Trouble in Paradise: Chapter Five

Trouble In Paradise

--a *Harry Potter* fanfic by AngieJ (also known as Ebony Elizabeth)

DISCLAIMER: Never in a million years could I have dreamed these characters or this world up. JKR has created everything and everyone you recognize. I have no intention of infringing her copyright. Dadgrid (Jim Ferer) inspired my "HP novels are not fiction" scenario. Penny and Carole invented the Contraceptive Charm. Cassandra Claire and Dr. Simon Branford are both registered trademarks... they belong to themselves. :-)

Chapter 5 -- Flipping the Script

"A writer takes his pen,

To write the words again—

That all in love is fair."

--Stevie Wonder, Barbara Streisand et. al

I knew it would be bad. Just not this bad.

All of the Weasley children save one, all of the in-laws save one, and Percy’s oldest son were seated around the living room of the Burrow. The grandchildren were sleeping in their parents’ old rooms upstairs--with a few of Percy’s spilling over into the twins’ old hideout and Ron’s hole in the attic.

It was just after dawn on the first morning of 2009. Sunshine filtered through the windows and filled the room, but even its fantastic brilliance did little to lighten the mood inside the Burrow. I couldn’t help but reflect upon the carefree merriment that had seemed to bounce off the walls on Christmas Day.

What a difference a single week can make.

No one had spoken much during the watches of the night save Molly. She raged, she cried, and when Ron finally arrived from wherever he’d got himself to after storming out of the Snitch, she’d held onto him as if for dear life. Penelope had tried to tempt her with spirits and tea, but our sweet mother-in-law had refused even a drop.

Now she, too, was silent.

The position of my employer, the Daily Prophet, was clear. The sources obtained by Ratliff and verified by Christina Ward and Alonzo Morgan had been checked and cross-checked. There was documentation, there were pictures, there were eyewitnesses. While the Prophet sympathized with the uncomfortable position that Ronald Weasley found himself in, as an agent of the free press the newspaper had not only the right, but the obligation to provide the wizarding community of the United Kingdom with news that was current and of high interest.

The position of Ronald Weasley, as articulated by his public relations agent Maureen Ludlam and his personal lawyer Penelope Clearwater Weasley, was even clearer. Unless the mysterious sources in question came forward, the Daily Prophet would soon become the Weasley Weekly, because the paper would be taken to court faster than a house-elf high on Cheering Charms. The only other option that Ron would consider was a full retraction of the article and a front-page apology from the editor and publishers... as well as disciplinary measures being taken against the Prophet in general and the "devious" reporters responsible in particular.

Against my will, I had been drafted as courier between the family and the Prophet during those tense hours. I’d been Apparating back and forth between the Prophet offices and the Burrow so rapidly that I was becoming quite disoriented. When I arrived back in Ottery St. Catchpole for the fourth time in as many hours, ten heads turned wearily in my direction.

I shook my head, shrugged and sighed. For the fourth time that morning.

"Oh, they still won’t talk to you, will they? They printed this rubbish. They had better be bloody well prepared to face the consequences," Penelope had said coldly.

This was hopeless. A quick glance at the mantel mirror revealed bags under my dark brown eyes, and a honey brown face that was growing rather ashen from an acute lack of sleep. This was no longer only Ron and Hermione’s problem. The shock waves were starting to affect all of us, like a thrown pebble disturbing the surface of a tranquil pond.

"What does Cassandra Claire have to say about this, then?" asked Ron.

"Actually," I said, covering my yawn with a weary hand, "I haven’t spoken to her yet."

Thus, in the eyes of the family, the next plan of action was simple. Cassandra was my boss. Cassandra had always liked me. Therefore, I should pick up the Weasley Olive Branch and Dagger yet again, go back to the Prophet, and demand an audience with Cassandra. Never mind that I hadn’t slept all night. Never mind that the article hadn’t come from my section. Never mind that I’d owled in every favor I could think of and made a thousand promises to my colleagues. Perhaps my efforts on Ron’s behalf had been in vain, but they had drained me. Didn’t that count for something?

I started to protest despite Fred’s imperative glances, until Arthur asked me specifically to do it.

"You’ll do us this favor, dear girl, won’t you?" Arthur asked in his absentminded, endearing way, placing his hands on my shoulders. "I have every confidence that you can help us right this wrong."

For my kindhearted father-in-law, I’d swim all the way to Azkaban with cuts on my legs and hungry sharks chasing me all the way. Facing down my boss was only a slightly worse proposition.

At the Daily Prophet, the Queen of the Powers That Be was our enigmatic editor-in-chief Cassandra Claire. Widely acknowledged as the Albus Dumbledore of writers, the regal California native ran the paper with an iron hand, but usually with a light grip.

She belonged by divine right to the Ancient and Noble Order of Storytellers. If she’d been born thousands of years earlier, when the veil between our world and the Muggle one fluttered with the slightest touch, she would have sat in the circle around the fires and enchanted her listeners. For Cassandra, writing was not primarily a matter of worldly lucre or laurel crown. It was something she was born to do... something she had to do. Words bent to her will, and the words she wrote and spoke were invariably the truth. Cassandra was known far and wide for her clarity of vision and her integrity.

Many witches and wizards adored our editor-in-chief, pointing out that it wasn’t mere coincidence that the Prophet had swept the prestigious International Quill and Scroll Press Awards annually since she’d taken the reins the year after the war ended. Still others didn’t care much for her management style... on the rare occasions that the media lioness roared, not much was left standing afterwards.

No one in the wizarding world was indifferent to her.

What I’d failed to tell the family was that if Cassandra Claire had allowed that story to run, something was either badly wrong or appeared to be. Either someone was doing their very best to frame my brother-in-law by pulling the wool over the eyes of one of the sharpest witches in England... or the Red Weasel had indeed committed serial adultery and was engaging in reprehensible criminal activities to cover up his mistakes. Both alternatives were equally disquieting to me.

So when managing editor Elsila Mwalimu summoned me into the executive suite upon my fourth and final trip from the Burrow, I knew what I was up against. If the shocking story had been green-lighted during the editorial conference, the board had the chief’s tacit approval at the very least. Even the formidable powers of the Prophet wouldn’t have risked Cassandra’s anger.

I stopped at the threshold of Cassandra’s spacious office. The door was opened only slightly, but I could see her sitting behind her desk. The hardwood floors were polished to a shine and covered with a braided rug. Various knick-knacks and pictures decorated the walls. Her speedy courier owl, Humperdinck, was snoozing on a brass perch. Her desk was clear save the parchment she was currently scribbling on. She didn’t look up from her writing at all, yet acknowledged my presence by clearing her throat.

"Good morning, Angelina. Please come in and have a seat."

I opened the door all the way... and came face-to-face with the dryad whom I saw clinging to Ron at the party... the woman who’d followed him out! She was wearing the same leg-displaying outfit from the Snitch, yet her pretty face was splotched with red and streaked with tears. It was only when I sat down in the empty leather chair next to the dryad that Cassandra spoke again.

"Orla Quirke, this is Angelina Weasley, our sports editor. Angelina, meet Orla... you might have recognized her face from the pictures accompanying this morning’s article."

The dryad girl looked at me with wide eyes and sniffed. Then she turned back to Cassandra.

"Rachel Ratliff said that if I came forward, if I went public, they wouldn’t be able to touch me! She told me those pictures wouldn’t be used!"

Cassandra sighed, still writing.

"Orla, dear, Rachel provided me with a notarized release. She knew very well that I would not have allowed a story of that nature to run on only anonymous sources. Your name does not appear in the article at all, just a bit of your image. We’ve done our best to protect your anonymity."

"If that’s your best effort, I’d hate to see what the other end of the spectrum looks like, Ms. Claire! Thanks to your article, I’ll be the most hated witch in the country."

"Only thanks to our article? If I recall correctly, you were the one who had the affair with Ron Weasley. You were the one who chose to carry his child. I’m not excusing his behavior, if the allegations that you’ve made against him prove true. Ron’s actions as described by you and other sources were horrible and wrong. Worst of all, his fame and notoriety may prevent justice from being as blind as she needs to be in this case.

"However, no one forced you to make the decisions that you made, Orla. We must live with the consequences of our actions, whether good or ill. Don’t just take my word for it, either... Penelope Weasley seems to agree with me." She chuckled to herself, dipping her eagle-feather quill into a porcelain inkwell, then continued on with her scribbling. "Angelina, you’re here to see if we’ll print the retraction, right?"

I sighed, attempting to rub the fatigue out of my eyes. "I’m not sure what I’m here for at this point... this is the third time I’ve been back here in as many hours, Cassandra. I’m tired, and I’m sick at heart." I glanced at Orla, trying to memorize her features yet unable to mask the disgust that was snaking through my veins and most likely showing all over my face. "That article is not what the Prophet stands for. It is not good journalism. Today I am ashamed not of anything that Ron has allegedly done... I’m ashamed that my name appears on the masthead of this newspaper."

