Paradise Lost 
Chapter One – The Talented Dr. Granger
 
Author: AngieJ
Author email: ebony@schnoogle.com
Keywords: Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Weasley Family, Weasleys, Malfoy, Oxford, Brazil, Death Eater, Dark Arts, post-canon, Post-Hogwarts
Spoilers: All The Books
Rating: R
Category: Suspense/Romance
Summary: Political upheaval and plagues and passion… oh my!  In the year 2012, the wizarding world faces the threat of genocide amidst a time of turbulence and terrible prejudice towards Muggles and their magical progeny.  The only one who might be able to erase this threat is the most famous Muggle-born witch of all, Dr. Hermione Granger… that is, if she and her friends can figure out this most diabolical of puzzles before she is erased. 
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. 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. Other citations will be provided at the beginning or end of chapters, where needed. This teacher and aspiring writer is ever so grateful that Ms. Rowling has allowed us to enter Harry’s world through her novels.
WARNING: This fic begins in August 2012, fourteen years after the Hogwarts canon is scheduled to end. All of the characters you recognize from the canon are now adults and will behave accordingly. That this fic contains adult themes goes without saying.  There are several scenes planned for this fic that are emphatically not suitable for young children or persons of any age who are disturbed or offended by graphic violence or sexual content.
Chapter Summary:   Exactly three years after the close of Trouble in Paradise... seventy-two hours in the life of Hermione Granger during the end of her self-imposed exile to the Muggle world.  We follow her at work, on a date, and even into her thoughts... right before she makes a decision of monumental proportions.
 
Dedicated to JKR’s wonderful character of Hermione Granger herself... and to all Hermione fans worldwide.  Also to Lori Summers, who first made grown-up Hermione come alive in my imagination.  Without her work, neither this story nor this series would be.
 
 
 
 
 
Paradise Lost
 
Chapter One—The Talented Dr. Granger
 
 
“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl.  “Well, it’s not very good, is it?  I’ve tried a few simple spells and it’s all worked for me.  Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard—I’ve learnt all our set books off by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough—I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?
 
She said all this very fast.
 
--J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
 
 
 
  August 1, 2012.  5:15 a.m. EST
Atlanta, Georgia--Buckhead. 
 
 
Hermione Granger sat bolt upright in bed.  Her heart was pounding at a frenetic rate and her teeth clattered.  Underneath the covers that she'd clutched with trembling fingers, her chest heaved with her quickened breathing.  She felt rather as if she'd just finished flying at a fantastic 250 m.p.h...  but there, she wasn't supposed to be thinking about flying anymore, was she? 
 
Running a marathon, then.
 
As always, her ultrasensitive skin was the first to reorient itself to surroundings beyond the realm of dreams and memory, to snap back into reality.  The cool blast from the vents just to the right of the king-sized bed induced goosebumps to form on her sweat-moistened arms and chilled her moist face... as did the remembrance of the nightmare she'd just awakened from.
 
She rubbed the sleep from her brown eyes and looked about.  The only movement in the bedroom came from the magnolia tree, silhouetted by the streetlight immediately outside of the window.  Its limbs swayed lazily, forming a dappled, shimmering shadow on the wall opposite.   The only sound was that of light snoring from the man sleeping next to her.
 
Glancing around the bedroom, she marveled at how well-ordered it was--save for the masculine and feminine clothes strewn about the floor-- but that was not unusual for nights like these.  It was also a very masculine chamber, from the black satin sheets and animal-print comforter to the slate grey painted walls with professional plaques nailed on them.
 
The contrast between the ordinariness of that room and the unusual, sinister sight of what she'd just awakened from made her shiver again.
 
And then her pager went off.
 
"Oh, bugger," she murmured, only pausing long enough for a frustrated yawn before jumping off the bed in search of her purse.  She found it on a chair near the door, pulling the offending contraption out of it while trying to shrug her bare arms into the dress shirt her boyfriend had worn the night before. 
 
Hermione pressed the button on her pager and peered at the glaring digital display.  It flashed the number to the Centers for Disease Control, where she had been employed as a leading virologist and Epidemiology Intelligence Service (EIS) Officer in the Special Pathogens Branch for the better part of the past three years.  She loved her job, but not before six o'clock in the morning.
 
The man in the bed sat up with a yawn, running his thick fingers through salt-and-pepper hair.  "Work, darlin'?"
 
His sleepy grin made her heart turn over in her chest.  She loved seeing him in the moment after he awakened... it made him appear much younger than his fifty-three years.  Few and far between were the times in which she admitted it, but upon occasion the twenty-one years' difference between them did nag at her.
 
"Yes, you know the CDC has a gift for choosing the most inopportune times to disturb..."
 
"They always do," he said, not bothering to cover his yawn with a hand.  "Remember last fall, the first time we went on vacation together?"
 
"Don't I ever," laughed Hermione, coming over to sit on his side of the bed.  "Right in the thick of things, that damned pager kept going off.  Honestly, Jack, I was ready to throw it against a brick wall then.  Even if it meant losing my job."
 
"Well, we certainly made up for lost time, didn't we?" he said, leaning forward to kiss her tenderly.  When he sank back into the pillows, she was smiling.
 
"Let me phone in and see what the fire is this time... may I use yours, or should I use my cell?  It’s just downstairs..."
 
"Do you even need to ask?  I know all about the CDC and their incessant demands.  After all, babe, I've been working at the beast about seven times longer than you have."
 
She grinned again before reaching over to his nightstand for the cordless.  That was another thing she loved about Jack.  Where most men were impatient when her ambition conflicted with their demands, he understood her hectic, uncertain schedule because he was a doctor too.  And a very good one... as head of Bacteriology, he had a wealth of knowledge about epidemic medicine.  Hermione had learned worlds from Jack.  For he had begun three years ago not as her boyfriend, but as her mentor at the CDC.
 
Not that Jack Calhoun had made any worse of a boyfriend during the fourteen months since they'd gone from colleagues to a couple, either.  Quite the opposite indeed.  He was everything that her previous loves were not.  Older.  Settled.  Her professional peer.  American... the perfect Southern gentleman. 
 
And... he was a Muggle.
 
Her reflective grin faded when she had to redial three times over to get the number right. 
 
As her fingers stumbled over the memorized digits, a familiar tiny voice plagued her.  Three years this month, and you still aren't used to using a...
 
Don't be ridiculous, she ordered it firmly.  Of course I'm used to using a telephone!  It's five in the morning and I've had a rough night.
 
Well, wouldn't it be much quicker if that fireplace over there was unblocked and you could just...
 
Shut it!
 
"Centers for Disease Control, Duty Officer Norma Devine speaking," came the operator's drawl, thick as cream and melodic as the blues.
 
"Good morning, Norma, this is Dr. Granger.  I just received a page..."
 
"Yes, ma'am.  There's been an epidemic aid request.  Just got the call from the Illinois State Epidemiologist less than an hour ago... seems there's a problem in Chicago that sounds similar to the case we sent you out on in Texas last month.  Only this time it's not an apartment, it's a high rise condominium on the Gold Coast.  Seems that there's something in the ventilation system that's making the
residents sick... and they're dropping off like flies."
 
Hermione took a pen and notepad out of the nightstand drawer that Jack opened for her.  She tried her best to scribble the address of the high rise and the rapid-fire directions from the airport that Norma was giving her. 
 
"Have the local authorities secured the building?  Have you instructed them to evacuate the tenants on the floors determined safe via lift or helicopter?"
 
"Yes, it's under quarantine... according to the Illinois epidemiologist, the tenants on the second and third floors are dropping like flies... two fatalities so far... fifteen sick... the media has just gotten wind of it, and ma'am, it already looks like
it's going to be a circus.  Just in time for the early morning news.”
 
"Bloody reporters... they're like a pack of jackals," said Hermione as Jack handed her the brand-new reading glasses just before he got up and headed for the shower.  This way, her doctor's scrawl would actually be intelligible later.  She'd been forced to start wearing corrective lenses for reading, writing, and close work a short while ago.  It was the first life event that let her know she was now officially Over Thirty.
 
"Have you made my travel arrangements yet?"
 
"Delta Airlines Flight 1540 to Chicago O'Hare Airport leaves at 9:20 a.m.  Hotel accommodations at the Drake... reservation is under your name.  Dorset may be in later if the situation gets out of hand."  Keith Dorset, a loud and brash Texan, was Head of Virology at the CDC.  "Any questions, Dr. Granger?"
 
"Not at this time.  As always, my cell phone and Blackberry are on... please phone if there are any new developments."
 
"Will do, ma'am... have a blessed day, and remind Dr. Calhoun that he has a ten a.m. meeting with the Director." 
 
Hermione hung up, blushing a little at the knowledge that her and Jack's relationship was common knowledge at work.  In that one sentence, Norma Devine had revealed two distinct things about the American South.  First of all, people were nosy to a fault... there wasn't the tendency to look the other way that she'd grown accustomed to all her life. 
 
Then, too, Atlanta was definitely the capital of the Bible Belt... nominal
belief in a Higher Power was taken for granted in many professional circles, church membership was expected, and the Name was invoked for the merest trifles. 
 
Jack, wonderful as he was, was the quintessential Southerner.  Born and bred in small town South Carolina, he was a regular church attendee, serving as a deacon in the Episcopalian parish whose services he dragged her to whenever she couldn't find a decent excuse not to go.  Which annoyed Hermione to no end. 
 
He also had this worrying habit of wanting to probe into the most private corners of her soul.
 
"You're a mystery to me, Hermione," he'd told her one night after they'd made love and he held her close to his heart.  "You know all about me and my past... my ex-wife, my children and their families, and you've even met my mother.  On the other hand, I know very little about you."
 
"You know enough," had been the reply she'd whispered into the dark.  "My past has very little to do with the person I am now."
 
