m **not** going back
there, Tom … not until she *crawls* to me on her hands and knees …”

“She will, ‘arry,” a familiar voice boomed, followed by a hard slap on the back which almost
sent him face first into the bar. Tom and Harry looked up into the smiling face of Hagrid, who
continued, “she’ll come crawling after you on her hands and knees, screaming, ‘Come out from under
the bed and fight like a man!’”

Hagrid’s booming laughter was matched by the raucous mirth of two red-headed brothers who,
nevertheless, showed a sympathy and understanding that made Harry believe *they* had been
forced to sleep outside the conjugal bedroom before.

“Give ‘arry another one of what he’s havin’, Tom – and give the Twins and meself the usual,”
Hagrid boomed out. “We’ll take ‘im off your hands now … give ‘im some free advice from those who’ve
been there afore!”

Harry Potter shook his head and stood up. Morosely, he followed the three to a corner table,
prepared to drown himself in the company of people that he had never believed *he* would be
joining – men who had been thrown out of the house, or had walked out to cool off, after a blazing
argument with their significant others.
* * * * *

Hermione Granger was sitting in the shambles of their living room, eyes red and blotchy, cheeks
glistening with the sheen of dried tears. Her mind was in turmoil, berating herself yet again for
losing her temper … for losing *control* … and over *what*?

A completely *insignificant*, totally *petty*, extremely *trivial*, and utterly
*inconsequential* matter of a missed program on the muggle satellite TV.

She couldn’t understand what had prompted her to such pettiness and sheer narrow-mindedness, but
at the time … *it felt good!* She’d released a lot of pent-up emotions … frustrations … things
half-felt but never really understood … *small* things that had been building up for months …
all finally, *gloriously*, released in a single moment of sheer meanness and
trivial-mindedness.

No.

She understood *perfectly* why she did it. She knew – and she just couldn’t stop herself.
She could have talked it out with Harry … he would have listened, he would have tried to understand
… but the sheer *joy* of letting go, and feeling *human* had been too tempting …

She felt the tears falling down her cheeks again, as she went back over what she had done.

She could only hope that Harry would understand.
* * * * *

“She *what*?” The twin Weasleys said in shocked voices. Harry nodded morosely, confirming
what he had just told them. “But that … that’s … *insane!*”

“Crazy.”

“*Mental*!*”*

“Senseless.”

“*Mad*!”

“Shut up, you two.” Hagrid’s demand, delivered in his normal tone of voice, had the effect of
quieting the room. He frowned at Harry, as if asking him if there was anything else that he had
omitted. Harry shook his head emphatically – there was *nothing* else worth mentioning!
Certainly not *what* Hermione wanted to watch …

“Ahem.” Four pairs of eyes turned on Tom, who was bringing their drinks. As he set their orders
in front of them, he said, in the quiet voice of one who had heard it all before, “She’s feeling
detached from the *real* world, Mr. Potter … she just needs to feel human.”

Four sets of jaws dropped at that confident statement. Harry was the first to react: “What the
*hell* does that mean?”
* * * * *

Hermione had drawn the curtains in the living room. Sitting in the dark, her mind turned back on
what had happened … and she started reviewing the reasons for the fight.

Money problems? She smirked. Harry was *rich*, with or without a job, he had enough money
in Gringotts to live the way he wanted and even invest in things he felt were worthwhile … As for
herself, she made decent money as a research associate with the Stonehenge Institute … No,
*money* wasn’t a problem.

Lack of communication? Oh, no … their habit of completing each other’s sentences (which
*everyone* around them noticed since their second or third year at Hogwarts) had grown and
improved over the years … to the point that they often knew what the other was thinking through a
simple gesture, or a meeting of their eyes.

Sex? She smiled at the thought … they *never* had sex, not even the first time. They
*made love* to each other … inadequate as it sounded, it was the only way to describe the
*joining* of body, mind, and *soul* that happened when they were together. Calling it
“sex” was, in truth, a private joke for something that was truly *indescribable!*

Insecurities? Not really … Harry still carried an insecurity about losing her to someone else,
but their mental communication was such that she *knew* when it was affecting him – and she
*always* found a way to ease the uncertainty away. As *Harry* did for her occasional
bouts of anxiety about her physical appearance. She smiled at the memory of Harry coming upon her
when she was depressed one time at Hogwarts, and his promise to keep telling her that she was
beautiful until she *believed* it … as well as his shame-faced confession that the reason why
*none* of the boys had ever mentioned her name in their talks was his threat to kill them if
they *ever* said one word about her.