Finally finished with her writing, Cassandra looked up and into my eyes.

"You’ve been on staff here for twelve years, Angelina. I’ve been at the helm for a decade of that time. In all the years that you’ve known me, have I ever printed a retraction? Or given an article the go-ahead that might require one?"

Feeling numb to the core, I shook my head.

"Whatever damage that has been done is done. Wish as we might, even with all our Time-Turners and other contraptions, the past cannot be changed." She glanced at Orla. "There is no evidence that anything in the article is false, and much evidence to the contrary. Tell Penelope Weasley that as the head of this publication, I have decided that there will be no retraction. The truth cannot be negated or apologized for.

"Also, I’m sure that some of your colleagues have cautioned you about drawing a line between home and career. While I understand that you have a vested personal interest in this story, Angelina, know that it is not your story. As an employee of the Prophet, I’ll expect you to abide by the same standards of confidentiality that would apply to any developing story."

I gave her a look that I know Marcus Aurelius Johnson would have been proud of. I’m definitely my father’s daughter.

My defiant glare didn’t ruffle Cassandra in the slightest. "Come, let me walk you out... Orla, I’ll be right back."

Cassandra and I re-entered the newsroom, side by side, saying nothing. As she walked by, reporters immediately broke out of the small clusters where they’d been gossiping about Rachel’s scoop over their morning coffee and returned to their general work areas. Some smiled. Others murmured something just under their breaths or sent each other meaningful looks across several feet.

When I got to the door, Cassandra turned to me and seemed to soften.

"I’m as surprised as you are about all this, Angelina. I’m sure that in your eyes, the article was indeed vicious and vile. However, I want you to spend your last few weeks as sports editor concentrating on the All-Star Match, not this. The very reason why you requested a position change with decreased responsibilities was to spend more time with your daughter. You can’t do that and be Inspector Detector as well. Cease worrying about something that is out of your hands, and is truthfully no concern of yours."

I shook my head at how well she knew me, and indubitably knew all of her reporters. "I thank you for your advice. However, I think you misunderstand something. When I married my husband, I became for all intents and purposes a Weasley. If you pinch one of them, they all scream. So even if I wanted to, I couldn’t just divorce myself from what this paper is doing to Ron. I love my job, but I care about my brother-in-law as well.

"Having said that, I’ll try and stay as far away from the story as possible. And no offense, Cassandra, but I’m glad that I’m not in your shoes right now. It’s always difficult to discern the truth in these situations... especially when confronted with a crying, helpless-appearing girl."

Cassandra looked me squarely in the face as she held the door open.

"It isn’t difficult at all for me, dear. Contrary to popular belief, I have a heart--I just don’t let it overrule the dictates of my head. I am ever on the side of justice... as any good newspaperwoman should be."

The implication of her words wasn’t lost on me.

Back at the Burrow, I delivered the oral message to Penelope and the rest. Humperdinck fluttered into the window moments later, ostensibly carrying the letter that Cassandra had been writing throughout our brief meeting.

The minute Penelope finished reading it, she passed the parchment to Ron. Ron immediately crumpled it up into a ball, and aimed it at Humperdinck. Ruffled and angry, the owl scooped up the crumbled ball in his talons, and fluttered out of the window.

"Any more bright ideas?" Ron asked, a little testily. "It seems that we’re running out."

"You could try ignoring it all," Bill suggested with a shrug and a yawn. "Always works for me in situations like this."

Percy frowned his disapproval at his oldest brother. "He can’t do that. They’ll take his silence for guilt!"

"Um, Perce? Remind me exactly why Ron should give two knuts about what the public thinks," Fred said caustically.

"Because the allegations are simply untrue, Fred!" Penelope snapped. "Oh, how I wish that extortion was my area of expertise. I’d have that bloody Ratliff woman peddling her doubtful charms up and down Knockturn Alley."

"Unless she does something about that harelip, she isn’t going to make a pile of money, that’s for sure," I muttered. "Better hope for her sake that the Prophet’s legal team can cover her arse."

My murmurings reminded the family for the thousandth time that they had an insider in the enemy’s camp.

"So how secure is the Prophet’s position, Angelina?" Charlie asked.

I shrugged as lightly as I could. "Never know in situations like this. This isn’t my beat, sorry. Cassandra was very close mouthed about the issue."

Arthur was shaking his head. "I’ve lost a great deal of respect for that woman. She’s shown much more moral fiber in the past. I would have expected better things from her."

"Cassandra stands by Rachel. She made that very clear." I turned to Ron. "Ron, please don’t be offended by the question I’m going to ask. But I can’t do anything else on the inside for you unless I know this. Is any part of the article..." here I gulped, "true?"

You could have heard a pin drop.

"I did not have sex with that woman!" shouted Ron, pointing at the picture on the front page, spread out on the coffee table.

Molly looked at me as if I’d stabbed her. "Angelina! How could you even ask such a question?"

"Because she saw something at the Prophet that didn’t exactly line up with Ron’s version of events." Ginny, who must have just Apparated in, walked into the living room, a vision in a garnet sweater set and looking considerably more cheerful than anyone else in the house. "You’ve met the woman in the article, Ange, haven’t you?"

I nodded.

"So you’re believing that tramp over me, are you?" Ron bellowed. "I thought you were my sister!"

"I thought you were my brother, but that doesn’t stop you from refusing to bite your tongue whenever Draco’s around!" Ginny continued. "He can’t help his family or what he was before the war. But you’re so blind that you can’t see what’s right in front of your face, Ron! In the World According to Ronald Weasley, everyone else is wrong except for you!" Her relentless gaze swept around the room. "So where’s your wife?"

"Virginia!" Arthur said sharply.

"No, Dad, don’t you ‘Virginia’ me! I can’t believe all of you are going to accept what Ron says at face value. Hermione isn’t here... and she’s married to him! What does that tell you?"

"That the girl should be ashamed of herself," Molly said matter-of-factly. "Hermione is far too willful and independent for her own good. She’s almost thirty years old. It’s about time she was a bit more settled. Hopefully, this baby will do the trick."

Ginny laughed. "What a pile of rubbish. Hermione’s always been driven. She had dreams before she ever thought about marrying Ron. Why should she have to put her career on hold to have a litter of kids?"

"Because it’s what her husband wants," Penelope said matter-of-factly. "I think that Ron’s been wonderful, allowing her to run about the way she does, gone for days, even weeks at a time, doing goodness-knows-what. I still have my career, but I treasure what I have with Percy above all else. Marriage is all about sacrifice... it’s time Hermione understood that."

"Oh, this is a scream," said Ginny, throwing up her hands. "I find it sad that no one in this family ever wants to consider the women’s feelings being as worthwhile as those of the men. Hermione’s wrong for not standing by her husband, I was wrong for dating Draco, and Angelina’s wrong for asking an innocent question. This is the twenty-first century, damn it! Muggles have realized that... and we look down upon them. We’re the ones stuck in the Dark Ages."

Percy Junior’s head was bobbing up and down in agreement. "Sounds a bit biased to me. I’m with Aunt Ginny."

"You’re with your brothers and sisters upstairs, since you can’t keep it shut while adults are talking," Penelope said. When he began to protest, his mother snapped, "Go, P.J.!"

"See what I mean?" Ginny asked me. "No wonder Hermione’s avoiding this family like the plague. I can’t say that I blame her."

It was really funny, observing the family reaction to Ginny’s tirade. Molly was so angry with her daughter that little red spots stood out on her cheeks. Arthur seemed a bit sad. Bill was snickering to himself. Charlie and Lizeth were speaking to each other in whispers. Percy and Penelope were obviously furious. George was shaking his head. And Fred refused to look at me... knowing him, he blamed me for not leaving well enough alone. Ah, well, we’d just have to cross wands later on this evening. I was more than up to it.

As for the leading man of the Weasley Domestic Comedy Show, he simply looked at his baby sister with the most hurt expression I’d ever seen.

"You’ve let that Malfoy prat poison your mind against your own brother? If that’s the case, seems like I was right about him all along."

Ginny’s smirk dissolved.

"You leave Draco out of this, Ron! I know all of you hate him, but he’s the least of your concerns! As a matter of fact, he could teach you a thing or two about conflict resolution!"

"And what exactly would that be, Gin? Stab your opponent in the back and then run like hell?" George asked her.

"No, you idiot. Draco taught me that one should never run away from a problem. You shouldn’t cover it up and pretend that it doesn’t exist. Only when you confront the worst situation head-on can you make any sense of it, overcome it, and then heal. I’m thankful he did... I certainly never learned that valuable lesson in my twenty-seven years of being a Weasley."