"All I know is that you're English, you're the brightest and best doctor of your generation that I've ever met, and the prettiest slip of a girl I've ever laid my eyes on.  And... and sometimes I feel like your body's here with me, darlin', but your mind is a million miles away."
 
Not a million, she'd thought.  Just four thousand.  Oh, if only I could go back in time and just....
 
Hermione quelled the rogue thought and decided not to tell him any of what she was thinking.  No one was better at masking their true feelings than a mature witch-hyperempath.
 
Oh, yes.  She'd heard Jack's speech before, long ago and far away.  Issued from a different mouth that had once plied hers with tender kisses... a mouth that had eventually given up on her and gone to seek comfort and understanding elsewhere.
 
Hermione couldn't help but regret that men seemed to want from her what obviously was not in her nature to give.  It was so much easier to give her body than it was to give her heart and soul. 
 
And who would want to share her dreams... not just the pleasant daytime ones or her mental conjurings after dark, but also the night terrors she was suffering on an increasing basis lately?
 
She couldn't shake the feeling that she was in grave danger.
 
Shaking off her blue mood, she stood up and headed towards the bathroom.  Jack was already in the shower.  Not wanting to waste double time waiting for him to finish and then telling him what was going on before washing up herself, Hermione came to a quick decision.   She could tackle a couple of birds with one stone... and if she was lucky and they were quick, perhaps three. 
 
It wasn't that she was being brazen.  Goodness only knew when she'd have the chance to see Jack next... she could be in Chicago for days or weeks, depending on how long the case lasted.
 
If nothing else, Hermione Granger was practical.
 
The dress shirt fluttered to the floor as the shower door opened.
 
 
****************

  Same day, 11:55 a.m. Central Time
Downtown Chicago.
 
 
Half a day later, Hermione coasted the rented Oldsmobile Alero down Lake Shore Drive, trying to clear her mind for the task ahead.  She’d found the local Top 40 station on the dial and was singing along to a new bluesy-folksy hit by Ska Princess, a new twentysomething artist who was more known for her distinct alternative rock-fusion sound.  As she neared her destination, adrenaline coursed through her veins.  She not only loved the work she did for the CDC, she thrived on it.
 
As she drove, Hermione thought about the last case she’d been sent on.  That time, it wasn’t a high rise… it was a subdivision near Lubbock, Texas.  Hermione had spent three awful weeks watching children die at a fantastic rate. 
 
Indeed, the strange thing about the Texas case was that the victims had all been young children under the age of twelve… and not all of the children in the subdivision had become ill.  Although Hermione had seen some strange infections that targeted the very young, this one was unique.  The children’s blood, urine, fecal, and saliva sample all appeared to be healthy.  There were no signs of any abnormalities.
 
The young victims, once infected with whatever it was, went down fast.   The illness followed a definite pattern.  The first sign of infection that Hermione recorded in her anecdotal VoicePrint records had been in most cases “Mommy, I’m thirsty.”  After being given copious amounts of liquid, the child still complained of thirst.   This usually was followed by a bout of nausea.  Then the little one would complain about severe headache, nausea, or both...  and was in most cases sent to bed.
 
Yet this was the beginning.  Within the first twelve hours after the onset of symptoms, each child’s body temperature climbed to a fantastic 105 degrees or more… and they began to display all the symptoms of heatstroke.   Their skin became dry, hot, and red.  Their urine grew dark and painful in passing.  Both breathing and pulse became rapid yet shallow.
 
Then there were the terrible seizures… and the panic and anguish of parents and other loved ones… just before the onset of unconsciousness and death.
 
It had been the most frustrating experience of Hermione’s medical career.  All she and the other medical personnel could do was quarantine the entire subdivision and engage in futile attempts to lower their patients’ body temperature.
 
Nothing had worked.  Nothing at all.
 
Then as suddenly as the scourge had begun, it just stopped.  For three weeks after the last death, Hermione remained, sitting in the little makeshift graveyard that had once been the subdivision’s playground, reading and re-reading her notes, looking for something--anything that would give her a clue about what was happening.
 
Hermione stayed in Texas until the quarantine had been lifted.  It wasn’t necessary; she’d taken all the necessary precautions and most of the other infectious disease experts left the second it was apparent that there were no new cases.  But she had formed a bond with these people and couldn’t bear to leave them without the answer to their collective question…
 
Why?
 
In the end, however, Hermione had to leave without providing them any answers.  All she could do was apologize and feel as if the anger and frustration that was directed at her and her colleagues--"you doctors don’t know anything!”--was justified.
 
Perhaps she didn’t know much, but the day before she left for Atlanta a very big clue fell into her lap.
 
While treating one of the doomed patients the week before, she’d noticed a very beautiful ball of green crystal sitting on the little girl’s dresser.  It was perfectly round and grooved, with the appearance of an ornamental golf ball of some sort.  The mother of the girl noticed Hermione admiring it with pleasure--"all the kids in the subdivision got it at our Christmas party… Missy likes the music”--and attempted to wind it up. 
 
It didn’t work--and Missy seemed glad.  Despite her agony, thirst, and exhaustion, the little girl had looked horrified at her mother’s suggestion.  Hermione had thought no more about it.
 
That is, she didn’t think about it until she was dining one evening at the home of one of the few families who didn’t celebrate Christmas “deep in the heart of Texas”.  This orthodox Jewish family had lost a young son, Levi, who at eleven and a half had been one of the first and oldest of the victims. 
 
Unlike some of the other families who blamed her for not doing enough, the Holsteins seemed to embrace her as a cathartic agent.  The fact that her maternal grandmother, like Mrs. Holstein’s mother, had been a Jewish immigrant to England from Russia before the Second World War was another reason for their fast bonding.  Grandmother Helena had died when Hermione was a very little girl, and all Hermione could remember about her was her soft hands that made everything—scraped knees, crushed hopes, and childlike fears--all right.  
 
Hermione, who was still recovering from the untimely loss of her own mother two and a half years before, found that her heart had been hungry for a friend like Devorah Holstein.  Mrs. Holstein thrilled in sharing everything with Hermione, the daughters of secular humanists who were Anglican in name only.  Welcoming the opportunity to learn more about her grandmother’s heritage and customs, Hermione had boarded with the Holsteins during most of her stay in Texas.
 
The Holsteins had a little playful ginger cat that reminded Hermione of her long-lost Crookshanks, though as feline looks went Autumn was considerably more attractive.  Now, Hermione loved cats, and this cat loved Hermione.  Autumn loved the serious British doctor so much, in fact, that she wasn’t content to sit calmly on her perch on Hermione’s lap as she enjoyed her grilled salmon.
 
The kitty ran off with it.
 
Mrs. Holstein was absolutely horrified.  Hermione only laughed, said Autumn could have her piece, and went off to retrieve the little cat.
 
She found Autumn behind a chair that covered one of the vents in the living room.  The poor piece of fish, covered with lint and half-gnawed, was discarded.  She was scratching desperately at the vent as if there was something she wanted to get at.
 
“Trying to get my attention, were you?” laughed Hermione.  “Did you lose your toy?  A ball of yarn, perhaps?”
 
Hermione bent down to see what held the little kitten’s fascination.
 
It was the same green crystal ball that had been in Missy’s room… and in the homes of so many of the other children in the house.
 
She’d found a casual excuse to get a screwdriver--"It seems that Autumn has lost her toy… may I retrieve it?”  As they dined, the family never knew that Hermione had donned a face mask and gloves, and plastic-bagged the crystal to be sent to the CDC for testing.
 
The lab work had turned up absolutely nothing.  Hermione had even got clearance to run virological tests herself, and asked Jack to check for bacteriological agents.
 
Nothing.
 
Driving along on that bright and warm August afternoon, Hermione wondered what awaited her here in Chicago.  She was sure she could face anything after that sad six weeks in Texas.
 
 
 
****************
 
The area surrounding the Navy Pier Luxury Condominiums was completely blocked off by orange zebra barriers and barrels and a bright yellow Police Line—Do Not Cross tape.  There was a significant crowd of gawkers and evacuated residents, along with the media hounds of course.  As she drove past, Hermione could see that most of the press people were still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed while chattering amongst themselves, even though she was sure that many of them had been staking out the place since the middle of the night.
 
Hermione pulled into the valet lane of a nearby corporate executive apartment structure, pressed a twenty into the hand of the kid who was parking cars, and made her way towards the chaotic scene.
 
Past experience had taught her that the press was to be avoided at all costs in situations like these.  Not only did they invariably not know what the hell was going on, her carelessness had landed her in a couple of front page news stories in the past... and made her the target of Dorset’s wrath.  Sometimes even his blatant sexual innuendos, which were even more contemptible to her.
 
Try as she might to put it all out of her mind, Hermione couldn’t help but compare the atmosphere at the CDC with the relative gender equality or camaraderie that had existed at her own little clinic and at the MMRI.  The difference between wizarding medicine and its Muggle counterpart was profound... she’d always known it from her work with the hospitals in London, but when her Muggle colleagues were at their most annoying, she knew that soon she’d be working with Blaise, Ernie, Neville, and Simon again...
 
Stop the nonsense, Hermione, and focus.  Focus on the task at hand.
 
Above the high-rise, the chopping of police and media helicopters filled the air.  National Guardsmen were flying Quinnambulators around the building.  These were rocket-like low flying aircraft that were designed early in the previous decade to evacuate residents on the top floors of high rises in disaster situations.
 
Without even getting close enough to assess the situation, all Hermione’s instincts as a physician told her that the tenants had either suffered from asphyxiation when the building’s ventilation system had been sealed off or were having anxiety attacks from the news of the epidemic that had shown up on their front doorsteps.
 
A doctor with grizzled dark auburn hair and horn-rimmed glasses that immediately reminded her the ones that Perc... anyhow, the distinguished-looking man was giving an interview to one of the local news stations.
 
