Chapter Three

Chapter Three: In which Hermione Granger has lunch with friends, and Minerva McGonagall sends unsettling news from Scotland.

~o0o~

Bang!

Enchanted mistletoe exploded midair and Hermione quickly Evanesco'd the remains, brushing nonexistent grains of the opportunistic parasite from the letter she had been reading. A masculine chuckle drew her attention and Hermione looked up to see her sometime partner and longtime friend grinning at her from the hallway outside her office-cum-lab.

"Not in the holiday spirit?" he asked, the skin around his green eyes crinkling with good humor.

"I have sufficient holiday spirit, thank you." She pointed to the corner where a miniature fir was decorated in green and gold, a silver aura shimmering scant millimeters beyond every ornament, needle, and smidgeon of bark of the small tree. "I've put a Protego totalum on it to enclose any contaminants which could taint my work." Rising from her wooden desk chair, new at the turn of the previous century, Hermione crossed to her friend, tugged him inside her office, then pushed him toward her desk. "You can read the spectral analysis while I set up a containment field around my doorway. That should keep out any more botanical intrusions. How did it get in past the pollutant barricades at the department's entrances?"

"I suspect it came from Dawlish's Floo." Harry's grin would have gratified his father's and godfather's mischievous souls.

"Really?" she asked with malicious glee. "Does Percy know?"

"Not yet, but I'm not one to tell tales," he said piously, but ruined the effect by smirking. Harry settled easily at her desk, plucking the correct scroll from a color-coded pyramid. After all their years of friendship, he understood Hermione's organization better than anyone. "Romilda is on her way to report Dawlish's infraction as we speak."

"It couldn't have happened to a nicer bloke."

Hermione set to work as Harry chuckled and unrolled the report. Whipping her wand in a complicated pattern two runes shot from its tip to hover midpoint in her doorway: Thurisaz for defense and cleansing, and Algiz for its shielding properties. They burned fiery yellow until the passage beyond Hermione's small but well-guarded domain was obscured, then the runes pulsed once, twice, and dissipated without a trace.

When she turned to face Harry he was immersed in her most recent findings. His perennially messy hair, longer now that he was an adult, hung like a screen hiding his expression and, more importantly, his famous scar. She smiled, knowing he would be pleased with the results of her analyses, and when she sat in her guest chair across from him, he paused and glanced up at her.

"I didn't much care for Romilda in school," she said dryly, "but she's grown on me this past year."

He snickered. "Yeah, she and Percy make an excellent team."

When he turned his attention back to the report, Hermione let her thoughts dwell on departmental matters. After the Battle for Hogwarts the entire Ministry had been in an uproar. Every department had housed Death Eaters and their sympathizers. Dolores Umbridge had been a perfect example. She had never taken the Dark Mark, but her sadism had found a satisfying outlet during the Voldemort-controlled year. Fortunately, the most egregious offenders had been removed from their positions, including Umbridge and her entire staff at Muggle-born Registration. More than two dozen former Ministry employees now lived in Azkaban accommodations.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement hadn't escaped; almost by default, John Dawlish advanced more rapidly than he would have otherwise. Five years before, he had been promoted to Deputy Head of the division, and three years after that he had been elevated to the top spot. None of the famous Gryffindor trio particularly liked working with him. While his credentials were impeccable – seven Outstanding N.E.W.T.s and an impressive conviction rate – he was nevertheless unimaginative and held grudges with as much tenacity as Severus Snape had clung to his boyhood love for Lily Evans.

Dawlish had never forgiven Harry's presence that night in Dumbledore's office when Fawkes had aided the headmaster's escape; it colored every interaction the Auror had with the trio of friends, all of whom had felt it their duty to enter Magical Law Enforcement after the war's end. He hadn't welcomed Harry or Hermione or Ron into the Aurory, but Dawlish was politically astute and said nothing publicly against them.