She turned on her heels and walked into the hallway, calling over her shoulder, "I’m going to get breakfast. Maybe the rest of you think that starvation and sleep deprivation is called for at a time like this, but I’m hungry. As I’m sure the children will be when they wake up."

Molly followed her into the kitchen, and judging from her angry gait, I guessed that Ginny was in for it. Arthur must have sensed this too and followed his wife... I suspect he’s always had a soft spot for his only girl.

Ron watched them go, then turned back to me.

"Angelina, you said you’ve met this woman. I’ve seen her before last night, but I can’t remember where... it certainly wasn’t in my bed, though," he clarified just in case anyone had taken Ginny seriously. "What’s her name? It isn’t in the article."

"Yes, I know," I said. "Let me think for a moment... Orpah? No, that’s not it... it’s Orla. Orla Jerk? Yes, it was something like that... Orla Merck... no, it’s..."

"Orla Quirke," Fred said, still not looking directly at me. "That sounds familiar. Did she attend Hogwarts?"

"If she’s English, she did," Percy said. "Wait a minute... I’ve got some old pictures from school in my room upstairs. I’m sure the twins do as well."

Thus began Mission: Place the Lying Tramp. We sat around the living room floor, flipping through dusty picture albums from the nineties, searching for the girl in vain. After giving Ginny a talking-to in which she was loudly chastised, Arthur and Molly went up to bed, the neverending night having taken its toll on them. Ron muttered about checking on something at Lupin’s and Disapparated. As for the rest of us, we fed the children when they woke up, then sent them outside to play in the snow under the watchful eye of P.J.

Ginny, as the most alert, kept coming up with creative guesses. "Wait a minute... she was Gryffindor, class of ’02... won the Granger Award for Outstanding Academic Achievement back in ‘99. That’s why she’s not in any of these old books!"

"That tart? A Gryffindor?" scoffed Fred. "If it acts like a Slytherin, talks like a Slytherin, and smells like a Slytherin, then damn it, it’s a slimy, filthy lying Slytherin!"

Ginny glared at him. "Shut up, Fred. Plenty of perfectly decent people came out of Slytherin."

"Name one," George challenged. "Besides ones with the initials D.M."

"Lizeth’s grandmum," Ginny replied, tossing her red hair.

Liz shook her head at her youngest sister-in-law. "Er... could we leave my grandmum out of this? Just because the press is airing your family’s dirty laundry doesn’t give you free license to rat on the skeletons in the Wagners’ closets."

"Nothing that foxy ever came out of Slytherin, at least not in my day," Charlie snorted. His wife looked daggers at him... Lizeth was the sole Hufflepuff in a pureblooded family that had been Slytherin for half a millennium. "Stop it, Liz... you know Slytherin’s not noted for its raving beauties."

"She was a Hufflepuff," Liz supplied, cutting her husband off. "She looks exactly like Merle Chatsworth... remember, she was in your class, Bill. That whole family was Hufflepuff."

Penelope slammed an old group photograph down on top of the Prophet article, beaming with triumph.

"Orla Quirke. Class of ’01. Ravenclaw. Ha!"

The young girl in the picture resembled the vamp in the Prophet spread only vaguely. She obviously had strong nymph bloodlines, as I’d discerned at the Snitch the night before. Her wavy blonde hair was honey-toned and she had the same amber cat eyes as the picture of the child, but there was a difference. The first year in the 1995 yearbook was grinning toothily, eyes bright and innocent and blinking. The woman whose face was splashed all over the first headline story of 2009 had a syrupy smile that seemed to hide secrets.

One of the two pictures that accompanied the article was the same scene that I’d observed at the Snitch when Ron first entered. Someone had snapped Orla throwing her arms around Ron, whispering in his ear, his smile, and her subsequent kiss. I made a mental note to kill Colin when I saw him next.

The other was a picture of Ron cradling a baby of about six or seven months as Orla looked on. The infant had bright red hair, dark blue eyes, and there were freckles peppering the kid’s cheeks. If one went by looks alone, the kid looked much more like a Weasley than my own daughter did.

"Why would she do this?" Lizeth murmured. "That isn’t Ron’s kid... is it?"

"Maybe you’d best keep tabs on all of your husbands, girls," Ginny said sarcastically. "If that kid isn’t some relation to us, then I was switched at birth."

"Oh, really? And all this time we never suspected," Fred shot back.

"The question still remains," Percy said thoughtfully. "Why is she doing this? It can’t be blackmail on her part... the damage is already done. What in the world does she get out of it?"

"She gets to feed her fantasy," a woman’s voice said solemnly.

Ron walked in, followed by the gypsy witch from last night. I wondered if people ever got their fill of looking at her. She was a visual feast. Today, she was wearing a Muggle hockey jersey and jeans. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Yet and still her exotic looks and commanding presence stopped all conversation once again.

Maureen Ludlam came to sit on the floor between Penelope and I, and poked the picture of Orla a tad viciously until the photographed kid sneezed. Ron sat in an armchair directly behind her, staring down at the picture as well.

"Orla Quirke has worked for me for five years. She was formerly my personal assistant and my dearest friend here in England."

"You’re not originally from here?" Fred asked.

Her ponytail moved from side to side. "Yes and no. I was born in Wales, but my parents are both Muggle-born. They fled Voldemort and his minions in 1979--well before I could walk--and ended up in the Toronto area. Hamilton, to be exact. I’m a proud Canuck." She closed the yearbook soundly.

"Enough about me. We have a problem, Penelope. Evidently Orla has managed to obtain or manufacture—it doesn’t matter for our purposes which—documentation that has convinced several prominent people, including Cassandra Claire and Brian Riordan, that Ronald is indeed the father of her child. She even has paternity test results. Worst of all, she has receipts drawn from Ronald’s bank accounts, all decorated with his distinctive signature."

"An elaborate forgery, Maureen," Penelope muttered.

Mo shrugged. "Perhaps. But we can’t afford to pursue that route. We don’t have time. As I’ve said, I’ve received an owl from Brian Riordan..."

"Isn’t that the new Deputy Minister of Magic?" Now Lizeth was looking at Ron strangely. "What did you do, Ron? Are you sure that you didn’t..."

The Red Weasel was starting to get a little ticked off.

"Excuse me! Didn’t I say that I never slept with the woman? How, then, could any child of hers be related to me?"

"All right, enough of that," Mo said firmly. "Yes, Brian is the new deputy. He’s also the de facto head of the Department of Investigations. They want to audit me, and to be quite honest, I’m not prepared for them. If they find anything less than kosher... well, both Ron and I could be in a lot of trouble."

"If everything’s airtight, Mo, how could you be?" asked Ginny.

She put both hands on her head and let out a long breath. "Orla’s been threatening Ronald with her fairy tales for months now. Rather than deal with the media circus... I advised him to pay her off. I thought all she wanted was money. I had no idea she was a basket case. That payoff led to a series of bad decisions. We’re reaping what we’ve sown, so to speak." She turned around to face Ron. "You have no idea how sorry I am. A good agent and advisor is supposed to keep you out of situations like this."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Mo," he said, squeezing her shoulder in a friendly manner. It was the most normal tone I’d heard from him since before Christmas. "I didn’t have to take your advice. I’m just as culpable as you are. Don’t you dare blame yourself."

"Nevertheless, I’ve gotten you into this situation, and I’m going to get you out," she said firmly, turning back to the rest of us. "The first order of business is a press conference... if not by sunset, then definitely first thing tomorrow. I’ll talk to Luke Lawless—he’s Ronald’s Cannons agent--and combine forces so that we’re sure to have a rep from every single major wizarding publication under the sun present. I’d also like the family to be there... from my experience, I can tell you that presenting a united front is best." She looked around. "Where is Hermione?"

Ron grunted. "No idea."

"Damn it, Ronald, that’s not good enough!" The serene gypsy began to morph into the siren I’m sure she was outside of the professional realm as she turned on my brother-in-law. She was one of the few witches not related to Ron who didn’t seem to worship the ground he walked on. Good for her... he needed an advisor who could stick to her guns.

"You need to find her," Mo continued in a tone that brooked no refusal. "We can’t have the press conference without her... she has to be there right next to you for obvious reasons. Whatever is going on between you and her is no one’s business but your own, but if I were you, I’d swallow my pride, be a man, and beg that woman to be by your side. Otherwise..." She shuddered. "Even without dementors, I’ve heard Azkaban is no picnic. I don’t fancy spending the prime of my life there, do you?"

I’d been confused and wavering all morning. A little dizzy from the excitement and lack of sleep. But now I knew exactly what I had to do. Even if I didn’t want to.

"Brian Riordan is my sister Diane’s husband, Mo," I said, my words cutting the ensuing silence like a knife. "Let me talk to her. With any luck, she’ll get him to call the attack dogs off. Or at the very least buy you some more time."