“We are on top of the situation,” said the man in an overconfident tone that bordered on arrogance.  “There is no need to evacuate residents in neighboring buildings or to quarantine those we have already evacuated from the Navy Pier Condominiums.  Even on the affected floors, the virus seems to only be affecting a certain proportion of those who are being quarantined... the rest seem to be immune.”
 
“Could you give us further information about how the residents inside are faring?”
 
“We have no further updates at this time.  Rest assured that we’ll keep the public informed.  We at the Illinois State Department of Health and Human Services are very interested in protecting the public of this great city... and an informed public is a healthy public."” Cameras flashed as he showed off his perfect teeth in a grin that seemed incredibly wolfish.  In her head, Hermione snidely estimated the cost of all the orthodontic surgery and whiteners that most likely had got his pearly whites that way.
 
“And you heard it here first,” said the reporter.  “From Dr. Ralph Fox, head epidemiologist for the great state of Illinois.  Reporting live for WGN Chicago, channel 9 news at noon, I’m Deena Kanneganti...  back to you, Ryan and Catherine.”
 
Dr. Ralph Fox looked away from the reporter and caught Hermione staring at him, not bothering overmuch to hide her smirk as she sized him up.  Ignoring the clamor of the other reporters who were attempting to get his attention with an upraised hand and a curt “no more interviews at this time”, he walked over to her.
 
“And just what newspaper are you from, little lady?” he asked, smiling rakishly down at her.  Hermione was furious.  She wasn’t a tiny woman, but she supposed that a respectable five feet seven inches in heels would seem small in the piggy eyes of such a ridiculously hulking, overweight man.  Hermione wondered for the thousandth time... what on earth did they feed these Americans?
 
So she glared instead, holding up the identification badge that was clipped to the lapel of her blazer.
 
“I’m not from any newspaper at all.  I’m Dr. Hermione Granger... you rang the CDC this morning for an EIS officer, didn’t you?”
 
“And they sent you.”  The corners of Ralph Fox’s thin lips tugged upwards yet again.  “Doctor Granger.  How... cute.”
 
“Yes, they sent me, why wouldn’t they?” Hermione said, annoyed that the man obviously thought it was hilarious that she was a doctor.   After all, she was employed by the most prestigious pathological research agency in the world and he was stuck monitoring flu shot statistics.  That was a statement in itself.  “Who do I go to for my briefing?  I’d like to get started right away...”
 
“You aren’t American, are you?” he asked, still with that stupid smile on his face.  “You sound foreign... British, I’d say from that sexy accent.  Are you?”
 
Hermione continued to glare.
 
“I’ll take that as a yes.  You know, I love you Englishwomen... you’re so proper and refined on the surface, but between the sheets...”  He made a meowing noise, then winked as if he’d just made the greatest joke in the world.
 
Now Hermione was torn between the urge to walk away and assess the situation herself and the urge to laugh in his face.  Or slap it, since he probably wouldn’t appreciate a subtle reprimand.  She had learned early on that in the New World, nuances based on quiet wit were often missed.  So when in Rome...
 
“Do you greet every female EIS officer that responds to aid calls this way?  Listen, I can’t help the fact that your prick is likely microscopic and you have quite a few psychological issues arising from this, but you have a real life-and-death crisis on your hands in that building.  If you really want to phone me after this situation is contained, ask me later so I can refuse, all right?  Meanwhile, let’s get to work.”
 
He balked, smile fading.
 
Half an hour later, Hermione was sitting next to an obviously still-offended Fox in one of the police helicopters that would take them to an airlock.  From there they could access the building and treat patients deemed too ill to evacuate.
 
Across from them were the Navy Pier’s manager and a city health officer.  She was wearing a protective sterile suit made of durable plastic over her blouse and slacks, and had traded in her high heels for a comfortable pair of trainers.  The hood and mask would be donned once she was inside of the building.  It made one look a bit like an astronaut and a whole lot like an unfortunate worker in a nuclear power plant.
 
Despite all the plastic and the warm summer day, Hermione had grown extremely cool beneath her suiting.
 
For the symptoms that the health officials were describing to her sounded exactly like the Texas cases.  Inexplicable heat stroke.  Only in this case, the victims were either very young… or extremely elderly.
 
“So the preliminary blood and urine samples have all appeared healthy, have they?” asked Hermione, using her VoicePrint recorder as always.  With discs the size of a quarter, it was the latest in Muggle technology.
 
“Yes,” replied the designated health official, Natalie Danielson.  “To be sure, the Cook County lab is still running tests—“  she paused and spoke with unexpected emphasis, “and we’ll keep running tests until we find out what is making these people sick.  There has to be some abnormality that the technicians have not picked upon yet.”
 
Hermione didn’t comment on that.  Instead she asked, “What’s the mortality rate in the affected areas?”
 
“Four dead, fifteen ill, thirty-one healthy as of eight a.m. this morning,” replied Ms. Danielson.
 
She switched off the mini recorder.  “I’d like to have a look at the ill patients straightaway.  Perhaps a visit to the morgue will be in order as well... you have instructed the staff to take the necessary precautions, haven’t you?”
 
“I do run a tight ship, Dr. Granger,” said Fox dryly.  “I’ve been doing this job since before you were in diapers.”
 
Hermione looked at Fox as if he was a bacterial slime mold.  “I wouldn’t admit that to too many people if I were you, sir,” she said, infuriating him.
 
Natalie Danielson covered her grin with a hand.
 
“If ground zero for the virus is indeed somewhere on the third floor,” Hermione continued, “after I look at the patients I may want to explore that ventilation system a bit.”  She turned to the building’s executive manager, Robert Lacy.  “Is there an easier way down the central air shaft than going through the roof?”
 
Lacy regarded Hermione warily.  “Ma’am, the ventilation was already sealed off by our contractors.  What would it benefit you to check it?”
 
“Well, I’m not sure that I will need to.  It all depends on what I find when we look at those who have succumbed to this mystery illness.”  Hermione was going to say that she had a hunch about something, but didn’t want to say what she suspected.  She shivered, remembering the Holstein’s peaceful home… a little ginger cat… and an eerie green glow, its sinister yet soft light shining from a circle she could see but not touch.  “Is the entire ventilation system sealed?”
 
“All except for a shaft that runs parallel to the elevators.  No one can get to that, though… not unless you were to take the entire elevator out.”
 
“Is that shaft vacuum-sealed?”  She caught Fox’s eye and decided to change the subject.  “So, you were saying about that index case, Natalie…?”
 
After all, these people were familiar with viral and bacterial infectious diseases.
 
They knew nothing of magiparticular ones.
 
 
****************
 
 
“Just relax, darling... shh...” murmured Hermione softly through the mouthpiece of her hood.  Her latex gloved hand caressed the child’s sweaty forehead while the quarantined nurse went for the basin. 
 
The atmosphere inside the children’s bedroom of the luxury flat was stifling and close.  A dizzying array of medical equipment had been brought in for the use of the local doctors and medical researchers who were swathed in white plastic.  They dispensed painkillers, drew blood and collected urine samples, touching the patients only reluctantly, as if they were lepers. 
 
Upon entering this, the third apartment that she and Fox had visited since being transported to the third floor via an airlocked freight entrance and back staircase, Hermione had ordered aside the two researchers who had been probing and prodding the little girl as if she was a laboratory animal, making her cry out in horror. 


After taking the girl’s temperature, Hermione asked one of the nurses to prepare a medicated sponge bath.  Hopefully the cool water along with the vapor from the oil of eucalyptus she’d prescribed would lower the fever and clear the lungs of the tiny girl, who was squirming and whimpering with all the strength she could muster.  She could tell from Fox’s patronizing look that he was one of those silly doctors who was not overly fond of herbal and other natural remedies. Hermione wondered how many pharmaceutical companies his office was in bed with...
 
Her protective gear was obviously frightening to the child, which wasn’t helping matters at all.  There was only one thing to do, and Hermione did it without hesitation.  She removed the bulky headgear.  Underneath it, her bushy hair was secured by a hospital net and her nose and mouth were covered with a face mask.  But at least she looked that much less like a monster or an alien.
 
“See?  I’m just a grown-up lady,” said Hermione, still stroking the child’s forehead.  “A grown-up lady who wants desperately for you to get better...”
 
The child, weak as she was, smiled.
 
Fox, who was caring for the girl’s older brother in a twin bed a few feet away, frowned.
 
Hermione was too focused upon her patient to notice Fox’s displeasure.  She wished that she could remove the glove and use her hand to probe.  One touch could give her so much information... and while she’d forbidden herself magic on these foreign shores, her hyperempathic abilities had nothing to do with the fact that she was a witch in hiding.  She used touch freely when dealing with non-infectious patients. 
 
For she was a healer down to her fingertips.
 
Hermione had long ago become proficient at removing small benign tumors and clearing plaque from blood vessels with fingers and palms alone, probing and then through strength of will persuading the impurities and foreign substances to dissolve into harmless waste that the body could easily dispose of through the bloodstream.  When she was seventeen this had taken all of her energy; at twenty-five it had required serious concentration.
 
Sometime after her thirtieth birthday, it had become second nature.
 
She’d thought about opening a clinic in the Atlanta area, but after a talk with John had decided against it.  Healing by touch smacked too much of “New Age heresy” in the eyes of many Atlantans.  Also, her reputation at the CDC--already on shaky ground because of her age, her gender, and the number of old men who for some strange reason seemed to resent her presence amongst them--would definitely be compromised.
 
Yet what could be more healing than a touch?
 
But with an ocean between her and her wand, there was no way she could...
 
Well... why couldn’t she?
 
She stopped herself before she could use one hand to remove the glove on the other.  She knew she couldn’t because if she did, Fox would immediately put her under quarantine and report her to the CDC.
 