As he had risen within the department, he had worked to separate the friends. Harry was too well-known to be relegated to secondary cases and publicity junkets, but he was never lead on a case. The trajectory of Hermione's rising star had been deviated into a less populated solar system, but she had tackled her behind-the-scenes duties with customary fervor. Ron, whose Ministry connections were generations-deep, received the best treatment of the three, but he was also the least ambitious.

Keeping meticulous records of each infringement of the rules any of the trio made, from tardiness to too-long Incident Reports, Dawlish met with Percy Weasley, Shacklebolt's Deputy Minister, quarterly. Grievances against the trio's competence were consistently among the top five agenda points. After eighteen months, however, Percy's patience had been exhausted, and he'd appropriated Romilda Vane from the Department of Magical Statistics to act as a liaison between Magical Law Enforcement and the Minister's office.

None of the trio had embraced her resurgence in their lives, remembering all too well that it had been her love-potion-filled chocolate cauldrons which had led to Ron's drinking poisoned mead during their sixth year at school. However, Romilda had proved to be very different as an adult than as a zealous teenaged Harry Potter fan. She had taken an instant dislike to Dawlish, who had sneered at her Outstanding in Divination as if she were nothing more than a tea-leaf reading hack at a Muggle fair. As a result of that encounter, any time Dawlish contravened regulations, Romilda happily reported it to Percy, who in turn, hauled Dawlish on the carpet. Just thinking of how sour Dawlish's expression would be after discovering he'd been the vector for the numerous specimens of enchanted mistletoe currently plaguing the department lifted Hermione's spirits considerably.

At last, Harry finished reading her report, and when he raised his head his green eyes shone like gemstones. "We've got that bastard Reynolds!"

"I expect we have." Hermione grinned back at him.

He stood abruptly, his Auror robes swirling about his legs. "Get your coat."

"What?"

He rounded her desk, towering over her. "Get your coat. I'm taking you to lunch."

"Harry!" she exclaimed, but she reached for her coat. "It's only eleven, and I still have to run–"

"Then it's an early lunch. C'mon, let's go. I want to celebrate."

She bit her lip. "What about Ron?"

They had always celebrated their victories together, but she had only seen the redhead twice since their break-up.

"You wouldn't mind?" Harry asked, angling his head as if weighing the truth of her answer.

"Not at all."

He accepted her agreement at face value, slipped his wand from the thin pocket of his trousers, and with a practiced flourish, his Patronus, Prongs, leapt from the end of his much loved wand and bounded from the room. For a brief moment, the silvery stag seemed caught by Hermione's newly erected containment field, but staggered through it, reforming beyond the magical barricade, before disappearing from sight.

Harry stared, but then looked down at Hermione. "Have I ever told you you're brilliant–"

"But scary?" she asked. "Only dozens of times."

"Ron said it first, but he was right." Harry crossed to the door.

"Do you mind if I bring this?" she asked, plucking a letter from the desk. "It's from Minerva and I haven't had a chance to read it yet."

"The way she tells gossip, it's the funniest thing ever. Besides, it might take Ron awhile to break away from the shop."

"Do you think he'll come?"

As he watched her slide her arms into her coat-sleeves, Harry said obliquely, "I think Ron's happier now than I've ever seen him."

For all that the break-up had been her idea, the comment hurt, and she averted her eyes, knowing that sometimes he picked up her surface thoughts with inadvertent Legilimency. "I hope so," she said. "He deserves every happiness."

Harry led Hermione further down the dingy hallway in which her office was situated, passing the always-closed door leading to the Hit Wizards' offices.

"Why are we going this way?" she asked, looking up at him. He'd grown three inches during that first post-war year, but he would never match Ron's height.

"Ginny and I found this Indian place in Mayfair; it has brilliant somosas. I've wanted to take you for ages."

"Still going Muggle for your Friday nights?"