Bill nodded. "Speaking of time, Gringotts owes me quite a bit of it... enough to extend my holiday. Let me at those financial records, Mo. I know quite a few accounting spells that will clean up even the biggest tabulation messes... not to mean Cash Diversion Charms that can make even the fishiest-looking registers smell like a rose."

"We’ll do what we can from Hogwarts and Hogsmeade," Percy said. "The winter term begins in a few days, but we’ll be staying with Mum and Dad until then. Please do keep us posted. If the worst happens, you know that Penelope’s firm is fully prepared to crucify the Prophet."

"With relish," Penelope added.

"Same with us," Charlie replied. "We have just the dragon--a fierce Himalayan Hunchback--for preparing Flame-Roasted Orla if and when you deem it necessary. Just hog-tie her, box her up, and have a couple of owls ship her over to us in Patagonia."

The twins went to their younger brother. "And you know we’re always here if you need us," George said.

Fred nodded, silent for a change. As for Ginny, she seemed to hesitate, then walked over to the chair where Ron still sat.

"Let me talk to Hermione," she said quietly. "I’ll do my very best to get her at that press conference."

That seemed to be the signal to break. Bill went with Ron and Mo to the Ludlam Agency to get started with the damage repair right away. Ginny ran outside to summon the kids, and Charlie and Liz headed back to Argentina with their Elizabeth Molina. Percy and Penelope were going to stick around to be with Arthur and Molly... a few owls from around the world had begun to arrive at the Burrow, since Ron and Hermione’s home wasn’t accessible by anything other than Muggle post and stealth owl.

Fred finally turned to me. Kissed me. "Mrs. Weasley, you are my hero. Thanks for being the world’s finest human Bludger this morning, and with a minimum of complaints... I know you. It meant the world to Ron, to the family, and to me."

I’d thought he was upset! Funny... usually in the midst of Weasley family meetings, he usually carries on tongue-in-cheek conversations with both George and me without saying a word. I could only speculate on what he’d been brooding over earlier... Frederick Weasley rarely broods, and whenever he does, the outcome is usually monumental.

"George and I are going to check on a few things on Ron’s behalf. Take Malinda home, put her down for a nap, and get some sleep yourself. Don’t worry about the press conference. I’ll tell you what we’re up to later..."

Ginny came up between us. "Oh, Fred, I was going to ask if you and George could take Malinda along with you. I want Ange to tag along with me to Hermione’s," she explained, giving me a significant nudge.

"Oh, yes!" I’d forgotten that Ginny thought Hermione had confided in me. I wondered what our sister-in-law would say when she learned about it. But of course my curiosity was piqued. "Why don’t we ask Percy and Penelope if she can stay with their brood?" I suggested. "I’m sure Malinda will find something to keep them all occupied."

"Yes, like that time this summer when she thought it was a grand idea to wallpaper the dining room with egg paste, crayon, and old rolls of wrapping paper," Percy said in passing. "Mum was ready to drown all of the children, including my twins, who had no better sense than to follow their impish cousin’s delinquent lead."

I was a little indignant, as was my maternal right. "My child has an offbeat sense of humor, Percy, but she is far from delinquent. She isn’t a bad kid. Just a little... hyperactive."

"Excuse me, Angelina, but Mum and Dad had just finished renovating this old place at the time. Hyperactive doesn’t begin to describe her. What that child needs is a darned good spanking, but I wouldn’t expect a woman who actually married one of the terrible twins to agree with me."

"You’re damned right she won’t," Fred snarled. "You just try to lay a finger on my daughter, Perce. It’ll be the last time you have use of the digit."

"Oh, he’s still mad about the time she visited them in Hogsmeade and laced his coffee with Floo Powder," George told us.

Fred and I laughed heartily, remembering. She’d said that she wanted to see what would happen... would Uncle Perce go shooting off to Hogwarts without needing a fireplace? Would he explode in a shower of green sparks? She said she wanted to know... and when all was said and done, we were chortling so hard that we couldn’t punish her too harshly.

"It isn’t funny!" Percy whined. "She could have killed me! She had no idea that the powder wasn’t toxic! And I did not squeal like a puppy!"

"We know, Perce, old boy," Fred said, patting his shoulder. "Just like you’re not squealing right now..."

In the end, the twins took Malinda with them.

And Ginny and I headed off to beard the dragon otherwise known as Hermione Granger-Weasley in her lair.

**************

Ginny and I Apparated into Hermione’s small backyard rose garden. When we’d left the Burrow, what had started as a steady shower of flurries had become a full-fledged snowstorm. By the time we arrived in Notting Hill, we could hardly see the house. And it was cold! Shivering underneath our hooded cloaks, we ran up to the door.

I raised a fist to knock, but Ginny reached into her bag and extracted a key.

"No need to do all that," she said. "If she’s sleeping, the last thing we want to do is disturb her."

But when Ginny unlocked the door, and opened it, Harry and Hermione were walking out of the kitchen and into the hallway, footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor, so engrossed in conversation that they took no notice of us at first.

"If you’re sure it’s no trouble, Harry..."

"No trouble at all. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times... there’s nothing and no one that Sirius and I can’t find eventually."

She sighed. "I just hate to bother Sirius with all that’s going on."

"Are you kidding me? Damsels in distress appeal to the Casanova in him. He’ll be thrilled to help you out."

Seemingly satisfied, she hugged him tightly for a moment, then planted a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t seem to have been expecting it, for he turned ever so slightly and I really do think she got the teensiest bit of the corner of his mouth... from where I was standing, I couldn’t tell for sure, but his ears did turn a little pink.

Platonic friendships are odd like that sometimes, I suppose.

"Thanks for being here, Harry," she said.

"Ille est tibi," he replied, a wide yawn deepening his voice a half octave. "Always."

After finally noticing that Ginny and I were standing right behind them, Harry greeted us, asking if Ron was still at the Burrow. The minute Ginny told him his other best friend’s whereabouts, he Disapparated so quickly that when I blinked, he was gone. Obviously the fact that there were security wards wrapped around the entire building didn’t bother him in the slightest. Then again, the usual laws of magic never seemed to apply to Harry Potter.

Hermione hugged herself, staring past us at the spot Harry had vanished from. She was wearing what appeared to be one of Ron’s older dressing robes, a thin silk nightgown, and rather hideous fuzzy grindylow slippers. Her hair had reverted to its usual thick state and was pulled back into a single neat French braid. She held herself tight for a few moments, then turned her empty gaze to us.

"Happy New Year, Ginny, Angelina."

"Happy New Year, Hermione," I said.

Ginny took off her coat and hung it on the rack. "How are you feeling, Hermione?"

"Tired. Harry and I were up all night." She laughed without smiling. "It’s been a long while since we’ve done that."

"Yes, I’m sure," Ginny said quietly. "Hermione, have your morning papers arrived?"

"Oh, yes. Circe’s been back nearly an hour."

Ginny and I both stared at each other.

"Well, don’t look so bloody tragic... it’s making me nervous. Whatever is wrong?"

"Have you gotten the Prophet as well as your international papers?" Ginny asked. "Don’t you still have fifteen subscriptions to various dailies alone?"

Hermione shrugged. "Of course. No offense, Angelina, but the British wizarding publications leave a lot to be desired. Besides, I always like to keep current... the Muggle Internet and Malfosoft’s Wizarding Web both give good overviews, but you can’t get the in-depth content I like from them alone."

"Have you gotten to looking over today’s Prophet yet?" I asked.

"Yes, actually I have. Superb cover story. Should win the rag the Quill and Scroll Award for the ninth year in a row. Whoever this Rachel Ratliff woman is, I hope she’s dusted a spot off on her mantelpiece."

Ginny and I looked at each other with alarm.

"What, did you really think I didn’t know about the article?" Hermione seemed to find that idea extremely funny. "Cassandra Claire more than prepared me for this. I received the full text three days ago."

"Hermione..." Ginny began.

"Why would you want to see Ron brought low?" I asked without thinking. "I thought you were in love with him."

Hermione stared at me, then glanced at Ginny.

"She doesn’t know," Hermione said to Ginny, whose eyes widened into virtual saucers. I knew she was mentally reviewing our conversation from the day before. "Don’t worry about it, Gin. Angelina can be trusted. She’s proven that. I shared my misgivings about my pregnancy with her. She hasn’t told anyone in the family about it... it would have definitely got back to me if she had."

Ginny was nodding. "Do you want her to know everything?"

"She needs to see what’s between the lines of that article at the very least. I’m sure she’s been begging Cassandra to print a retraction, and we can’t have that." She snapped her fingers, then pointed up the stairs. "Accio!" she muttered, not bothering to use a wand or to even name what she wanted to retrieve. The fact that she could concentrate and focus enough to forego a wand used to jar me. It doesn’t anymore. At least, not most of the time.