All in all, their world was *perfect* … *too* perfect, she sometimes thought. She knew
a lot of people who would have gladly sacrificed their children to some pagan altar just to have a
*fraction* of what Harry and she had. She smirked as she remembered Sirius’ comment that most
men would give their left nut to be in *Harry’s* shoes … followed by Ron’s crude comment that
most men would give *both* balls to have Harry’s fortune – which included Hermione.

She sighed. *That* was the problem, she knew. Her world sometimes seemed to be *too*
perfect: she had *Harry*, best friend, companion, lover, confidante, *partner* … they had
no worries about money, bills, mortgages, credit cards … plus the fact that they were both
*magical* …

Which made her feel *in*human at times … and those were the moments when she needed, she
*craved* for, the ordinary day-to-day problems that people faced every day … she had to feel
as if she were part of a *real* world, not a made-up, imaginary world like the fairy tale
worlds or legends that she had read as a child.

Truth to tell, *that* was the reason behind her petty meanness that afternoon. If
*pain* was the price paid to make one *certain* of reality, she would indulge in it when
*needed* … as she had today, when she missed watching a program she’d wanted to see, and
blamed it on Harry.

She suddenly stood up. She needed to talk to Harry *now* … it had been *hours* since
he had stormed out of their home … she needed to hold him, to apologize for her words, to make him
*understand* where she was coming from … but where was he?

Struck by a sudden inspiration, she ran for her dresser. Yanking out the drawer, she rummaged
through the contents, finally throwing everything on the floor in anger … the hair-comb she was
looking for wasn’t there.

She slumped to the floor in defeat, face buried in her hands … more tears falling silently down
her face.
* * * * *

Harry listened, wide eyed and mouth agape, as Tom ran through his analysis of what Hermione’s
problem was. He had to admit that the old man had a point: to any outsider – and even many of his
closest friends – it may seem that he was leading a charmed, even *perfect*, life. He had none
of the economic problems most people – Wizard and muggle alike – faced on a daily basis. He was in
love with the most wonderful woman in the world … they had a level of *communication* (mental
and even *physical*) that most could only dream of …

Which didn’t mean that he was *not* human. He was just like everyone else in the world … a
little more special than others, perhaps … a lot more *famous* than most people were (thanks
to Jo and her books) … but still, at the end of it all, just as mortal, and *human* as
everyone else around him.

Which didn’t help his current situation one bit. He didn’t know how to deal with this situation
*now* … even if Tom was right about Hermione’s feelings and emotional depression, he wasn’t
sure how to help her get over it …

“*The big things matter, but the small things are what count.*”

Harry’s head jerked up at that statement; he’d been too engrossed in his thoughts and worries
about Hermione to follow where the conversation had gone. At the same time, the words sounded
familiar … he was surprised when he saw the Twins nodding their heads sagely at Tom.

“That’s what Professor Dumbledore said at our wedding,” Fred was saying to Tom.

Harry’s brain clicked – and replayed the scene where Professor Dumbledore had presided over the
wizard wedding of Fred to Katie Bell, and George to Angelina Johnson.

“The big things will always be remembered, but the small things are what really count,” the old
man had started. For some reason, however, Harry felt that Dumbledore was talking directly to him –
and Hermione – and not to the crowd of family and friends that had turned out for the Twins’
wedding. “Money, fame, jobs, children, and the like, are all part of the ‘big’ things that everyone
pays attention to, that everyone will remember – and everyone will tell you to watch out for. But
keep in mind that *small* things, the everyday occurrences or events that very few focus on,
make for a more *important* element in our lives.

“These everyday moments and memories … the quiet hug in the morning, the kiss in the middle of
the day, the warm hand of friendship and greeting, the rose you give your loved ones whenever the
mood strikes you … make up the *real* – and more *important* -- tapestry of our
lives.

“And yet, who really pays attention to these small things? They are like small change … the
copper knuts that are far, far less in value than silver sickles or gold galleons … but when put
together, they have a value far beyond what they may imply. What would you rather have, my friends?
To wait each day for a golden galleon to come your way, or to save each and every knut that passes
by? At the end of the day, you may not have a golden galleon – but you will have hundreds of knuts
that, together, translate into tens of galleons.