If only she could rid herself of the latex, or... or... feel through it...
 
Pressing her lips together with determination, Hermione increased the pressure of her fingers on the girl’s head ever so slightly.  Still she could perceive nothing but the latex barrier.
 
Mind over matter, dear one, she heard a very familiar, very sweet voice say.  It was that of a woman she had recently been pretending to herself that she’d never known.  You can penetrate any barrier if you try hard enough, for nothing is truly solid.  Every single substance in the universe has some space in between its parts... all you have to do is navigate those spaces...
 
Concentrating harder, Hermione closed her eyes momentarily.  When she re-opened them, she felt her bare fingertips against the girl’s skin.
 
The sensory image was so strong that her eyes immediately flew to Fox.  He was adjusting the IV of the girl’s brother and paying no attention to her.  She looked back down at the girl, then at her hand, which was still gloved.
 
Yet she was now touching the child’s forehead without barriers.  She would be able to probe.  This she did quickly, heightening her senses with the merest of thoughts, plunging into the girl’s bloodstream to feel for anything wrong...
 
The only problem was that there was absolutely no evidence of a problem.  At all.  Everything that Hermione perceived was normal save the girl’s body temperature.  Hermione could perceive no increased white blood cell activity, a sure sign of viral or bacterial infection. 
 
The back of her neck prickled.
 
But in order for her to be affected by a magiparticular infection, she would have to be a...
 
The little girl’s eyes widened and flew up to hers.  Mutual recognition flickered between them, and Hermione drew back her hand as if she had been bitten.
 
Relax, Hermione!  Even if she is a witch, she won’t be able to tell who you are.  Remember, you’re under Fidelius.
 
Hermione bent down over the girl and gave her forehead one last pat, drawing out some of the pain.  Reeling, she drew back from the bed.  Knowing she would have to check that air shaft after all.
 
She had a hunch that she just couldn’t shake… and Hermione Granger was never one to walk calmly away from a mystery.
 
 
************
 
It wasn’t as if she could exactly take a helicopter to the roof, Hermione realized almost immediately.  There would be too many explanations needed… and she didn’t relish the thought of ending up in Dorset’s office the second she set foot back in Georgia.  Or the second he showed up here if she and Fox couldn’t contain the situation.
 
Hermione replaced her hood, trying to diffuse the pain she’d taken from the girl out of her own head and throughout her body.  This way, she could more easily absorb it… a headache would be too much of a distraction for the task ahead.
 As she slipped out of the apartment, murmuring something about heading for her car to “get some of my notes”, Hermione took care that Fox didn’t see her leave.  Once in the hallway, she rounded the corner where the apartments they’d been using as a makeshift infirmary were situated… and was confronted with a patrol unit in protective garb.
 
“Excuse me, ma’am, but no one is allowed out here,” said one of them, voice somewhat muffled by his own hood.
 
She held up her badge and introduced herself.  “I know that you have your orders, but Dr. Fox needs something desperately in another bag that’s in my car.  Our radio system is down and we can’t contact the escort that brought us to the apartment through the airlock.”
 
The officer looked sympathetic.  “Well, that’s quite all right… Clawson, why don’t you radio downstairs for a man to come and pick up the young lady here?”
 
In spite of herself, the corners of Hermione’s lips twitched.  She was most likely a full decade older than this stripling.  “No, no!  That’s not necessary… isn’t the lift working?”
 
“Lift?   What the… oh, you mean the elevator.  Yes, ma’am.  It is.  But as the building is under quarantine, we can’t let you go down to the first floor in it.  Especially not dressed like that.”
 
“Well, what about the stairs?”
 
“That’s not possible, either.  The only way off this floor is back the way you came.  Now, do you want the copter or not?”
 
Hermione sighed, then shrugged and did an about face.  Thinking fast as she walked along the corridor.   
 
If you could just Apparate…
 
No, no!  she told the little voice, frustrated that it was getting more and more persistent lately.  The second I use magic, the American DoM will know that there’s an unregistered witch in the vicinity and will send Investigators.  Even if I can obscure myself, the incident will be reported and someone… someone will know it’s me.
 
Hermione, really!  As mismanaged as the American Department of Magic is, they wouldn’t know if Voldemort was resurrected and went on a killing spree until half the country’s wizarding folk were dead.  Surely they won’t notice one little flicker on the map?  Especially so close to Lake Michigan… they’ll most likely shrug  it off as meractivity.  You won’t be bothered… and even if they do show up at your doorstep, who’s to say it’ll make the wizarding dailies?
 
And just how am I supposed to Apparate without a wand?
 
What sort of question is that for the talented Dr. Granger?  How many times have you done wandless magic before?
 
It’s been a while.  I’m completely out of practice… and besides, how could I Apparate without a wand when I have no idea of a path-stream or what my destination point looks like?
 
Stop the nonsense.  You know very well that you know how to perform blind Apparation.  After all, you were all still at Hogwarts when Harry figured out how to…
 
She muted that little obnoxious voice immediately.  There was no way in the world she was going to use magic or even think about using it now.  Or even worse, think about him.
 
Perhaps she had no control over her dreams, but while fully awake Hermione intended to control her mind. 
 
Besides, she told herself, using magic all the time and in every situation was a cop-out (one of Jack’s favorite words).  Muggles couldn’t resort to special powers whenever they found themselves in a bind.  They had to work things out as best they could.  And really, wizards and witches were very selfish with their abilities.  She remembered being taught as a young witch that their kind were “best left alone.”
 
Easier said than done… especially when her parents were both Muggles.
 
Her parents…her mother.
 
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and fought back the tears that were stinging her eyes. 
 
Focus, Hermione!  Focus on the task at hand.  You can’t live in the past.
 
Very true.  She had to figure out a way to get past these guards…
 
Then she smacked her forehead.  It was all so very obvious!  She chastised herself for not thinking of it before.
 
Less than a half hour later, Hermione stepped back outside of the apartment looking considerably different.  As she rounded the corner, she took care to make her gait decidedly unfeminine.
 
This time, only one of the security upstarts was there. And he treated her very differently.
 
“Afternoon, Fran.  How’s it going?”
 
Keeping her head down and letting her gloved fingertips brush the badge she’d pinned on her plastic suit, Hermione nodded.
 
“Great.  Can’t wait to get out of this dump,” she said, making her best attempt at imitating the officer who’d been monitoring the inside of the apartment.  It was not very difficult for her to imitate middle American or Southern accents anymore… in fact, she sometimes wondered how British she would sound if she ever returned to England.  Which was purely a rhetorical question, since she never would.
 
“I’m telling you.  I swear, if I get sick, the union’s gonna hear about it.”  The itinerant officer shook his head.  “You sound hoarse.  Is it really a den of death in there?”
 
She nodded.   “Those damned doctors don’t know what they’re doing.”
 
“I thought they were supposed to be sending some expert up from Atlanta.”
 
“They did,” said Hermione with a derisive laugh.  “Didn’t you see that English chick in the hallway a minute ago?  That was their idea of backup.”
 
The patrol officer laughed too.  “You’re not kidding.  She was more concerned with snooping around where she had no business than doctoring.  What the hell were they thinking?”
 
Hermione bit her lip so hard that she drew blood.  “Search me.  Listen, I just got orders from downstairs to lock up the lift… I mean, the elevator.  I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, okay?”  She held her breath.  Hermione, you’ve been in America all this time—when have you heard them call it a lift?  Elevator… think elevator!
 
To her anxious eyes, the officer looked as if he suspected something.  “Sure… you got the key?”
 
She patted the sides of her plastic pants, going cold all over.  “Oh, damn!  I…”
 
With a grin that showcased disgustingly yellow teeth, the duty officer held out his keyring.
 
Hermione couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow underneath all her swathing of plastic.  “Are you sure you want to…”  She trailed off, realizing she was slipping back into her regular voice.  “I mean, you sure you wanna do that?  I’d hate to drop ‘em down the shaft or something.”
 
“C’mon, Fran, just take ‘em.  Just remember you owe me big… you’re treating me to breakfast before the week is out.”
 
“One coffee and doughnut coming up,” said Hermione, clapping him on the back as hard as she could.  “Thanks, man.  Like you said, I owe you one.”
 
Hermione hurried down the hall and around corner to the bank of elevators, exhaling.  She wondered when Fran, a female officer of about her size and height, would realize that she’d made off with her badge and reflective vest.
 
What Hermione had done was not magic.  It was a trick she’d picked up long ago from Ron, who’d picked it up from his mentor Drakkar.  It wouldn’t work with anyone whose will and powers of concentration equaled or surpassed one’s own, but Hermione didn’t have much problem in that department.  Besides, she had her heightened sense of touch to help her.
 
All she’d had to do was to touch Fran’s wrist and ask an offhand question.  Hermione was a fast learner and always had been… if she could touch and sense beyond the latex, she could penetrate the thick plastic and cloth. 
 
“I’ve never seen one of those…” she’d indicated Fran’s badge, “up close.  Fancy letting me have a look?”
 
“Why, certainly!”  Fran had removed the badge, seeming flattered.  Hermione had wanted her to feel that way.  In fact, Hermione wanted her to forget the entire incident.  Which, with another insistent touch, she did.
 
As she pressed the elevator call button, Hermione had to shake off feelings of guilt.  A lot of Drakkar’s teachings had bordered on Dark Magic… and surely the power of suggestion was much like Muggle hypnotism or the powerful Imperius Curse in the world she’d come of age in.  Yet Drakkar himself was a twenty-sixth generation Chalybian, and Sirius trusted him.  And indeed, without the knowledge that Drakkar had imparted she wouldn’t have survived Tartarus and Voldemort would have never been defeated…
 
WHY can’t I stop thinking about it… about them? she thought wearily.  I thought time healed all wounds.  Why can’t I just forget?
 