Somewhere upstairs, I heard a drawer open, and then with a whoosh! a bulky manila envelope came flying down the stairs and into Hermione’s hand.

"Why don’t we get comfortable?" she suggested. "Make yourselves at home... Angelina, I know you must be tired as I am. Go on into the dining room. I’ll put some coffee on. Ginny, you begin... make sure Angelina’s sitting down... and I’ll be there in a moment."

We followed her instructions. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach as Ginny unfastened the envelope and poured out the contents. As she spaced them out across the Venetian lace tablecloth that covered the cherry table, my internal knot began to tighten.

It was too much to take in at once. Pictures... official Ministry-certified documents... receipts... Gringotts statements... registers... letters. My heart began to pound. Either someone had committed a series of forgeries so foolproof that Hermione herself believed them, or Ron... but he couldn’t have. He’d never betray Hermione or the man he was in such an underhanded fashion!

In our world, seeing is not always believing. I held on to that simple truth, tight as I could, and refused to accept that for all intents and purposes, two plus two equals four most of the time.

Ginny laid a hand on my shoulder.

"I didn’t want to believe it either, Ange. Not about Ron. He’s my brother, after all. But the truth is the truth. This has been a hard year for Hermione. Draco’s helped her a lot, and she’s done her best to hold things together, but when all this arrived on Boxing Day she just about lost it."

I shook my head. "It’s almost as if someone replaced the Ron and Hermione we all know and love with two imposters! Are you sure that..."

"Dead certain. I considered that possibility and had Draco check... don’t look like that, Angelina! The truth is, most of this has been developing over a very long time. This is only the tip of the iceberg, I’m thinking... and I’m also thinking that Hermione doesn’t even know the half of it yet." Ginny shrugged. "Ron always loved the fame and adulation, but I thought he loved Hermione as well."

"I’m sure he does!" I said. "Surely that simple fact would cause you to dismiss all this rubbish as a fantastic pack of lies, Ginny!"

Hermione walked in then, holding a steaming mug in each hand and levitating one in the middle of them. She set them down without spilling a drop.

"Angelina, how can I put this?" She rubbed the back of her neck, perhaps trying to remove a crook that her lack of sleep had caused. "I’m used to having a handle on everything in my life. I’ve spent my twenty-eight years of existence on a quest for perfection. My career, my marriage, my media image... all had to be perfect in order for me to be happy.

"Lately it’s gotten to be too much for me. I am tired. I’m tired of having the weight of the world on my shoulders and having to smile despite it all. I’m tired of being lonely when a thousand articles go on and on about how lucky I am. I’m tired of wanting to scream and throw things and having to instead look pretty and wave from Ron’s arm.

"Most of all, I’m tired of living my life for other people. Being a doctor was my parents’ idea... they made me promise to get a Muggle medical degree, and I nearly killed myself trying to do it. Being a mediwitch was Dumbledore’s idea... he always remarked on how bright I was, and how much I empathized with the suffering of others. Getting married at twenty-three was Ron’s idea... I wanted to wait a bit, at least until we were older and more settled.

"I’ve been thinking, and you know what, girls? I’ve realized that as intelligent as I’m purported to be, I’ve never done much thinking for myself. For the first eleven years of my life, I was the model child, a Showpiece for Ted and Caroline Granger. For the next seven, I was Wonderboy Harry Potter’s Smart Girl Sidekick who eventually dated Boy Sidekick Ron Weasley. Then I blinked, and after the war, I was Medical Student Extraordinaire and the Object of Ron Weasley’s Affection. For the past five years, I’ve been Mediwitch GP, Phenomenal Surgeon, and Ron Weasley’s Trophy Wife..."

"Does Ron really only want you as some sort of trophy, Hermione?" I asked softly, breaking into her escalating list of grievances. "I thought he was your best friend. I know he loves you."

Hermione didn’t seem upset by my interruption. "He's always trying to get me to show up somewhere with him. You know, to step out and be seen. In public. Doesn’t he ever tire of the spotlight? I know I do."

I shrugged. "There’s an old saying that seems to apply in this instance, dear. To whom much is given, much is also required. Maybe he simply wants to be with you. After all, he is your husband... shouldn’t he enjoy spending time with you?"

"So why doesn't he come home and do that?" Hermione shot back. "He knows I'm exhausted after work and I'm usually on call. All I feel like doing some nights is curling up with a good book in front of the fire."

I didn’t understand this. Ron and Hermione were life partners. In any successful marriage I’d ever observed, there was a great deal of give-and-take. It involved sacrifice, compromise, and even sometimes gritting your teeth instead of saying the first thing that comes to mind... goodness knew that Fred and I had to learn that lesson the hard way. In addition to all of those factors, another ingredient was extremely important: effective communication.

One thing was crystal-ball clear. The fact that Ron and Hermione spoke two different "languages" was becoming a problem. It was one they needed to correct... and soon.

She sipped her coffee calmly. Neither of us touched ours.

"My New Year’s Resolution is this, girls. Never again will I live a lie."

Ginny was nodding her support. As for me, I was frozen into place.

Hermione picked up the first of the documents. "Let’s start here, Angelina. This is a paternity test, conducted on 5 May 2008. I’ve had some friends who are forensics experts check it out for me. It is assuredly not a forgery."

I took the thin parchment from her and examined it. It looked quite authentic. The appropriate raised seals were there, and when Ginny touched it with her wand, the energymark revealed it was indeed a Ministry document.

The name of the child had been blotted out at the top, and so had the name of the mother. But the red letters in the middle jumped out at me. "Ronald A. Weasley--Probability of Paternity--100%."

"Muggle paternity tests have a margin of error," Hermione explained, as if we both particularly wanted to know the details. "Mediwizarding ones do not. In addition to running the DNA samples--I was actually the one who introduced genetic testing into the mediwizarding community here in Britain, though it is not my area of specialty--there are also several versions of the Paterveritas Charm that cross-check. Unless I’m badly mistaken, and I have many other reasons to believe that I am not, there is some child running about with an eerie amount of my husband’s genes."

"Perhaps... artificial insemination?" I was grasping at straws.

"I actually considered that at first, Angelina. After all, I’ve had so much trouble getting pregnant, which has got to be one for the history books. I mean, whoever heard of the infamous Weasley swimmers failing to hit their target? But we’d never discussed other alternatives. The last time I checked, we were still trying to get me pregnant. We’d even visited a fertility clinic together. His idea, not mine." She folded her hands. "He really wants children. Always has."

The next item she called our attention to was a series of bank statements.

"Ron and I have three accounts at Gringotts: his, mine, and ours. That setup is one that we have at all of our banks, and was my idea. He thought that it was unnecessary... after all, Molly and Arthur always only had the one vault. However, I am not Molly Weasley..."

"I’ve sung that tune before," I murmured under my breath. There wasn’t a Weasley wife breathing who hadn’t had to remind her husband of that simple little fact at times.

Hermione sent a half-smile my way and continued. "My parents are both professionals. The yours-mine-ours arrangement always worked for them. After a while, Ron seemed to like it too. Of course it was more convenient for me... it’s dead tiresome having to wait on your husband to make the trip to Diagon Alley whenever you need a few Galleons. Especially when one has a life as full as mine.

"Imagine my surprise when these statements for September through November of 2008 were included in the package... these revised statements," she clarified. "You see, I handle our joint account. Not that I’m trying to be overbearing or anything of that nature... it’s no big secret that Ron is not the world’s thriftiest wizard, and I’m simply better at handling money than he is, that’s all.

"Anyway, these statements revealed a discrepancy in my books... books that I’d reconciled using the statements the bank sent. Or the ones I thought the bank sent. A quick trip to Gringotts revealed that the statements I’d used to balance the joint account were the inaccurate ones. Now... look at the circled amounts."

Gringotts bank statements are not very complicated. They’re simply a list of the amount of golden Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts that are present in one’s vault during each day of the month.

On September 17, 2008, Ron and Hermione had ten million Galleons, forty-three thousand Sickles, and twenty-eight Knuts in their joint Gringotts vault. My eyes almost popped out of my head. I wondered how on earth the poor boy and the Muggle-born girl had gotten to be rich as Croesus.

A quick scan of the rest of that statement revealed the same amounts. Obviously, Hermione and Ron didn’t touch that account much. Then all of a sudden, on October 23, 2008...

"Three million Galleons, forty-three thousand Sickles, and twenty-eight knuts," I read. "Seven million Galleons... gone?"

"Exactly. Strange, isn’t it? They weren’t ‘gone’ on my October, November, or December statements from last year. Last week, I went into the vault... yes, Ginny, Draco got the hair from Ron during their little brawl... of course, I couldn’t have very well had him go and investigate with me if I wanted to know the truth. That money is gone. Clean as a whistle."