“Bear that in mind, my friends. The small attentions that we pay our loved ones each day are the
small change of life – like a collection of individual knuts, together they form riches that will
serve us better whenever dark times are upon us.”

Harry shoved his hands into his jacket’s pockets, his mind replaying Dumbledore’s words. He was
suddenly aware of something in his pocket – pulling it out, he realized that it was Hermione’s
sapphire-studded hair comb – a Christmas gift he had gotten for her years ago, when they were still
at Hogwarts. He studied it for a moment … impulsively, he touched the middle stone and whispered
Hermione’s name.

His attention was diverted, however, when he heard George say something about Ginny and America.
Fred was telling Hagrid that Ginny was currently in America on a special assignment for the Daily
Prophet. “She’s interviewing wizards and witches who’ve made it big in the Muggle world … Mum said
she’ll be in Chicago today interviewing some big shot TV executive over there.”

“Ginny’s in Chicago?” Harry asked, surprised. He dropped the comb into his pocket, and focused
his attention on the Twins, who were gaping at him, surprised at the sudden light and enthusiasm
that was shining in his face. “Is there anyway I can get in touch with her?”

“She talks with Mum via the floo network everyday,” George replied. “In fact, she should be
calling (he checked his watch) … just about now.”

Harry stood up so suddenly that his chair crashed back. He threw several Galleons on the table,
and with a “Thanks, guys! You’ve been a big help!” and a wave to Tom the Bartender, he Disapparated
from the Leaky Cauldron.

The others looked at each other in stunned surprise. “You’re not supposed to Apparate when
you’ve been drinking!” Fred protested, belatedly.

Hagrid shrugged, “’at’s ‘arry for you … always bending the rules. It must be summat important
for him to go like that.”

“Well,” George said heavily. “Hope he doesn’t splinch.” He peered down at the money Harry had
left and said, “Hey, let’s order another round … it’s on Harry.”

“Later,” Hagrid replied. “We haven’t finished *this* round yet.”

The three continued talking. None of them noticed that Tom was talking to a brown-haired woman
with tear-streaked cheeks whose face had appeared in the fireplace.
* * * * *

“Thanks, Tom,” said Hermione as she turned away from the fireplace. She had missed Harry by
*seconds* … she had been so shocked when she heard his voice in her head, calling her name,
that it had taken her some time to remember that *he* had her comb. She had asked him to hold
on to it after a party … she had apparently forgotten to retrieve it and place it in her drawer
when they got home.

She sighed. Just a few more seconds … what was so infernally *important* to Harry that he
had Disapparated from the Leaky Cauldron without even waiting for her to try to get in touch with
him? She couldn’t think of a reason … but there was a niggling thought in the back of her mind …
something that had been on Harry’s mind when he said her name …

Hermione tried to relax, hoping that her overworked brain would be able to bring the thought
back. She heard Harry’s voice whispering, “*Memories are the small change of life …*” and her
mind immediately made the connection to Dumbledore and the wedding of the Twins …

But her mind didn’t focus on Dumbledore’s words or the wedding … instead, a river of memories
started cascading through her mind …

A Valentine’s Day when she ended up snuggling with Harry after fuming over Lavender and Parvati
stealing, and then *enlarging* her favorite photo of Harry into a wall sized poster in her
dormitory … Snoggy the Elf and an overheated engine … the time he’d been complimenting her
*toes*, and he had Apparated to the market for pumpkins and chocolate sauce … a midnight dare
one May Day eve when she’d seen *Harry’s* face looking back at her in a mirror … a breakfast
when she’d taught him the sensuality of toast …the night he finally worked up the courage to say
“thank you” for all the times they’d had together …a moment when they’d shared fish and chips off
newspapers … the time she kissed his swollen ankle – and found a sure-fire cure for her colds …
that early morning when she’d contrived to make him see her by candlelight … the flying lessons
that he’d given her – especially one time when she fell asleep to his singing Bon Jovi’s “I’ll Be
There For You” … a day when Crookshanks had attacked him – and he’d fallen into her arms … their
walks by the lake, sometimes talking, more often silently content in their companionship …

A thousand small memories … all of them seemingly small and infinitesimal when placed within the
context of the “big” events that Jo had turned into a hugely successful series of
“adventure/fantasy” books but which, she reflected, were far more important in the *total*
tapestry of their lives … those small incidents and memories showed, in a way not apparent to most,
the *nature* and *depth* of what they felt for each other …