He grinned, but it turned into a grimace. "Yeah. That bloody Witch Weekly! It's been eight years! Honestly, it's a miracle I'm able to do my job let alone have a private life. Gin's a good sport about it though."

"At least Kingsley put an end to the paparazzi camping out in the atrium."

"True enough, but ...." He smirked. "Why do you think we're using the back door?"

The 'back door' had been converted from a storage cupboard when Hermione, Harry, and Ron had joined the Aurory. It remained one of three active Apparition points in the Ministry of Magic, and knowledge of its existence was as tightly guarded as the true location of the Minister's office. After the first three years following Voldemort's unlamented demise, excitement over the famous trio's choice of professions had died down. Now, the only people who cared about their being Aurors were John Dawlish and a handful of rabid journalists still assiduously dogging the famous trio's footsteps.

Within minutes, the two friends arrived at Chaudhury's. Hermione slid into the deeply cushioned booth across from Harry, eyeing the elaborate wall hangings and enjoying the neighborhood ambiance of the restaurant. Surreptitiously, he cast Muffliato on the patrons in the adjoining booths.

Nibbling on poppadoms while they waited for Ron, the longtime friends discussed Hermione's report.

"This is the third time in a row, Hermione," Harry said enthusiastically. "Can you explain it to me now?"

"Since Dawlish has disapproved my most recent proposal, it isn't as if I'll have any chance to use my 'Muggle innovations' after this quarter."

"Dawlish turned you down again?" Harry's expression darkened. "What a prick!"

"Yes, well, he doesn't trust Muggle forensics, regardless of how many times I explain that I'm not using Muggle science. I adapted some of the basic investigative principles." She sighed heavily, and opened the stiff menu without looking at it. "It's disheartening, Harry."

"How can he dispute your success?" He paused long enough to order drinks while they waited for Ron's arrival.

The waiter shook his head as if to clear a nearly inaudible buzz from his ears, and Hermione gave Harry an appraising look. Maturity suited him, she thought, as he discussed the types of available beer. He was older than either of his parents had been at the time of their deaths, and, in Hermione's opinion, he had not only surpassed them in terms of age, but in substance. Harry Potter was a better man than James, and a more devoted friend than Lily.

After ordering a Kingfisher for himself and a mango lassi for her, Harry returned to the topic of their discussion. "I can't believe Dawlish denied your request. You've been working on this synthesis for a long time."

"Since Ron and I went to New York," she said, laying the menu on the lacquered surface of the table, and snagging a poppadom from the plate their waiter had left. "He was fascinated by the big screen telly, and the Yanks have a lot of police procedural shows."

Harry snickered. "You realize you'll have to thank Ron for the inspiration when you receive your next Order of Merlin."

"Prat!" Hermione broke off a piece of the crisp bread and tossed it at him. "Do you want to know about my breakthrough or not?"

He brushed the poppadom off his shirt and nodded.

"You were the one to explain wand allegiance to me. I used that as my starting point: the individual peculiarities of wands and their wielders. There is an unquantifiable connection between a wizard or witch and the focus they use to channel their inherent power. Each paired wand has a unique magical signature, but that signature is altered when the allegiance of the wand changes. Thus, while a wand may have more than one wielder, it will also have more than one signature, but each signature will be unique to the specific bonding." Harry crumbled a poppadom between his fingers as she spoke. "For example, the magical signature of Lucius Malfoy's wand was entirely different in his care than when it was used by Voldemort; same wand, different bonding, different magical residue. At a stretch, it's similar to Muggle DNA testing. Each spell leaves a distinctive residue behind, something like fingerprints or hair or fingernails ..."

"Or bodily fluids?" he asked.

"Exactly." She paused as their drinks arrived and the waiter poured Harry's beer into a chilled glass. When they were alone again, she resumed her explanation. "Match the residue at a crime scene or on a piece of evidence to one of the suspects, and as Fleur would say, voila! It's a bit like reading auras." Suddenly she groaned. "Please don't ever tell Professor Trelawney I said that."