I saw the case she was building. Piece by piece, she showed us. Pictures. Intercepted owls that did not use names, but were in Ron’s handwriting. Checks made out to people Hermione didn’t even know existed.

Still I wasn’t fully convinced. "Hermione, this evidence is all very circumstantial. All this might prove merely that someone has a dangerous fixation on Ron and will do anything to hurt him and by extension, you." Ginny and I filled her in on Mo Ludlam’s version of events. "This Orla Quirke girl seems harmless enough, but according to Mo she’s lost touch with reality. I gathered that upon meeting her earlier today. That means she could be dangerous."

Hermione picked up her coffee mug yet again. It was a Chudley Cannons Wives collectible item, personalized with her name inscribed in gold.

"The last thing that conniving witch had better do at the moment is to cross my path. Not only will I see her coming from a mile away, I’ll show her dangerous." She set down her mug viciously. "As for Mo Ludlam, I’m rather put out with her at the moment. She’s been Ron’s agent for the past three years, and I really think he could do much better. This isn’t the first time she’s shown extremely poor judgment in my opinion. Why Luke Lawless can’t handle all of Ron’s affairs is quite beyond me."

Ginny cleared her throat. "That web can be untangled later, I think. The question remains... will you attend the press conference?"

The silence stretched out into long minutes. Hermione became very interested in studying the contents of her half-filled mug. Her face was blank. Her eyes... ah, her eyes nearly drained the heart out of me. I hated to see any woman in so much pain. Especially one who had as much going for her as Hermione did.

When she finally looked up, her face was awash with tears once again.

"You would have me... they would have me break my New Year’s resolution less than twenty-four hours into 2009? If I sat next to Ron today in my usual arm ornament mode, it would be a lie. Don’t you realize that?"

I had to brush my own tears away. The crazy emotional roller coaster, the lack of sleep, and the lack of food were starting to get to me as well.

"Hermione... I know exactly what you’re going through."

She glared at me. "How can you know?"

"Because... a long time ago, I had to put on my own masks. At a time when I was ready to throw in the towel in my own marriage for reasons which I think were similar to yours, I had to do many things that I didn’t want to do. Do you know what helped me through those times?"

Not looking at me, Hermione shook her head.

"The memories, Hermione! You have to think back to what things were like before all the craziness. Think back to your wedding day and your honeymoon. Think back to your courtship. Hermione... think back to when you were eleven and twelve and thirteen, and all of your adventures and escapades with Ron. Do you remember? If you do, then close your eyes and let your mind conjure up a vision of Ronald Weasley at eleven years old. All arms and legs, and hands and feet, and freckles and grins. Do you see him, Hermione?"

She smiled with her eyes closed. Despite herself, a small giggle escaped her lips.

"All right, then. Think of this. That boy who’s making you laugh right now is still trapped inside of the man whose ring you’re wearing! No matter what has happened between the two of you in the intervening time, no matter what’s gone wrong in your marriage, before you were husband and wife, before you were lovers, you were the best of friends."

Seeing that I was exhausted, Ginny took the baton and ran with it. "If you won’t attend that press conference for your husband, attend it because he is, was, and will always be your very best friend. That’s not a lie and never will be. Even after all is said and done, Hermione, that will never change. You’re the one who told me that people are in our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. No matter what happens next, he will always be a part of you."

Hermione opened her eyes. The tears, instead of making the whites red, seemed to have caused her brown agate irises to sparkle like twin jewels.

"All right, you two. You’ve convinced me." Her voice broke. "What else can I say? You both are worth your weight in goblin-certified gold." Wiping her eyes, she sniffed and held up a hand to stop Ginny from pouncing upon her with glee. "Wait a minute. There are a couple of catches."

Uh-oh.

"The first is that I need the both of you to run an errand for me. My partner at the MMRI, Dr. Simon Branford, is waiting on a package that I’d intended to deliver after I took a nap. It arrived a couple of days ago, but I’ve been too busy to get to the lab. Hopefully, this press conference will occur as soon as possible, so that I can get some rest. If that is the case, there is no way I’ll make it to the Emerald City and back in time. Simon really needs a holiday, but I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word. Especially since we’re so close to finishing."

Ginny was nodding. "Oh, good! I’m glad it’s finally arrived. I’ve been sending Solange reminder messages for months."

Setting aside the coffee mug, Hermione held out both of her hands. "Here, let me have your wands... I’ll Charm them so that you’ll have security clearance. The guards have the holiday off, but you’ll have your wands scanned at two checkpoints..."

"Oh, mine is still good," Ginny mumbled, reddening.

"Is it really?" Hermione said with a grin. She took mine from me and grasped it firmly in the middle. The ten-and-a-half inches of laurel rod began to glow. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the feather at the core seemed to buzz. She handed it back to me after a minute, saying, "There. You’re all set."

Once again, I was confused... and was a little afraid that I was getting used to that state. Of course, I knew what the Emerald City was, as 3W’s new corporate headquarters were located there. What on earth was the MMRI?

Hermione summoned a long paper-wrapped cylindrical package, again without wand or specification. Quite a few times bigger around than her arm, it landed on the table with a dull thud. Examining it briefly, I noticed the label. Gladrags Wizardwear, Ltd.

"This seems tricky to owl or Apparate with... and the Knight Bus doesn’t run on New Year’s Day... let’s see... Ginny, Ron’s second-best Quidditch broom is in the closet. You know you’ll have to levitate and steer, since Angelina can’t... anyway, Ange, you’ll have enough to do holding that package. Of course, from my rose garden it’s an easy ride along the Dippet Pass to the Dumbledore Flyway... and Ginny, mind you aren’t stopped for speeding, because I’m not paying to get that broom out of limbo again."

"Oh, shut up, Hermione. Just because I like to live on the edge and you fly like someone’s grandmother doesn’t mean you should be jealous of my ability to handle myself in the air."

"Me? Jealous of the time you were the cause behind a six-broomstick pile-up the year you returned from your internship in Paris? I’d never seen Ron turn every single color of the rainbow before... you’d better be glad Harry intervened on your behalf, because I really thought your brother was going to have your hide that time."

I swallowed. "I hate to bring all your detailed plans to a screeching halt because of my complete and utter cluelessness, Hermione, but... what is the MMRI?"

"You’ll see," she said with a little grin. "I’m sure Simon will be glad to tell you all about it. Oh, yes, I almost forgot... while Simon’s talking her ear off, Gin, be a love and take this note..." it simply appeared in her hand out of thin air, "...to Malfoy. It simply contains some information he needs for our next meeting. All you have to do is drop it off. Unless you have other reasons for visiting."

Ginny blushed scarlet. "Oh, no! Of course I don’t... why would I?"

A rather wicked smile spread over Hermione’s pretty features. "Just be sure to rescue Angelina from Simon eventually, all right? Of course, I could always owl it after Circe returns from the Burrow... I’ll be sending her to let the Weasleys know they can rest easy about my attending their little press party. I’ll also let them know I’ve sent you two on an errand. So what say you, Gin? Not up to Malfoy’s acid tongue today?"

And here I thought Ginny couldn’t get any redder.

"Erm…um…tongue, you say? Er... ah, no... no, that’s fine. I’ll take it," she stammered, taking the sealed note from Hermione and tucking it inside her cloak. "You said there were a couple of catches... what’s the other?"

"Ah, you’ll really like this one. I need you to put together a look for me that’s out of this world. If I’m to convince the wizarding world that hell indeed hath no fury like a woman who is far from scorned, I might as well take a page from your book and look devastating."

It was now official. As of that moment, Hermione Granger-Weasley was my heroine.

*************

One of the first things that Draco Malfoy did when he made his first million Galleons after the war was to bludgeon the Ministry’s Department of Public Works into building an aerial broomstick "flyway" network (ABFN) that would criss-cross the British Isles. Since hundreds upon hundreds of Sponge survivors of VW2 had lost the ability to Apparate, the newly constructed ABFN performed an essential function. Just like Muggles commute via motor vehicles on earth-hugging roads, the ABFN is an elaborate series of tunnels and air pockets that witches and wizards use in a similar fashion.

The tunnels are invisible to all human eyes, but witches and wizards can easily sense that they’re there. We see a stream of broomstick traffic all around us while we’re airborne, but we see everything beneath us as well. In other words, we can see the people on the ground, but they can’t see us, whether Muggle or wizard. I’ve never been on a Muggle airplane, but George has, and he claims that the effect is similar. I’m sure broomstick riding is much more fun, though.