Smitten with a sudden resolve, Hermione went to Harry’s desk, intent on finding parchment and
quill, wanting nothing more than to put all her thoughts, memories and emotions into a single
shining epistle of her love for the wizard who owned her heart and her soul … as she picked up a
roll of parchment, her eyes chanced upon an old, battered quill that looked as if it had been
through a hundred letters … a thousand notes … and she stared, goggle-eyed …

She’d seen that same quill in Harry’s hand a thousand times over the years … he’d carried it
*everywhere* with him … revising in the Gryffindor Common Room … scratching away in Potions,
Transfiguration, Charms … writing in front of her … notes that she later found were short, loving
notes addressed to her … that quill was so much a part of Harry that she had never really taken
notice of it … until now.

It was an old, battered, decrepit, once-luxury eagle feather quill that first came out in 1992 …
just about ten years ago. And the memory again seared through her mind … she’d bought *that*
quill for Harry’s 12th birthday … the first-ever birthday gift she’d given him … there’d been other
gifts (including quills) over the years (including a very *passionate* birthday gift on his
18th birthday!) … but he had kept on using *this* one …

And Hermione once again dissolved into tears, clutching that old, trampled eagle-feather quill
that was just another knut in the treasury of their lives.
* * * * *

Hours later, Hermione started, slowly waking up to find herself slumped over Harry’s desk, still
clutching the old eagle feather quill … she looked at the clock on the desk and saw that it was
late. Harry still wasn’t home … and she began to worry, wondering which of their many friends Harry
was with right now – or which long-legged floozy *he’d* found solace in …

In the utter stillness of their home, she heard the unmistakable ‘pop’ of someone Apparating at
the door … the quiet click of a key inserted into the front door … and Harry’s voice, shouting
“Mione? I *got* it!”

She literally flew into his arms, rocking his strong frame backwards as she jumped on him,
hugging him tightly, babbling a mile a minute her apologies, her disjointed thoughts, her
protestations of love for him …

There was only one sure way that Harry knew to shut that mouth … and he kissed her, deeply,
searchingly, lovingly … pouring into the gesture all the passion, love and, yes, *lust* that
had built up over the hours of their separation, his tongue trying to find her tonsils … Hermione
leading him in, holding him tightly, hands almost tearing his hair out in her frenzy to touch him
…

Inevitably, they had to break away to draw breath … and though their breathing was ragged, it
had the effect of calming Hermione down, and they stood there in their living room, holding each
other tightly.

They spoke simultaneously, each speaking the other’s name – both of them wanting to be the first
to apologize, to be the first to make amends, to be the first to mend the torn and painful memories
of that day …

They paused, looking at each other.

There was no need for words. They hugged, arms around each other, Hermione’s head on his chest,
Harry’s head resting on the soft, brown crown of hair that he had grown to love. They stood there
in companionable silence, until Harry spoke, “Mione … love, I’ve *got* it!”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“You wanted to watch it, didn’t you?” He said, showing her a VHS tape clutched tightly in one
hand.

“Harry … how?”

He smiled at her. “Let’s just say I owe Ginny a considerable favor. If she ever decides to leave
the Daily Prophet, she can claim a pension for the rest of her life!”

“Harry … you shouldn’t have! It wasn’t that important …”

“It was important to *you*, Mione.” That stopped her, and she buried her face in his chest
again. She heard him saying, “Tell you what … you get the popcorn ready while I shower and change …
we’ll watch this together.”

She smiled at him. “Deal.”
* * * * *

They snuggled together on the couch as the closing credits scrolled up on the screen, watching
as fans, young and old, crowded around the three actors, asking for autographs, or simply to get a
chance to shake hands. Hermione had thoroughly enjoyed the show, as Harry watched her in amusement
… laughing at the antics of the three … gasping in amazement at the special effects used in the
movie … squealing in delight at seeing the lead actress running between tables full of students,
straight into the arms of the lead actor, and watching them hug …

Hermione had insisted on playing and replaying that particular scene several times, as well as
several portions of the interviews … focusing on the interaction between the actress and the lead
actor. As the screen turned blank, Harry hit the off button on the remote – and the TV screen
blinked into darkness.

Hermione broke the sudden silence. “They’re so sweet … and they look good together! Did
*we* ever look that good then?”

Harry smiled, “As I recall … your hair was still bushy then …”

She thwacked him on the arm, “Shut it, you! You’re one to talk – your *hair* never looked
that good either!”