Or if that is impossible, why can’t I find some sort of peace?  It’s been a while… three years… surely I can’t still be angry about everything that happened back then.  Or irritated by it.
 
Or… sad. 
 
Yes, that’s it.  There’s nothing for me back there anymore.  This is my home now.
 
The elevator doors opened.  Refusing to succumb to self-pity, Hermione hopped onto it just as there was a commotion around the corner.
 
“She took my clothes and his keys!”  That was the real Fran.  Uh-oh.
 
“Dr. Granger?” came Fox’s voice.  “Come here and explain yourself!”
 
Bloody hell!  There was no time for idle musings.  She whipped off her protective plastic glove and pressed the Door Close button.
 
There was the sound of rushing footsteps.  An alarm was sounded.  Damn.  When there was an inch of space between the two doors, she saw Fox and Fran rounding the corner… Fran’s nightstick was extended, as she planned to jam the doors open… Hermione jabbed at the Close button frantically… the nightstick struck chrome as the doors finally closed.
 
She fixed her eyes on the floor indicator.  4… 5… 6…
 
Right, Hermione.  What a way to get yourself arrested.  Damn.  And perhaps fired… no telling what sort of ultimatum Dorset’s going to give if I want to save my job... damn it!   I don’t want to cause conflict between him and Jack. Even if Dorset is a pig, they’re really good friends.  
 
7… 8… 9….
 
Seems like I have a penchant for stirring up trouble between blokes, don’t I?
 
Hermione almost pinched herself.  She was doing it again… letting her thinking circle back to the same old thing time after time.   Well, she wouldn’t give into it… she had enough to worry about at the moment.
 
10…11… 12….
 
13… halt.
 
After a few moments’ wait, Hermione realized that the elevator was not going to open.  Obviously someone from maintenance or the cops had shut it down and were most likely coming to get her.
 
She didn’t plan on being around whenever that happened.
 
Once she’d finished shedding her protective garb, Hermione looked up.  The shaft in this elevator was completely covered by fluorescent lights, and the lights were covered by steel grating.  She had nothing to pry with but the duty officer’s keys.  She was also too short to reach the ceiling even standing on tiptoe with upraised arms… and she had never been much good at vertical jumping.
 
But the keyring could be used to some purpose.
 
Again, she heard Neftis’ soft voice…
 
The universe and everything in it is made of particles and atoms, my child.  We who are in tune with inner space can use our knowledge of the smallest things to persuade, to manipulate, to mold…
 
She’d not been half so good with her telekinetic training.  But this wasn’t true telekinesis.  Neither was it magic.  It was an issue of mind over matter… a psychic talent that some Muggles had.  She was actually touching the keys.  All she had to do was to somehow give the keys a magnetic charge…
 
Friction.
 
Hermione rubbed the keys between her palms.  Shutting her eyes tight and making cold metal her world… knowing that the spaces that Neftis had taught her about were constantly shifting, in flux, negatively charged electrons bouncing off each other… and her fingers became the positive charge that charmed them all into obeying her will…
 
Soon the keys formed a magnetic chain, one link to the other, stretching upwards towards the grating.   Holding her breath, Hermione took one step back.
 
The chain of keys held. 
 
She picked it up.  It still held.
 
She threw the chain over the grating, and taking both ends in her hands, yanked.  And the keys stretched out… spaces appeared between each key… but the makeshift chain jerked taut and offered resistance.  Hermione had to drop it for a moment in order to shake the tension out of her arms.  After a few more tries, she’d done little more than bend the grating.  When the elevator alarm began to sound, she knew that her number was up and she had better get out of there… by any means necessary!
 
The second she lost her concentration, the chain of keys clattered to the floor uselessly.  Hermione whipped Fran’s badge off her chest.  One pointed corner  would suffice as a makeshift screwdriver. 
 
She had to magnetize the keys again in order to climb up high enough to access the grating.  Once she did, however, it was a simple matter to begin unscrewing the bolts.  Hermione was pleased to see that the screws were not tight… the first fell to the carpet.
 
There was a blunt bang at the door.
 
Hermione worked faster.  The second screw came out just as easily… but in her haste she hadn’t thought to unscrew the opposing corner… so grating, chain of keys, and Hermione came tumbling down.  She not only banged her head on the side of the elevator when this happened, the sharp corner of the grating sliced through her blouse to open up a gash just below her collarbone.  It was a superficial cut, she knew, despite the throbbing pain and modest gush of blood it provided.  With her hyperempath’s tendencies to amplify sensation, her natural instinct was to swoon…
 
…but as a witch-hyperempath, even one who was running away from her magical side, her self-control was unsurpassed.
 
Stop that, she ordered her body.  I do not have time for it.
 
And as she scrambled up to the top of the grating, the blood flow dwindled to a mere trickle.  The wound began to clot as if of its own volition, without any physical pressure. 
 
There was another blunt chop at the door, so Hermione was relieved to see that the opening to the shaft was not screwed on, merely latched.  She released the latch and this time was careful to avoid it when it swung down upon her.
 
With one great heave, Hermione leaped—and her hands fastened onto the hatch opening.  It took a bit more effort to push herself up into the elevator shaft.  Jack had been right—when they first met she’d been dreadfully out of shape.  Two years of personal training at the Gold’s Gym near his home in Alpharetta had worked wonders, but she still was not about to win Ms. Olympia any time soon.
 
Yet this latest last action heroine routine was proving to be hard.  This has got to be easier in movies than it actually is in real life, she thought, panting and making sure to avoid the many wires that were snaking about the top of the elevator shaft.  She looked about her.  Save for a coppery glint coming from what looked to be vents, the only real light came from a indeterminate source above.  How had she thought she was going to navigate the ventilation system without a flashlight?
 
She peered down into the elevator shaft.  Atop the pile of loose keys rested the keyring’s penlight that she’d ignored earlier in her quest to get to the top.  Perhaps she could shimmy back down there quickly and grab it…
 
The plan never fully materialized.  For then the elevator doors opened… and Hermione silently drew back to listen.
 
“Where is she?” demanded a harsh male voice.  One that was neither Fox’s nor the duty officer’s nor even Dorset’s.  The accent wasn’t American, yet it wasn’t British or Australian or South African or any other that Hermione recognized.  And yet… and yet the man spoke English as if it was his native tongue.
 
“Look up there,” said another man, again unfamiliar.  With the same strange inflection.  “I don’t get it.  How’d she get up there?  It’s a good eight and a half quirks up!  Those walls are smooth as silicon glass… impossible.  A woman in this day and age?”
 
Hermione bit her lip, wondering if there was a Chauvinist Pride meeting somewhere in the vicinity.  Never had she faced and overheard so much gender-related negativity within such a short time span. 
 
“Dr. Granger isn’t your typical early twenty-first century woman, Seal.  She possesses abilities that most people of this time can only dream of… abilities that we take for granted, but abilities that are hidden from the rest of this world.”
 
“That why we consider her dangerous?”
 
“That is precisely why.  She must be stopped… stopped for her own good… and for all of our sakes…”
 
How had they found her?  She was under Fidelius… that should have kept her hidden from anyone in the wizarding world!  Hermione knew better than to visibly peer back into the shaft.  But she wanted to see what these men looked like.  The badge was still clutched in her hand.  Perhaps if she used the underside of it…
 
“How hard a task will stopping her be?”
 
“It will not be easy.  She’s a formidable opponent.  Even without her knowing as much as we do about herself, it won’t be an easy task to subdue her.  Then, too, she has powerful protectors… one in particular, especially.”
 
“Not when one of our own’s got him busy,” guffawed the man called Seal.
 
Hermione could now see the features of the other man, who seemed to be Seal’s superior, through the mirrorlike underside of the badge.  And indeed, even from the skewed reflection she could tell that the man was a superior specimen in every way. 
 
He seemed to be around her age, give or take a few years, and he was simply gorgeous.  Clean skin, darkened by the sun to a golden bronze… sleek hair that was black as a raven’s, covered with a Western bandanna, and pulled back into a ponytail with a strip of black leather… well-muscled frame filling out the ink-black tank top, jeans, and cowboy boots he wore.  A black raven was tattooed on his right forearm, and as he turned Hermione could see its twin.
 
Her reaction to the sight shocked her.  She swallowed, wet her lips, then had to swallow again.
 
Down, girl, she ordered herself.  The man obviously means you harm… and you were never partial to beefcake anyway.  Stay focused.
 
“Lenore will pay for her treachery,” promised the bronzed Narcissus.  “If she had not been distracted from her mission, we would have infiltrated the group by now.  As it is, we’ve arrived to find ourselves two years behind schedule because of her…”   He looked up.  “Well, well, well.  I think we have an audience, Seal.  Why don’t we go up and greet our little eavesdropper?”
 
There was nowhere to go.  Within two blinks of the eye, her pursuers were on top of the elevator with her… but how?  The one called Seal was just as big and burly as the Narcissus, but his mane was brown as her own and he had whisker-like facial hair that reminded her of the marine mammal that was his namesake.  Before she could react or move, Seal had grabbed her upper arms and thrust her forward to meet the Narcissus’ wide grin.
 
“Dr. Granger,” said the bronzed Narcissus.  “At last we meet.”  His pale grey eyes formed a marked contrast to the deeply tanned face.  
 
Hers spat fire.  “And you would be…?”
 
“You can call me Heath,” he said, still grinning.  “And that one’s called Seal.”
 
“You’re just going to kill me.  Why should I call you anything at all?”
 
Even as she squirmed, he reached out a finger.  Slowly, he traced a line across her throat with its blunt, clipped nail.  The touch was both sinister and sensual and she hated him for it. 
 
“Who said anything about killing?” he said, inhaling slowly.
 