Harry laughed. "This is brilliant, Hermione."

"Thanks." She flushed with pleasure and took a sip of her drink.

"Go on."

"Of course, because it's such a new technique and Dawlish won't support it, the Wizengamot doesn't recognize its validity, so my findings aren't admissible in our court system." She sighed dispiritedly. "Essentially, I narrow the field of suspects by matching the paired-wand residue, and then find some other way of proving the suspect's guilt. It's double the amount of work."

"The problem with Dawlish is he's jealous."

"What? I've never given him reason–"

"You don't have to," Harry said, fingering his glass. "We outshine him just by being us. If he weren't such a git, he'd see we're all on the same side, but he's like Percy before Percy saw the light. Just wait a quarter and present your proposal again. And do it every quarter until you either wear him down with your persistence, or he recognizes the value of your work, especially as your results are so accurate."

"I wish I had your faith, Harry. I'm just not so sure any more."

"Are you still considering Parkinson's offer?" he asked, referring to her second interview in late October.

"No. I hadn't realized Horatio Parkinson was on Compassion's board of directors. I know the war is over and I shouldn't still hold their prejudices against them, but he's Pansy's father, and she tried to turn you over to the Death Eaters! I just couldn't work for them." She shuddered, delicately. "Although I would give it serious consideration if Ron wanted to come back to the department–"

"And miss out on an actual Christmas bonus? Nah! I'm not going back," Ron said, interrupting Hermione's comment, his lanky frame casting odd shadows over the table. "Budge up, Harry."

The third member of their childhood trio slid next to his best friend where once he would've chosen her side of the booth. Hermione stared at him; his copper hair was neatly trimmed and his robes were cut in the latest fashion. Improbably, Ron sported a beard. Clipped close to this face, it accentuated the strong line of his jaw and framed his mouth. Hermione had never seen him look so prosperous, nor so self-satisfied, and she wondered who he had become and whether she would recognize or even like him.

"'Mione?" he asked, with only a hint of underlying feeling. "How are you?"

She bit back a retort at his use of a nickname she hated. "All right, thanks. You?"

"All right. The shop's crowded, but we've extra help over the holidays. Otherwise, I couldn't have come. George sends his love, and – Harry, I've got tickets to the Cannons next week. Want to go?"

"Love to."

When Ron let Hermione order for him, she grinned with some degree of relief. She knew his preferences better than anyone, and it was a sign that he was still the man she'd known for so many years. After the waiter had departed with their order, Harry and Ron entered a spirited discussion about Quidditch and the British National team. Hermione listened for a few minutes, noticing that Ron kept fingering his beard, but Harry said nothing, and Hermione surmised that while it was a recent affectation, it wasn't a new one. After another minute, she pulled out her letter from McGonagall.

She smiled when McGonagall spent three paragraphs describing the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw Quidditch game, but her smile fell when she read what followed.

"Listen," she interrupted Harry and Ron. "Sorry. But, listen to this: "I recall telling you about the pranks Filius refers to as Snape-baiting. I'm sorry to say they've taken a more grisly turn these past few weeks. Someone has begun leaving dead vermin in Severus' office and classroom. Oddly enough, it began shortly after your last visit. At first, we thought it was a student prank, or that one of the castle's cats had decided to adopt him, but I've done some investigating in the latter arena and eliminated the feline contingent from suspicion. Furthermore, we haven't found a trace of a guilty student."

Ron snorted. "It serves the old bat right. It's probably someone's parents egging their kid on. Loads of people hate him."

"Ron!"

He shrugged. "He was a right bastard to us, Hermione, and you know it. Remember when Malfoy hexed your teeth? Snape made you cry."

"If making me cry was an Unforgivable, Ron, you'd be in Azkaban," she replied tartly, and then paled. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes narrowed until the sandy lashes all but obscured the blue irises, but he said calmly enough, "I know you didn't. It's why we don't work."