Although my Sponge injury prevents me from flying on my own, I’ve been on the aerial broomstick flyway network many times. Fred uses any excuse to take me up, and so does Alicia. They both fly like bats out of hell, so Ginny’s speed didn’t bother me in the slightest. My Malinda is chomping at the bit for her own broom, but her father says she’ll have to wait until she’s eight or nine. Now, the Ministry’s official legal age for broomstick riding on the ABFN is eleven years old, but what’s a few years to Fred Weasley, more or less?

She promises she’ll fly her Mummy anywhere she wants to go, and I have no doubt that she will.

Ginny was an excellent flier, and I complimented her as she weaved in and out of traffic to the tune of "Watch it, lady!" and "Hey!"

"Then don’t fly like a bloody tortoise!" Ginny would shout back over her shoulder. When she turned back around, she always had to veer slightly to prevent a collision with the broomstick directly ahead of her.

"Where did you learn to fly like this?" I asked her, feeling invigorated from the rush of cold fresh air and sunshine. "I’m surprised we missed you for Quidditch."

"I didn’t get this good till much later on," she said, pulling up to avoid a family teetering along on an ancient Bluebottle Tandem. "My brothers are all excellent at it, as I’m sure you know, but being the only girl Mum and Dad didn’t like me careening into the side of the house as a kid very much... I suppose they felt as if the boys were expendable, but I wasn’t. After I finished my internship at Gladrags of Paris seven years ago, during the time that Harry and I were together he took me up here a lot. He’s undoubtedly the best with a broomstick on the planet... he taught me everything I know about flying."

I clutched the bulky package tightly, shaking my head. "Yes, I’m sure he did, dear... look out!"

Within minutes, we were approaching the Docklands. Here, the Dumbledore Highway whipped around the Canary Wharf tower in a spiral roundabout, and Ginny whipped along with it, traveling well above the posted speed limit of 150 m.p.h. Then with a nifty dip, she quickly loop-de-looped (yes, they’re illegal on the ABFN) onto Malfosoft Pass.

The Muggle-side of Malfosoft operations are contained in the eight-year old Narcissus Tower, located on the edge of the business district that was formerly wetlands. The end of the Malfosoft mall is an Invisible air pocket station that is located next to the radio tower on the roof. Inside, it is all new-smelling plush and glistening green plate glass... the ceiling of the entire top floor of the Narcissus Tower is made of the same emerald glass, as are all of the windowed walls.

Ginny and I stepped to the far right edge of the portal, and she bent down to tap the glass under our feet lightly with her wand. It dissolved rather like melting, evaporating ice, and we were both sucked into a gentle vacuum. Like cats landing on padded feet, before we knew it we were in an octagonal room in the center of the top floor. The room only contained a broom dock that always reminded me of a green beehive, and eight doors. From here, we could either access the Docklands via the Muggle areas of the Narcissus Tower or enter the Emerald City.

What the Muggle Docklands are to the City, our Emerald City is to Diagon Alley. The story of how it was conceived and built is fascinating and epic in scale... and it begins and ends with Draco Malfoy. At the close of VW2, Draco was wanted for war crimes against humanity by the International Confederation of Wizards. It was a huge misunderstanding... they actually wanted Lucius, who’d gone into hiding somewhere in Faerie... but at the time there had been so much outrage over Death Eater atrocities such as the Sponge that everyone wanted Malfoy blood spilled. Whether that blood was innocent or guilty didn’t matter to most, and it was rude to suggest otherwise in decent company.

Draco turned himself in. Many spoke on his behalf, testifying that he’d been an invaluable mole in the Death Eater operations, risking his life. Nevertheless, he was sentenced to Azkaban without a trial. That was definitely the most unfair miscarriage of justice in magical history since the Sirius Black debacle nearly twenty years before.

En route to Azkaban, somehow Draco managed to escape and evade capture. He ended up hiding amongst Muggles, and eventually ended up in Washington State where he befriended Muggle technology mogul Bill Gates. Apparently Draco’s inbred disrespect of Muggle genius ended then and there. Over the next eight months, he worked in many different capacities in the Microsoft organization... it is said that Bill Gates was floored by his young friend’s mental prowess. As he bided his time, he came up with his own plans to recover the family fortune that had been confiscated by the Confederation. If his name was ever cleared, he would follow in the footsteps of his mentor and become the most influential wizard in the world.

Meanwhile, Ron and Hermione had been sending a deluge of owls to wherever Harry had got himself off to. Much as the famous couple disliked Malfoy’s style, they both knew that he’d done something extremely important (no one besides them and Harry ever knew what) to help them in the tense days before the Final Battle. For an entire week, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had gone missing... and according to folk legend, only Draco knew exactly where they had gone. When the three of them returned, they had a pack of notorious Death Eaters with them screaming for mercy and sanctuary... and the half-dissolved carcass of the torture artist formerly known as Tom Marvolo Riddle. Ron and Hermione insisted to the entire world that they couldn’t have gotten to Voldemort without Draco’s help... but everyone believed that they were once again being heroic and selfless.

It took Harry Potter himself to speak on Draco’s behalf in order to obtain a Confederation pardon for the Malfoy in hiding. It was Harry’s first public appearance since Hogwarts graduation. The photograph of Harry Potter shaking hands with Draco Malfoy ended up on the front page of every wizarding publication in the known universe, and in most current History of Magic textbooks the event marks the beginning of the Pax Dumbledorica--the current era. While it didn’t make them the best of friends, it did mean that Draco was free to commence his financial conquest of the wizarding world. Harry went back to whatever hole he’d stashed himself in, licking his emotional and spiritual wounds in peace.

Anyway, besides working alongside Bill Gates, according to Draco’s official biography The Wizard Behind the Screen the other fond memory he had of his time spent in hiding was of immersing himself in the non-magic idea of magic, known to Muggles as "fantasy and fairy tales". He would munch on carrot sticks in the cafeteria on the Microsoft campus, patrician nose stuck in classics such as Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass and Peg Kerr’s Emerald House Rising.

Thanks in part to Draco’s biography, it was now common knowledge amongst us that some Muggle woman from England had managed to infiltrate the magical community amidst all the confusion during the war. This woman, one Joanne Kathleen Rowling, had written and published a series of books about Harry and Friends that were sweeping the globe. She was making a tidy pile of change in doing so and had earned worldwide Muggle acclaim. Everyone found this hilariously funny save Harry. Always an extremely private person, he was incensed that some Muggle woman had put her personal spin on his most intimate thoughts. Hermione insisted that the way she was portrayed was quite exaggerated, especially in the first few books... "If I were that much of an insufferable know-it-all, how could anyone stand me?" As for Ron, his official recorded position was, "Blimey, you’d think all I ever did was toss out wisecracks and play chess!"

According to Draco, many of the rest of us were mentioned in spots. Tirzah, who has read them all, tells me that even my name showed up once or twice, usually in close proximity to either Quidditch or Fred, which seems about right. Of course, my husband and his twin were prominently featured for comic relief. Not only did most Muggles believe the novels were pure fiction, the very few who suspected otherwise were merrily searching for Harry, Ron, and Hermione--two full grown men and a grown woman by the time the books began getting really popular--amongst Britain’s gangling adolescents. Of course, there was a bit of a stir when Hermione attended medical school, but she managed to convince the Muggles that her name was a strange coincidence.

"Fascinating," was what Draco told his biographer about this phenomenon. "In many cases, the Muggles have dreamed up features of magic that simply don’t exist. In others, they’ve been far too conservative. Even those blasted Harry Potter novels aren’t completely accurate... I was never that nasty, but I suppose that Rowling woman needed a foil for her perfect, oh-so-heroic Harry... who really isn’t all that perfect and heroic, if you want to know the truth.

"The one thing I do have to say for the Muggles is that they are innovative. We, as a rule, are not. Imagine combining that spirit of innovation with our magical abilities, if you will."

And thus the Emerald City was born. Built on top of an ancient portal, the Octagon Room in the Narcissus Tower transports thousands of magical "suits" to the setting of Draco’s corporate experiment. So far, the all-industrial, all-wizarding metropolis is thriving.

Physically, it is not in England, which is why Apparating there can be a little exhausting. It cannot be accessed directly by broomstick or the Floo Network, either. Some of our Muggle-born friends, such as Dean Thomas, speculate that the city is somewhere in the American state of Kansas, but as none of us could fathom why Draco would break ground in the middle of nowhere, we dismissed that notion as ridiculous and speculated that it was in Washington state, where Bill Gates’ money and influence could aid his protégé in covering up evidence of the supernatural operations.

Ginny and I stepped out of one of the four doors in the Octagon Room and onto the sunlit golden brick streets of the Emerald City. The city is not all emerald by any means, not even predominately. Each corporate headquarters appears to made of a different jewel. For instance, the Frank and Amelia Longbottom Multiplex, where 3W’s five floors of suites are located, is a glistening ruby. The Scott-Card Centre is sapphire, and the LeGuin Office Park is translucent pearl.