“I don’t scare easily,” Hermione said through clenched teeth.  But the sweat on her brow and the fact that she’d clamped her teeth together to stop them from clattering gave the lie to that notion.
 
Heath didn’t seem to notice her consternation.  “So all the stories, all the legends are true, Seal,” he muttered to himself, staring at her.  “What, is he loco?  Man like him doesn’t deserve a girl like her… if it were me I would have never let her out of my sight.”
 
It was all Seal could do to hold Hermione back.  What had they done with Jack?  “It wouldn’t have ever been you, you bastard, and if you don’t let me go I promise that you won’t have any sight at all!”

“Ready to gouge my eyes out, eh?”  laughed Heath.  “If I don’t have any eyes, how will I be able to show you what you’ve been searching for?”
 
Heath reached behind his back.  With one smooth motion he cupped his hands together.  When he spread them out again, in the center of them was a glow of green orb that was twice the size of a golf ball, but with the same general appearance.
 
It was still active, that much Hermione knew.  When she’d lunged for it, Seal had pulled her back and clasped a face mask over her nose and lips.  Yet if they were who she thought they were, they were risking infection by being near it…
 
“Not so fast, doc,” said Heath, features appearing even more sinister in the flickering green light.  “What you don’t know could definitely hurt you.”
 
Hermione gasped.  “How did you find…who are you?”
 
As Seal laughed in her ear, Heath sighed as if with great patience. 
 
“We’ve already told you who we are.  Now it’s time for you to know who and what you are…”
 
“Whatever do you mean?  I know perfectly well who I…”
 
There was a commotion in the compartment below.  Suddenly, the door to the elevator shaft snapped shut.  Seal let Hermione go and raced towards it to see who had them trapped. 
 
Hermione took advantage of the opportunity to rush Heath.  Surprised by her slight weight, she succeeded in knocking the wind out of him.  He fell backwards on the car, bringing her down with him.
 
“As you can see, doc,” Heath said breathlessly, grey eyes smouldering, “the orb seems to have disappeared.  Maybe I have it hidden somewhere on my person.  Maybe not.  I regret that we don’t have the time or the privacy for you to conduct a full strip search…”
 
Hermione screeched in anger and slapped him soundly.  Before she could draw the offending hand back, he had her wrist trapped in a vise-like grip. 
 
“Some other time, then,” said Heath, rubbing his cheek as he stood up.  “Seal, can you see who’s down there?”
 
“No one.  It’s empty,” his companion replied.  “What next?  What do we do with her?”
 
“We stick to the plan.  Let’s see… there’s always a safety ladder in these things… and so there is,” Heath said, indicating the rusty one bolted to the side of the shaft.
 
“Shall I carry her?”
 
“Not on your life.  Toss me the rope, I’ll tie her up and then… ow!”  Heath yelped when Hermione’s teeth sank into Heath’s confining hand.
 
“You’ll do no such thing!” she said, spitting the metallic taste of blood out of her mouth and into his face.  Getting a running start, she jumped off the elevator… and cleared the five foot gap between the back of it and the wall of the shaft where the ladder was.  Once she had her bearings, she began to scramble upwards towards the light.
 
“What are you waiting for?” growled Heath.  Whatever strange powers he might have possessed, he didn’t have Hermione’s ability to heal almost instantly.  He was busy applying pressure to the minor vein she’d severed with the ferocity of her bite.  “Get her… and get her now!”
 
Hermione’s arms throbbed dully as she scampered up the ladder, not daring to test the limits of her endurance for fear that she tire and fall off before reaching the top.  She could still taste Heath on her tongue, too… salty clean sunwarmed skin… the warm forbidden gush of blood… the resistance of solid muscle…
 
What she didn’t understand was why she was so darn attracted to him in spite of herself.  He definitely wasn’t her type… she liked men who were a lot less brawny… who didn’t appear to have been chiseled out of a boulder of dark topaz.  Yet there was something familiar about him… something eerily familiar…
 
The two men had obviously meant to kidnap her, she thought as she climbed.  Perhaps they’d been watching her as long ago as the Texas case… for how else would they have know she was looking for that strange green orb here in Chicago, too?
 
She took a second to look below her.  Sure enough, there was Seal, about seventy-five feet below her, climbing faster than she could manage.  Heath was still on top of the elevator.  He’d wrapped his bandanna around the wound she’d  created in his hand, and was staring up at her.
 
Hermione was no fool.  She knew what that gaze meant… could feel the heat of it even despite the distance that separated them.
 
Well, that just means I have to climb faster than the prat below me, doesn’t it?  I’ve been in worse scrapes before… perhaps my luck will hold…
 
Perhaps Hermione was counting on her luck to hold, but her feet sure didn’t.  She lost her footing… the rusted iron bar she’d been counting on as a rest gave way and fell, hitting Seal between the eyes.
 
From where she now dangled, the rusted iron cutting into her palms as her aching arms bore her full weight, she could see Seal fall backwards like a dead weight.  Then--unbelievably—Heath reached out into the gap and caught his partner, hauling the unconscious man back onto the top of the elevator.
 
“Doc, don’t move,” demanded Heath roughly.  “I’m coming up there to get you.”
 
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Hermione shouted back.
 
But of course he paid her no attention.  Leaving his companion out cold on the top of the elevator, Heath lunged forward and leapt onto the ladder.
 
Ever afterwards, Hermione swore it took him three minutes to reach her.  She flattered herself… Heath scrambled up that ladder as if he were half cat… a leopard… a panther.  It took him all of ninety seconds, one for each rung that separated them. 
 
At the moment when she knew her arms could take no more, she felt one of Heath’s arms wrap about her waist.  Looking down her nose at him, Hermione could see that the hand of the other gripped the railing and his boots rested on the closest intact ladder rung.
 
“Let go, doc,” he said calmly.
 
“Why don’t you take your own advice?  I was doing fine without you... “  But her tired arms ignored her resolve and dropped down to his shoulders.
 
Heath visibly swallowed a lump in his throat before he issued his next demand. 
 
“Slide down and put your arms around my neck, and then swing your… your legs around my waist so I can carry you down.”
 
“Would that make it easier for you to abduct me?  Tell you what, I’ve got a better idea.  Why don’t you prop me up so that I can reach the rung above the one I was standing on originally, and I’ll be on my way?”
 
“Not an option.”
 
“Well, I suppose you want another injury, then…”  Her right foot darted out to kick him in the shin, but somehow—how?—he anticipated the movement, stopping it with his hand.  With one tug, she did slide down into the position he wanted.
 
Hermione saw everything through a red haze of fury as Heath climbed down with her.  Willing her body not to react to him, she fumed.  She wished she had her wand… she’d hex him from here to kingdom come.  As it was, none of the latent magic she was trying to resort to was working.  Happened when one was as out of practice as she was.  She might be in better physical shape than she was at the time of her last abduction, but four of her would-be Cabalistica captors had suffered third-degree burns wherever they touched her…
 
Then it dawned upon her.  She knew exactly how to get out of this predicament.  All she’d have to do was transfer the fatigue of her arms into his own…
 
And then there was a great screech from below… and the elevator began to steadily rise.
 
“Great wizards!”  Hermione cried, not realizing that it was an expression she hadn’t used in a long time and quite possibly shouldn’t have used then.
 
Heath didn’t say a word.  Instead he doubled his rate of climb.  Hermione wondered if he wasn’t a Cabalistica operative after all… if he was magical… if he was even human at all.  Even so, they both knew they wouldn’t be able to outpace the elevator.
 
“Got to… got to grab Seal…” panted Heath into her ear, stating the impossible.
 
But Seal had come to, perhaps invigorated by the elevator’s movement.  He stood up shakily, took a millisecond to assess the situation, then stood on the edge of the elevator and leaped on to the ladder, flattening himself and disappearing from sight as the elevator continued to rise.
 
Then it was almost upon them, and Hermione found herself sandwiched between the ladder and Heath.  When the elevator finally, miraculously whooshed past them, she looked down and saw Seal climbing up like a spider.
 
Hermione sighed her relief.  “What a close call.”
 
Heath shook his head and placed her hands on one of the rungs.  “It’s not over.  Climb up as fast as you can.”  He backed down a few rungs, and almost placed a boot on Seal’s skull.  “How’s your head?”
 
“I’ve suffered worse,” replied Seal.
 
“Yeah, everyone on the team knows Seal takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’… but that was in water, not on land.  You had me worried for a moment back there, old friend.”
 
All the while they continued to climb.  Hermione supposed that they were about twenty-five feet away from the top of the building.  She could see that the light was coming from some sort of a glass door just above the ladder.  She hoped that it was unlocked… that she could somehow get through it and shut it before Heath and Seal made it out.
 
She had no idea how she was going to get off the roof.
 
Just then, there was a fantastic heave… and the elevator above them began to lurch and sway.
 
“Get behind the ladder!” shouted Heath.  Hermione did so, crawling into the approximately two feet of clearance between the wall of the shaft and the ladder.  She had no idea how the men below her were going to make it… all she could do was hold on. 
 
For the elevator plummeted in a zigzagging path… Hermione felt a searing pain in her fingers and cried out… and immediately below her, Heath roared. 
 
“We’ve got to get out of here!”  She felt something nudge her backside, then a hand on her shin.  “Let’s go!”
 
Every muscle in Hermione’s body ached.  There was no longer any skin on her knuckles, and she was far too fatigued to will them to stop bleeding.  It didn’t matter.  She kept climbing.  The pressure of Heath’s hand on her shin let her know that he was still there, and she assumed Seal was as well.
 
Twenty feet… fifteen feet… perhaps now only twelve more… Hermione could see that their target was indeed a door.  A circular one, with a window…
 
There was a huge boom below them.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of fire.  The ladder trembled.  Smoke began to rise…
 
“Keep climbing!”  demanded Heath.  Hermione immediately understood.  If the fire didn’t get them, the smoke would.
 