Hermione blinked rapidly against an unexpected upwelling of tears.

Harry, more perceptive than in his youth, cleared his throat. "Still," he said, "I don't like it that people have been scapegoating Snape. He's sacrificed enough."

"He wasn't rude to me when I saw him." Hermione idly traced runes onto the shiny surface of the table and didn't meet Ron's eyes.

"You saw him?" Ron asked, one hand pausing in the midst of bringing his drink to his mouth. "When?"

"When I met with Professor Vector –" she refused to look up, "– for the Arithmancy opening next year."

"When was this?" Ron demanded, setting his glass back on the tablecloth. He might have moved on with his life, but his insecurities appeared at the oddest and most inconvenient times. "Were you thinking about leaving MLE last time we saw each other?"

Harry set his beer glass onto the table with more force than necessary, interrupting what might have developed into an ugly scene between the former lovers. "Tell me about this Snape-baiting."

Hermione grasped the conversational lifeline as if it would keep her from being pulled beneath the surface of the Black Lake by grindylows. "I don't know much, just that when he returned to teaching last year, the school was inundated with Howlers." Ron snorted, and she ignored him. "Apparently the abuse tapered off mid-term and it's been intermittent since then."

"But frequent enough for Flitwick to categorize it," Harry pointed out.

"Perhaps he's privy to more information than Minerva's imparted. In any event, she said Professor Snape ignored them, declaring they were student pranks. But this–" she waved her letter, "...seems as if it's become more personal. I mean someone's broken into his office. We never even managed that."

"Just his private storage cupboard," Ron said, grinning at the memory. "Maybe he's gone soft."

Harry's expression was grim. "Ask her to keep you informed, Hermione. This sort of thing can escalate, and I don't want to be called in after the event."

Hermione finished taking a drink of her lassi, then said, "I will, and thanks."

"Thanks?" Harry cocked his head in a query.

"For being you. Professor Snape was never particularly nice to you, but every time you do something like this you justify my faith in you."

Harry's blush was as becoming as it was widespread, even the tips of his ears were burnished a deep red. "Er, thanks."

"Oi!" Ron crossed his arms. "What about me?"

"You? Well . . . ." She bit her lower lip in contemplation for a moment. "Ron, you've always lived up to my expectations."

He puffed out his chest smugly, but Harry gave her a pointed look. Their food arrived at that moment, and the three were too busy sharing somosas and chicken vindaloo for Ron to realize she hadn't been complimenting him.

"Excellent nosh," Ron said around a large bite of vegetable biryani. "So what was he like?"

"Sorry?" Hermione asked. They had moved four topics beyond Hogwarts and she didn't follow his question.

"Snape. What was he like when you saw him?"

Hermione laid her fork down, shifted to a more comfortable position on the padded banquette and answered thoughtfully, "He was quite different."

Harry leaned forward, his eyes curious. "How so?"

"Well, he looks better for one thing."

"Anything would be an improvement," Ron said uncharitably.

"Ron!" Hermione said in a tone that delivered a scolding.

Unfazed, the redhead replied, "It's true. He was an ugly git."

"I never thought he was ugly," she said, "unhealthy perhaps, but never really ugly."

"That's our Hermione, Ron, patron saint to underdogs everywhere." Harry smiled at her affectionately.

Hermione flushed. "It has nothing to do with his being an underdog. Imagine his situation. It was awful. He was heart-broken and a spy. No one trusted him, and he was forced to be biased as a teacher, favoring Death Eater children over others." She waved her fork – the skewered piece of chicken clinging to the prongs as if by magic or luck – to forestall Ron's immediate rebuttal. "I'll grant he was quite horrid to Harry and us by extension, but that's not what I was talking about. He'll never be handsome in a Gilderoy Lockhart sort of way, but he's a striking man, especially now. He looks rested and his hair's shorter ...." She looked at her friends' shocked expressions. "What?"