He laughed out loud at that, and ran his hand through his still-unruly hair. “So what do you
think?”

“I think there’s something there …”

“Mione!” Harry exclaimed, “They’re *kids*, for crying out loud! They’re only 13 years old
…”

“So? *We* were also thirteen once.”

“Yeah … but we weren’t making *movies* when we were 13 …”

“No … just fighting Dementors … saving Sirius from a fate worse than death … riding Buckbeak …”
Hermione stopped talking as a slow blush crept up her face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she replied, looking away.

Their mental communication system suddenly clicked in – and Harry said, in a high falsetto, “Uh
… Hermione, would you mind holding me a little bit higher? Like, around my *waist*?”

Hermione threw a cushion at him as her blush deepened even more. Within seconds, they were
whomping each other with cushions, as they whooped and laughed with abandon. As they slowed down,
they quietly kissed each other and snuggled together again on the couch.

“Honestly, Harry … don’t they look sweet together?”

He smiled at her, “C’mon, Mione. They’re *actors* … they’re *supposed* to look good
together …”

“And since when have you lost your sense of *romance*, Mr. Potter?”

He looked at her in surprise, wondering where this was leading. “Mione,” he said slowly,
“*I’m* the one who took up Divination, remember? Are you telling me you think *those* two
…”

“I don’t know, Harry. It’s just that … “

“Mione?”

She looked at him and smiled – that smile that was so much a part of his memories that he’d
often overlooked them in the past … until the day he realized that she smiled in *that* way
only at *him*. It was a smile of deep thoughts … hidden meanings … sudden understanding … and
it was the smile that he woke up to in the mornings and the smile that he fell asleep to at nights
…

“I can’t help but believe that those two are building a treasury of small memories, Harry …
granted, they may not be out to save the world at age thirteen … but they’re building some great
memories *together* …” Hermione trailed off, her mind going over the treasury of memories that
she and Harry had built up over the years.

“Like Daniel rubbing suntan lotion on Emma’s back?”

Hermione goggled at him, “*Where* did that come from?”

He smirked. “Come *on*, Mione! What else do you suppose they’re gonna do at a *water*
park? Swim?”

Hermione started laughing. “Now that you mention it, *Mr.* Potter … *we* didn’t do
much swimming the one time you took me to a water park!”

This time, Harry was the one who started blushing. “Well, we weren’t *thirteen* when we
went to the water park …”

“Right, Harry,” she shot back in a sarcastic tone, “… we were *fourteen!*” Hermione laughed
at the expression on Harry’s face. “Good thing that *Jo* wasn’t there … as I recall, she
caught up with us at the Quidditch World Cup …”

Her voice trailed off. Harry, picking up on her thoughts and memories, suddenly stood up, and
pulled her to her feet. “Enough!” he said in a gruff voice. “You’re right … those two have built up
a small treasury of memories together … but as for *us* …”

Hermione smiled at him. “Let’s make some more memories, sweetheart.”

Harry kissed her on the forehead, and with a sudden move, lifted her off her feet and carried
her laughing form into the bedroom.
The End

**Additional Author’s Notes**: As noted above, this was a “tribute fic” to the many writers
of the HMS Pumpkin Pie … many of the “memories” that both Harry and Hermione had are one-liner
summaries (or used objects and ideas) from stories written by other authors. You may say that they
are my personal list of some of my favorite stories in fandom.

These stories, and their writers, are:

*1.* *Epiphanies by Romulus Lupin*

*2.* *Beautiful by Apolla*

*3.* *A Kiss Isn’t Just A Kiss by Elia Sheldon*

*4.* *Happy Valentine’s Day, Hermione by Catriona Rhiannon*

*5.* *Blowing Off Steam, by Steve (Sir Loyne)*

*6.* *Toes, by Catriona Rhiannon*

*7.* *May Day Eve by mia Fitzpatrick*

*8.* *Toast by Happy Daze (found in the HMS Pumpkine Pie’s Cookie Jar on FA)*

*9.* *A Thank-You Long in Coming by GriffinsEye*

*10.* *Fish and Chips by Silvestria (found in the HMS Pumpkin Pie Cookie Jar on
FA)*

*11.* *Healing Kisses by Ebony*

*12.* *Candlelit Romance by Yumi*

*13.* *Every Rose Has Its Thorns by Muse of Angels*

*14.* *Kitty Torture by Yumi*

*15.* *Her Blanket, His Quill by Catriona Rhiannon*