Ten feet… seven…  four… it took mere seconds for Hermione to reach the trap door.  It was locked.
 
“Oh, no you don’t!” she exclaimed.  Ignoring her bleeding knuckles, she began to tug at the handle.  On the third tug, she jerked it off.
 
“Allow me,” said Heath, climbing up to sandwich Hermione again.  Reaching up, he gave the trapdoor one big heave… and burst through the hinges.  Then, seeing Hermione’s wide eyes and general shock, he pushed her up into the light… and brought her face to face with a waiting police helicopter.
 
Three officers immediately surrounded her.  Glocks were pointed in her direction.  Oh my goodness, she thought with childlike horror.  I’m being arrested… I’m being arrested…
 
“Dr. Granger, you are under arrest.  You have the right to remain silent…”
 
“Wait just one minute!” she exclaimed, forfeiting that right almost immediately.  “I didn’t do anything wrong!  I was the one wronged here… I was being abducted!  Those two men…”
 
One of the other officers’ mouths twitched.  Hermione immediately recognized her as Fran.
 
“Dr. Granger,” she said, not bothering to mask the nastiness in her voice.  “What two men?  What are you talking about?”
 
Hermione’s head whipped around. 
 
Heath and Seal were nowhere to be seen.
 
 
*************
August 3 – 2 p.m. EST
Centers for Disease Control, Atlanta
 
 
The walls of Dorset’s offices were papered in beige. This was in direct contrast to most of the rest of the Centers, which were painted the industrial dull green color of  toothpaste.  Hermione would have liked to have had such an office one day instead of the seeming ex-janitor’s closet she’d occupied ever since she had completed the intensive EIS training course at the top of her class two and a half years before.
 
Unfortunately, it seemed as if she did not stand even the slightest chance of being promoted any time in the near future.  As she watched Dorset pace, running cruelly long fingers through his shock of blond hair, she wondered if she had a future at the CDC at all.
 
Finally Dorset stopped behind his desk.  Turned to face her.  Spoke.
 
“I suppose you think that I am going to fire you,” he said quietly.
 
Hermione didn’t say a word.  In the past twenty-four hours, she’d been taken into Chicago police custody, spent the night in a very seedy jail cell, and been hauled into court at first light.  She had escaped charges, but had been “escorted” over state lines by mutual consent of law enforcement and Fox’s office.  She’d had to fly from Indianapolis.  Saving her job, up until now, had been the least of her concerns.
 
She wondered why she had not been arraigned properly… in all fairness, she should have been charged and bound over for trial.  She was almost certain funds had been exchanged under the table to secure her release.  Hermione had little confidence in the Muggle legal system’s ability to dispense justice (or any other one for that matter), but she had no idea that it was that corrupt.
 
Hermione had seen the Chicago Tribune headlines the next day.  The structural damage to the Navy Pier condominiums from the elevator explosion and fire had been substantial.  The infected patients had been evacuated with only seconds to spare.  Even so, two health care workers, three firefighters, and a police officer had to be treated for injuries, smoke inhalation, and burns.
 
Her name was not mentioned anywhere in the article.  According to authorities, the fire appeared to be an unfortunate accident.
 
As for the epidemic that had threatened the complex, the article stated that there were no known survivors.  Those who had been evacuated from the building under careful quarantine had died before arriving at the hospital.  Cause of illness:  unknown.  Source of illness:  unknown.  Illinois State Epidemiologist Ralph Fox was quoted as saying “Despite our regrettable losses, we believe that the so-called ‘X’ factor virus was successfully contained.”
 
Codswallop, thought Hermione as she perused the paper on her way back to Atlanta. 
 
Dorset was speaking again. 


“I’m not going to fire you, if that’s what you’ve been preparing yourself to hear.  Your work is too good and you are far too valuable to the Centers.”
 
He paused then, as if he wanted Hermione to give some sort of verbal acknowledgement of his graciousness.  When he saw none was forthcoming, he looked irritated, but continued.
 
“What I am going to do is offer you some much-needed vacation time.  After your… ordeal in Chicago the other day, you more than deserve the rest.”
 
Hermione shook her head.  “I appreciate your concern, Dr. Dorset.  But I must be honest with you.  I am convinced that the outbreak in Texas last month is directly related to the one in Chicago.  I am also convinced they are not over.  So to tell you the truth, I’d like to keep working.  I could do some research and also be available should another call be placed to the EIS…”
 
Dorset stared at her.
 
“Do you realize how much trouble you could have potentially caused back there in Chicago?  Dr. Granger, it isn’t like you to be so reckless and impulsive.  Cal always says that you are the most levelheaded physician of your age and generation he’s ever met, and he is right.  That Columbo stunt you pulled at the Navy Pier was completely out of character for you.”
 
Ah.  Obviously you don’t know me very well, Dorset, do you?  I’ve helped fight Death in many of his guises, and not always with my stethoscope and a syringe.  And Death is, was, and always has been my greatest enemy.  That’s so much a part of me that I can’t imagine doing anything else…
 
“I’m beginning to think that the Special Pathogens may not be the best department for you.  And due to your close personal relationship with the head of Bacteriology,” Dorset coughed and Hermione noticed a glint in his eye, “that may not be the best spot for you either.”
 
“I suppose you’re stripping me of my EIS duties, then?”
 
“Effective immediately,” said Dorset.  “I am transferring you to the Hospital Infectious Disease Program.”
 
Hermione bit her lip hard.  HID?  She would drown in paperwork!  With a pang, she remembered her feelings of superiority towards Fox for having to monitor vaccinations.  Now she would spend the rest of her career reading and signing off on hospital infection reports…
 
“What do I have to do to keep my job?” said Hermione coolly.  “I’m prepared to negotiate.”
 
Dorset’s mouth curved into what he obviously thought was a sexy smile.  At that moment, Hermione had to try very hard not to hate all men. 
 
“Despite what you may think, Dr. Granger, I would never dangle the prospect of your old job over your head in exchange for something that might get us both in trouble.  I am your direct supervisor and I have known the man who you happen to be dating longer than you’ve been alive.  As tempting as your proposition is, I regret to inform you that I must refuse.”
 
Hermione stood up so abruptly that the chair she had been sitting in crashed to the floor.
 
“Really!  Is sex the only chip you men think a woman has to bargain with?  I had no intentions of proposing that!   My God, the very thought of it—of it with you—is enough to make me ill.”  She took advantage of Dorset’s subsequent sputtering to continue.  “Rather, I was going to ask for a probationary period.  If I can’t track down the source of this epidemic within ninety days, then go ahead and transfer me to the HID.  If I can… and I will… I think I will have proven my worth to the EIS and therefore would like to retain my officer status…”  here Hermione took a deep breath, something she’d forgot to do in the midst of her tirade, “…sir.”
 
Dorset closed the space between them so quickly that Hermione had little time to react.   His hands gripped her forearms painfully.  Again, Hermione was taken off guard… instead of stinging or burning him to make him let her go, tears welled up in her eyes.
 
“The most dangerous thing in the world is a bitch who thinks she’s too smart for her own good,” snarled Dorset.  “Listen to me, Doctor Granger, and listen well.  You may have gone to Oxford.  You may have an IQ that’s off the charts.  You may even have your British air of condescension down to a science.”  He shook her violently and her eyes widened.  “But when all is said and done, you are less than me because I am a man and you are nothing more than a mere woman.   No matter what position you aspire to rise to here, the only position that you belong in is prone.”
 
His lips clamped down upon hers then, painfully.  Hermione couldn’t believe his nerve.  She assumed that his “tough guy” speech was meant to arouse her.  It was an easy matter to knee him in the groin and push him to crash into the desk.
 
“Don’t bother filing the transfer paperwork,” she spat in his direction.  “I’m out of here.”
 
But she wondered to herself, as she walked out of Dorset’s office, if she’d won the battle but lost the war.
 
 
 
 
*************
August 4 – 9 p.m. EST
Downtown Atlanta.
 
 
“Now that I’ve performed some of my own favorites and hit songs, I’d like to do a tribute to some of the jazz greats of the past.  This one’s for Louis Armstrong… for my mother... and for all of you.”
 
Cassandra Wilson smiled at the applause that her announcement generated.  Without further introduction, the band struck up a standard tune and the Grammy-award winning jazz diva began to sing “What A Wonderful World” with her characteristic flair.
 
Hermione smiled at Jack and began to snap her fingers.  They were enjoying a concert at the brand-new Palladium Dinner Theatre.  Jack had been looking forward to this for ages.  She wasn’t as much into jazz as Jack was, but she rather liked some of the older songs…
 
*
*
*
 
Hogwarts wasn’t safe the Christmas of the Scourge.  Everyone knew it.  So for the first year since they’d all begun Hogwarts, they’d all crowded into the already crowded Burrow for Christmas Eve.
 
It seemed as if almost everyone who would be there for the holidays in subsequent postwar years was there.  Bill came up with his fiancée Fleur, whose chimelike laughter rang out very often in spite of herself.   Charlie had along his new girlfriend Liz, who was a ruddy-faced, likeable blonde from their school days.  Newlyweds Percy and Penelope, who were expecting their first child, were frowning at the antics of Fred and George.  Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell had come up for the day, and were doing a lot of giggling and whispering.
 
But the rest… she and Ron and Harry and Ginny… were still young.  Younger, she now knew, than fifteen had any right to be.  They’d spent most of the morning using Hedwig and Pigwidgeon to decorate the Burrow…and most of the afternoon chasing Pigwidgeon around the backyard when he seemed determined to display to the world a pair of Ron’s tighty-whities that he’d nabbed.  Hermione hadn’t been able to properly join in the chase… she’d laughed herself sick at the sight of Ron’s underwear flapping in the breeze.
 