The two men exchanged looks, and Harry said in a mocking manner, "Our Hermione's growing up."

Ron grinned, and there was a devilish glint in his blue eyes. In that moment, it was easy to believe he was Fred and George Weasley's brother. "Yeah," he agreed, "she's acting all girly and everything."

"Will you two stop?" Hermione ate the bite of chicken.

"Yeah, instead of being all dark and brooding – Hey!" Ron exclaimed, sitting upright from his slouching position against the banquette. He accused, "You fancy him."

"What?!" She stared at him, gobsmacked.

"He's just like ol' Vicky!"

Her spine stiffened and she swallowed her bite hastily. "He's nothing like Viktor. I can't believe you'd bring him up after all this–"

Harry interjected, "Ron's got a point. Snape and Krum do have superficial similarities. They're tall, lean, and dark-haired." He smirked. "They both fly and have a tendency to glower. Merlin's saggy pouch! You do fancy Snape!"

"This is absolutely pathetic!" she exclaimed, tossing her napkin to the tabletop. "I'm simply trying to tell you that he was so different I stared at him like a Muggle-born entering Diagon Alley for the first time. And then I had a flashback to the night Nagini bit him."

The mood shifted as quickly as Harry could cast a Patronus, and neither man mocked Hermione's statement. Nightmares, flashbacks, and other terrors had plagued all three for the first several years after Voldemort fell.

"It was quite awful," she said. "I was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack in Minerva's office, and it could have been horribly embarrassing, but he was quite nice about it." Ron covered one of her hands with his, squeezing sympathetically. She smiled at him; there were times when he was surprisingly compassionate. "And then later," she said, "when I apologized, he didn't twit me about it at all."

Ron removed his hand and his smirk reappeared. "If we're following Harry's theory that Snape's an older version of ol' Vicky, then, I suppose he fancies you as well."

"Ronald!"

They all laughed at the absurdity, but as Hermione took a hasty drink she remembered the last words Snape had said to her, and she felt a little guilty.

Later that night, Hermione stared into the darkness of her bedroom, unable to sleep. There were too many thoughts crowding her brain for her to be able to rest. During the time she and Ron had been together, she'd eased her occasional bouts of insomnia by initiating foreplay. What he lacked in finesse Ron made up for in sheer bawdy abandon. It had been the one area of their relationship which had worked. It had been several months since they had been together, and Hermione missed the exhilaration sexual release with a partner granted.

She considered manual stimulation, but even though she could bring herself off within minutes, she craved an exhausting encounter. In her lingerie drawer sat a small box filled with six cubes of a prototype concoction George had created following the success of the Patented Daydream Charms. Its development had been shelved for several years, but when Hermione and Ron had called it quits George had pulled her aside and given her the box. "I'm not saying anything, and I swear on every hair on Angelina's head this is straight up. One of these nights when you're lonely, crumple one of these over your sheet." He'd waggled his eyebrows in a ludicrous manner, but Hermione had accepted the gift. She believed he was sincere, and after casting a series of comprehensive diagnostic spells, she knew there was nothing inimical in the invention.

For the first time, she considered using one of the purple cubes. She was single. She was awake at ... three in the morning. She was lonely, and she was desperate for an orgasm.

Having made up her mind, Hermione threw off her covers and slid from her bed. She opened her lingerie drawer by feel and retrieved the small box. Slipping off the lid, she removed a corner cube and then returned to her bed. Nervous anticipation sped her heart.

Perhaps this was an idiotic idea, she thought. But her nipples had tightened with excitement and she hoped for relief. Groping for her wand on her nightstand, she then lit a candle before casting a spell to separate her leaf-patterned duvet from the sheet beneath. Then Hermione peeled off the wrapping around the ensorcelled cube of ... bath salts? It looked and crumbled like her favorite bath salts, yet the fragrance was anything but floral.

Briefly questioning her sanity, she staked her next few minutes on trust and broke the cube, scattering it across her pale blue sheet. Her pulse quickened as she pointed her wand to trigger the activating spells.

"Engage," she whispered.

For several beats of her heart nothing happened, but then, to her astonishment, her sheet began to rise from a point in its center, levitating off the bed, twisting and tangling and bunching in a rapid conversion. Simultaneously, the sheet's color redistributed itself, concentrating in the general location of eyes and hair which sprouted from the central head and dotted a treasure trail from the scant navel indentation to its rising, cloth erection.

Hermione wasn't sure whether to be amused, aroused, or horrified. Her damn sheet was turning into a wizarding version of a plastic blow-up doll. Arms and legs extruded from a slender torso, and flexed their ersatz muscles. Hands with long fingers stretched wide, and the simulacrum turned its head in her direction.

Its eyes, so dark blue they appeared black in the dim light of her bedroom, focused on her. She stared. They were familiar, but she couldn't identify them without the rest of the features. A bump of a nose formed next and then a mouth with thin but well-shaped lips. The manikin reached for her and opened its mouth. It whispered in a deep timbre which she could feel vibrate in her abdomen. "Feel, Hermione, don't think. This is about feeling."

Air hissed through her teeth when its hand wrapped around hers, and it felt nothing like three-hundred-count sheets. But then the candle guttered and she was in the dark with an artificially created lover.

"I – I – can't do this," she stuttered.

"You can." A long-fingered hand, which felt entirely human, pulled her closer to the bed, and she reluctantly complied.

"What are you?" she asked, taking small, undecided steps.

"Whatever you want me to be. I am the construct of your imagination, the idealized version of your needs."

She halted at the bed's edge, attempting to see in the dark, but she could only make out the general shape of a masculine figure. "Would you talk to me?"

"If that is your wish," the simulacrum said softly. "I am temporarily imbued with your knowledge."

"Isn't that a bit narcissistic?"

"Only if your masculine ideal is a version of yourself."

She snorted, unexpectedly feeling more at ease. "What happens if I light the candle again?"

"The fantasy state is enhanced by allowing your imagination free rein. Considering your initial reaction, I don't think you will achieve orgasm if you can see me for the construct I truly am."

She shifted from foot-to-foot. "Excellent point."

The voice dropped into a husky drawl. "What do you want, Hermione?"

Anticipation dripped down her spine, pooling in her groin, and she made her decision. "Too many things to enumerate, but I will be content with an orgasm and a good night's sleep."

It ... he ... laughed; the sound was mellifluous and arresting. "Then allow me."

And Hermione relinquished practicality for high fantasy. "My pleasure," she murmured.

His last words were, "It will be."

And it was.

The kiss was an amalgam of the best kisses of her life: the night of the Yule Ball when Viktor sought to erase her memory of Ron's callousness; the first time she and Ron had kissed in the Room of Requirement; the day Ron had first told her he loved her; and the idealized image she held in her mind of the perfect kiss.

She allowed her fantasy construct to pull her onto the bed where he proceeded to acquaint himself with her favorite places to be touched. A feather-light caress here, a nip there, and within a very short time, they were joined, flesh to pseudo-flesh. He rocked his hips in humankind's most universal affirmation and kissed her once again.

Her orgasm was explosive.

When the simulacrum withdrew from her, he spooned against her back, arms wrapped around her waist with one leg tucked between hers. She fell asleep quickly; her last thought that she had a whole new meaning for the concept of being entangled in the sheets.

The next morning she returned the five remaining cubes to George with a message.

Dear George,

Hermione

***

Several weeks later, Hermione stood in a long queue at Flourish and Blotts, waiting to purchase a pile of last-minute Christmas gifts, when she was jostled. "Harry!"