“You wouldn’t be so thrilled if it’d been your drawers,” complained Ron just before they all answered Molly’s call to come in for tea.  Then, tentatively, almost shyly,  he allowed his hand to smooth a few snowflakes out of her hair.
 
She blushed.  She and Ron weren’t even really dating back then… hadn’t even kissed yet.  Nevertheless, there was a lot of tension between the two of them that neither of them understood.  Harry and Ginny may have understood it better than they had, because after the holidays were over they gave them a wide berth.  The logical thing would have been for Harry to spend more time with Ginny… it would have made everything easier.  But he didn’t.  He just went off by himself.  Where he went during these times, Hermione could never get out of him…
 
“Come up here,” called Ron to Harry, pulling Hermione up by one hand, the other using his wand to retrieve the stairs that led up to the attic.  “There’s something I want to show you.”
 
They all scrambled up the stairs, laughing like idiots in the way that kids do for no apparent reason.  Other than the fact that they were going to do something that would get them in loads of trouble before all was said and done.
 
The attic was cluttered and shrouded in old moth-gnawed sheets and delightfully dusty in the way that all proper attics are.  Ginny sneezed, then grinned.
 
“Sarah!” she said, pulling an dirty old rag doll from a pile.  “I’ve not seen you in ages!  I didn’t know you were up here!”
 
“I’ve missed you, friend,” replied the wan-faced doll.  As half the yarn of her mouth was missing, the Sarah-doll sounded rather like an old lady before she affixed her dentures for the day.
 
They all found treasures there… for Ron, there was Bill’s first broomstick, and for Hermione a pile of books that Molly had used during her Auror course training. 
 
And Harry… well, all he found was a stack of records.  Hermione noticed him staring at one dusty cover as if in a trance.  Within seconds, she was by his side. 
 
“Ron,” she called over her shoulder, as she began to thumb through the box that Harry had just been in, “whatever are your parents doing with Muggle records?”
 
“Well, my father works in Muggle Relations, doesn’t he?”
 
“Not that kind of record,” replied Hermione impatiently.  “Record records.  As in albums.  As in music.”
 
For Harry was staring at the LP he’d just removed from the jacket.  Gershwin.  Not even a 33 ½ or a 45.  It was a 78 RPM.
 
“Harry, what’s wrong with you?” asked Ron, now as concerned as Hermione was.  Even Ginny was frowning now.
 
“My aunt and uncle,” he began.  “My mother…”  Harry seemed to be struggling for the right words.  “Sirius told me that my mother inherited a collection of Muggle records from my Evans grandparents, along with Aunt Petunia.  Together they added to the collection over the years.  He says that my mum loved music… she played the piano, my aunt played the violin, and they both sang.  My aunt took them all when my parents married—said they wouldn’t have use for them, Sirius said—according to him my mum was quite upset about it.  So during the summers, when they all leave the house I sneak into the lounge and I… I play them.”
 
“Wonder how Mum and Dad got all these,” said Ron thoughtfully, by way of changing the subject.  It wasn’t that he was being insensitive; he wanted to switch topics because Harry’s occasional black-and-blue moods always made him worry about his best friend.  And Ron Weasley hated worrying… it always made him think he was acting like Percy or his mother to do so.
 
“We do have Muggle relatives, remember?” said Ginny.  “We just don’t talk much to them.  Because, after all, we can’t… there’s the Compact, and then what do we have in common with them, really?”
 
“I’m Muggle-born, Ginny,” pointed out Hermione patiently.  “And I still want to maintain a relationship with my parents after I grow up.  I hope to have a lot in common with them, even if I am a witch.  I love them even if they don’t know anything about magic.”  She then grinned at Harry.  “You know, I’ve played the piano since I was six.  Still take lessons during the summers, although I’m getting quite rusty.”
 
“Really?” asked Harry, interested.  “How come you never told us that?”
 
“It’s never come up, has it?  And I don’t tell you everything.”
 
Harry sent a half-smile in her direction.  “Be nice to hear you play one day…”
 
Ron took the album out of Harry’s hands.  “How do these things work?”  He tossed it across the room, and the ghoul emerged from behind a Chinese room divider to catch it before it shattered on the wooden floor.  “I didn’t hear any music.”
 
“Of course not, silly.  You have to play them on a phonograph,” explained Hermione.  “But I don’t suppose that a turntable would work in here anyway.  Too much magic around…”
 
“You don’t need a record player if you have magic,” said Harry.  “I have a few albums in my trunk--it’s not stealing, they were my mum’s too and I have a right to them--and I had to figure out a way to play them on Hogwarts grounds.  So I did.”
 
“Oh, how exciting!” said Hermione.  “I’d love to know how that charm works.”
 
Ginny was leafing through the crate with the albums.  “I’m going to ask Dad how he got all these.  Which of the old songs do you like best, Harry?  Maybe we have a copy of it…”
 
“Bloke named John Lennon,” said Harry without hesitation.  “Got anything by him?  Or Joni Mitchell?  How about Jimi Hendrix?”
 
Hermione joined Ginny.  “None of this stuff looks that recent, Harry… all these records seem really ancient.  At least fifty years old…”
 
“Oh, okay.  How about Louis Armstrong, then?”
 
“Got it,” said Ginny the second Hermione’s fingers touched the album.  Before Hermione could say anything, she was handing the album to Harry.
 
He removed the record from its jacket, setting that cover aside.  Borrowing Ron’s wand (his was in Ron’s room), he tossed the vinyl disc into the air and then uttered a charm--Vox Domini!--that set it to spinning.
 
The effect was immediate.  Hermione marveled to hear the characteristic faint scratching sound that heralded the start of any old record.  And then the music began. 
 
I see trees of green
Red roses too
I see them bloom
For me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world…
 
I see skies of blue
And clouds of white
The bright, blessed day
The dark, sacred night
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world…
 
“Nice,” said Ginny, smiling at Harry.  “Very nice.  I’ve never heard this song before.  Have you, Hermione?”
 
“Yes, I have.  It’s actually quite familiar  in the Muggle world.  Many artists have covered it over the years... my parents like it.”
 
“Is the Muggle world really that wonderful, then?” asked Ron.  “Be nice to have nothing to worry about but blue skies and red roses, eh?”
 
“Sometimes it is, Ron,” said Hermione.  “After all, the Muggles don’t have to worry about Voldemort taking over things, do they?  They don’t even know he exists!”
 
“The Muggle world has its own problems,” replied Harry, looking at Hermione.  “Sometimes the Muggles are better at pretending otherwise, that’s all.”
 
*
*
*
 
“Hermione?  Are you all right?”
 
It was Jack, sounding concerned.  Hermione blinked twice, then glanced in his direction. 
 
“Fine, fine.  The concert is great, isn’t it?”
 
His hand covered hers.  He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
 
“Finish your wine,” he whispered in her ear.
 
Hermione returned her attentions to her glass with a sigh underneath her breath.  She had never been much for alcohol of any sort, drinking mainly only when social pressure dictated it.  Jack always liked his wine, though, and claimed that a glass or two made her more uninhibited.   Hermione thought it made her more sleepy, but…
 
She sipped her Chianti slowly.  It was her favorite wine, hands down.  She knew the French were considered masters of the vineyard but had always preferred Italian vintage.  Draco Malfoy used to tell her this was because she didn’t know any better… but there, why was she thinking about Malfoy?  How ridiculous of her.
 
And then she saw the glint at the bottom of the half-full glass as she tilted it towards her lips.   
 
She dipped her fingers into the deep burgundy glass and pulled out a ring.  A lovely diamond-and-platinum confection that eerily reminded her of the one she’d worn for nearly a decade.  The stones stayed put, however.
 
“So what do you say, darlin’?” asked Jack. 
 
But Hermione was at a loss for words.  This was certainly an unexpected turn of events.  What could she say?
 
“I love you, darlin’.  I want you in my life forever.  You’re pretty and you’re smart and I want to make this official.”
 
Now, Hermione knew what was expected of her at this point.  She should have broken into a grin, burst into tears, or laughed with delight. 
 
She did neither of these things.
 
She dropped the ring on the table… and left it there.
 
“Jack, you’re a kind man.  But I haven’t been completely honest with you.  I think that you’re proposing to me under false pretenses.”
 
“Oh, I know you haven’t come clean.  I know all about Dorset moving you out of the EIS, darlin’… and to be quite honest, I don’t blame him.  I understand that you wanted to solve the case and determine the source of the disease, but you could have been hurt… and the last thing I want is to see my girl hurt, you know that, don’t you?”
 
Hermione ignored the last statement.  Neither did she set the record straight.  After all, she was the one who’d resigned. 
 
“It isn’t just that.  Jack… I’ve never told you much about my life before I came to the CDC, have I?”
 
“Well, I know a fair amount, I think.  I know that you grew up near Oxford, have two dentist parents who taught at the university as well, and are well traveled.  I know that you went to Oxford yourself after boarding school, finishing in an unprecedented amount of time, and then practiced at St. Ormond’s for several years before coming here.  Is there anything else I need to know?”
 
Hermione laughed to herself.  Then she sobered.
 
“Yes, there is… especially if you’re this serious about things.  Jack, before I came to the States I was in sort of a bind… you see, I came here because I had to.”
 
“That was obvious, Hermione.  You seemed very much like you were running away from something when you came here.  Part of the appeal, you know… you’re not only pretty and smart, but you seemed so sad… still do at times.  Makes a man want to do just about anything to make you happy.”
 
He seemed so wistful and boyish as he said this that all Hermione wanted to do was hug him.  She’d never been the focus of such devotion in her life, had she?   
 
“You have made me happy, Jack.  Believe me, you have.  And in return, all I did was hide a great portion of myself away from you.  I want that to change, Jack.  I want to tell you everything.”
 
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