"Do you have a minute?" he asked without preamble. He wore jeans and a rumpled shirt beneath a heavy navy blue cloak, but his expression revealed nothing about his mental state. He had learned to mask his thoughts and feelings very well over the many years he had been in the spotlight.

"Uh ... now?" The shops would only grow more crowded the closer it came to Christmas. Usually all her shopping was done before the fifteenth, but this year she was working on two active investigations and her personal time was practically non-existent.

"Yes, now," he said impatiently.

"Is it work-related?" she asked, edging closer to the front. Only five people were between her and the counter. "Can't it wait?"

Exasperated, Harry removed the books from her arms, and pulled her from the line, the customer behind her immediately taking up the slack.

"Hey!" Hermione poked Harry's bicep. "I've been waiting twenty minutes."

Setting the books onto the nearest display table, he guided her out of the shop and into the cold winter afternoon amidst the bustle of holiday shoppers in Diagon Alley. "It's not official, but I don't want that to happen."

Her irritation cooled immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Have you heard from Minerva?"

"Not since–" Hermione's brain caught up with her mouth, "–she wrote to you?"

He dropped his hand from between her shoulder blades, nodded tersely, and took off across the cobblestone street in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. Hermione followed. Several teenagers clustered outside Bon Mots, Gabrielle Delacour's new truffle shop, gossiped while they tasted the delicate confectionery; their conversation broke off as Harry and Hermione passed, and then resumed at a higher pitch. Hermione ducked her head into a flurry of snowflakes as they began to fall.

"Has something happened?" she asked, panting to keep up with Harry's longer strides.

"Yes and no," he said, passing Quality Quidditch Supplies without even a glance in the window. "C'mon, I don't want to talk about this here."

"Not the office, please! I just left for the first time in three days."

Harry paused, giving her a once-over, a smile playing about his mouth. "You do have an office pong about you. What about your flat? You can take a shower and I'll explain before we go." He resumed his quick pace, dodging around a couple who were oblivious to their surroundings, and leaving Hermione flat-footed.

"Go? Go where?" She caught up as they reached the public Apparition point.

He replied as he spun with determination toward his destination, "Scotland."

She was so tired she stumbled upon arrival in her flat's small entrance, catching her balance on the tiny table against one wall. "Harry James Potter! Don't do that! I could've splinched."

He ignored her complaint and crossed her comfortably furnished lounge, ignoring the overstuffed, wall-to-wall bookcases. "Have a shower and get dressed. I want to be at the school before dark. I've sent a Patronus."

Hermione braced one hand on her hip, brandishing her wand with the other. "If you don't tell me what's going on this moment, I'm going to tie you to that chair until you do!"

Standing in front of the leather chair Hermione had been given by her parents, he replied, "It's Snape."

Her ire deflated even as Harry sank into the chair and stretched his legs. "Oh, no!" Distress thinned her voice. "Has he been hurt?"

"Not as yet, but Minerva sent me an owl. Apparently the Snape-baiting has escalated and she's asked if I could come to tea this afternoon."

Lured by the comfort of her sofa, Hermione moved in its direction, saying, "That doesn't sound ominous, Harry. Certainly not enough to drag me from my shopping."

"Please, Hermione," he said, fingering the edge of the chair's arm. "I want an extra set of eyes on this. I can't ask Ron in case it turns into something MLE has to handle. Besides, you know it's no longer a simple matter of pranks. This is stalking, and you know what can happen when people become obsessed ... especially magical people."

Choosing not to take a seat, Hermione shuddered. She didn't want to contemplate the results if Snape had become someone's fixation. "All right. Let me go take that shower."

She kicked off her shoes, scooped them up, and padded across the floor, enjoying the slight gliding action her tights caused on the smooth wood. Then pulling off her jumper before she reached the short hallway and the row of Muggle and Wizarding photographs waiting to greet her, Hermione considered whether she had any clean clothes to wear.

Harry's "Fine," followed her into the bathroom.

~o0o~