Only the Malfosoft edifices are emerald. After one passes through the portal, it is accessible by all the usual magical means. Since Ginny and I had the huge package to contend with on that New Year’s Day, we hopped back on the broom. Ginny had us at our destination in less than twelve winks.

The Malfosoft campus sprawled across many acres at the heart of the Emerald City. At the entrance gates, my wand was checked by one of the few guards working... the young witch merely nodded at Ginny, and greeted her with a warm "Happy New Year, Ms. Weasley!" Then she gave both of us security medallions to wear about our necks that seemed to be made of some sort of green-tinged precious metal, hung with gold velvet ropes.

"Not much else to it," she said. "Usually, we’d provide an escort for you. There’s virtually no one around today. I’m one of the few who had to work the holiday... need a map?"

"No thanks, Michelle. I know where it is," Ginny replied. "Is Mr. Malfoy..."

Michelle nodded again. "Of course, Ms. Weasley." To me she said, "Enjoy your visit."

My sister-in-law navigated the paths of the Malfosoft campus easily. She seemed to know it like the back of her hand. She came to a graceful halt in front of a shining five-story rectangular building with a curious dome on the roof. We landed in the golden-paved courtyard. On the lawn to the right (it never snows or rains in the Emerald City), the letters MMRI were spelled out in ten-foot blocks. I still had no idea what the acronym meant.

The minute our feet touched ground, a handsome blond mediwizard who really seemed a bit too young to be fully credentialed rushed out of the building to greet us. His open lab coat fluttered behind him like a cape over regulation Malfosoft robes. He rushed over and literally snatched the package from my hands before turning to Ginny and giving her an appraising glance. From what I gathered, she wasn’t found lacking.

"Crikey, you’ve brought the goods! I could kiss you right now, Ginny..."

"But you won’t," she said, laughing but firm. "You’re cute enough to snog, that’s for sure, but I think you like your job and your life a bit too much to risk losing both. Angelina, this is Dr. Simon Branford... Simon, have you met my sister-in-law Angelina? She’s married to my brother Fred."

"Oh, yes, I’ve met your husband on several occasions," said Simon, warming to me considerably now that I’d been placed in his mind. "I take it this is your first time to the MMRI, Malfosoft, and the Emerald City?"

"The Emerald City, no... after all, my husband’s company is down the street. Malfosoft, yes because I’ve never had a reason to visit. And I have no idea what the acronym stands for."

Simon dismissed me with a shrug. "Why, it’s the Malfosoft Mediwizarding Research Institute. First institution of its kind in the entire world. The brainchild of that great lady, Dr. Hermione Granger-Weasley." He paused for a moment as if his words had been some sort of a benediction, and the very mention of Hermione’s name deserved a moment of reverential silence. "Would you like the grand tour?"

Just as Hermione had predicted! Before I could say anything, Ginny had docked the broom and was asking Simon about Draco’s whereabouts.

"Well, actually I do think that Mr. Malfoy is in his MMRI office upstairs, not at headquarters. He’s been spending a lot of time working on the Danae Project with Dr. Granger-Weasley," he said, emphasizing the last bit of that statement and watching carefully for Ginny’s reaction.

"Oh, I knew that already," she said, pecking Simon on the cheek. He flushed. "See you in a little while, Angelina."

Simon and I both watched her hasten to the front door of the MMRI. She ran her wand in and out of the security slot three times and was instantly allowed access. I was torn between amusement and being extremely puzzled. Simon seemed torn between wanting to wail and wanting to chase her. Then, resigned, he turned back to me.

"Well, let’s see. Where was I? Oh, yes... the MMRI grand tour! Well, as you can tell from that cornerstone, the Malfosoft Mediwizard Research Institute opened its doors in August 2008 thanks to the financial might of our formidable chairman, Mr. Malfoy and of course, the brainpower of our first lady Dr. Granger-Weasley..."

**************

"...and last but not least, we come to Dr. Granger-Weasley’s office. It was furnished to her specifications, as that great lady spends much of her time here. It isn’t enough that she’s an angel of life in several London-area Muggle hospitals, or that the Granger-Longbottom Clinic treats thousands upon thousands of ailing witches and wizards a month. Oh, no! She chooses to fight disease and death and chronic conditions at their most elemental level... a saint among women, she is..."

He paused for about the hundredth time in the three hours we’d spent on the tour. Once again, I had to bite my lower lip to stop myself from chuckling. It was becoming a bit swollen and irritated, so I welcomed his next words.

"Well, I must be off to check on a procedure that I’m sure has bubbled over by now. Dr. Granger-Weasley has instructed me to have you leave her a little note, telling her what you think of the MMRI. She also gave me strict orders to have you make yourself at home... there’s a number of cold drinks in that small fridge, and of course the leather sofa is ideal for relaxing... the cushions are charmed ever so nicely. I do hope you’ve enjoyed your visit, and the minute Ginny shows up at the door of my lab, I’ll let her know you’re in here."

I smiled. "Thanks ever so much, Simon. Happy New Year."

The minute he closed the door, my eyes darted about furiously. So this was the scene of the crime! If Hermione had been having a torrid affair with Draco, working long hours in a secluded Emerald City building was the perfect setting. No one would suspect a thing. Hermione wasn’t the type of witch to cheat on her wizard, but if she really believed that Ron had been chronically unfaithful to her... perhaps perfect Hermione had indeed schemed and dreamed up a bulletproof cover for indiscretions of her own.

I looked for evidence of any hanky-panky. Candles. Underwear, clean and otherwise. Contraceptive Spellbooks. Condoms of any variety, which were one of the few Muggle items that the younger generation of magical adults regularly stocked. Popular intimate toys such as the 3W Witches’ Pacifier (don’t ask) and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavored Beads (same company, very different function).

But the most risqué thing I found in the entire office was a Pandora’s Box catalog. This could have been incriminating... Pandora Parselmouth has made a handsome living by convincing witches (and a few wizards) to shell out dozens of Galleons and hundreds of Sickles for scraps of silk and lace that she passes off as lingerie and lotions liberally laced with various mystical aphrodisiacs. I know some of my hard-earned gold has ended up in that woman’s vault.

The only problem was that the catalog was completely unmarked. Perhaps even unopened. Drat. Couldn’t use it as evidence, then.

Thoroughly chastised, I sat behind Hermione’s desk, using Malfosoft letterhead and Hermione’s own parrot feather quill to let my sister-in-law know that I was impressed with the MMRI. I wrote that I was very surprised to even learn of its existence, that Simon Branford had been a most gracious host and tour guide, and that all of the experiments going on were fascinating. I asked her if she was prepared to deal with the wrath of Winston Higginbotham, Sr. when her cure for the common cold rendered Daytime Draught for Colds and Sinuses obsolete.

"Of all the wonders I’ve seen here, Hermione, I do have to ask one question: What exactly is the Danae Project? Simon wouldn’t even take me into the wing where it was housed. Why was Simon being so secretive about it? Is it something dangerous? I’m sure you know by now that I was born curious. If I’m overstepping, please say so. Also, you be sure to let me know if you need me or Fred for anything. I do mean that."

Finished, I blew the letter dry, and slipped it into her in-tray. Wondering where Ginny had got herself off to, I paused for a moment in the chair. Exhaustion washed over me in great waves. Extracting my wand from my robes, I retrieved a cool drink of pumpkin juice from Hermione’s cold box in the corner.

As I sipped, my eyes fell upon the pictures framed in bronze and wood on the desk. There were only three. In the first, Ron and Hermione were dressed in all their wedding finery. I fell into a half-dreaming state once again, remembering the Midsummer’s Eve when my brother-in-law and his wife proved to everyone in our world that love is all that really matters... that love is, indeed, all there is.

The attendants flanked the outer aisles. I was fortunate enough to have the spot closest to the gazebo. In the background, the lake shimmered. On that day, all the world was green and speckled with color. Even the sun seemed to smile upon the glad procession.

I never found out where the music came from. For all of a sudden it filled our ears, and its otherworldly sound pierced my soul and brought tears to my eyes. They were the first of many that were to fall that day... Fred, who was ushering, sent his handkerchief over to me with a grin, knowing that it would be sopping wet by the time he got it back.

First, a weeping Dr. Caroline Granger was escorted to the front flanked by Bill and Charlie, since Hermione was her only child and her husband was with Hermione. They were closely followed by Molly and Arthur. Arthur and Charlie seemed extremely pleased with the world just then, but Bill’s eyes darted about in search of his estranged wife Fleur. Like me and Caroline, Molly was clutching her husband’s handkerchief... but then, she’d cried at all of her boys’ weddings. It turned out that I hadn’t seen anything yet. Though she’d taken all of her daughters-in-law to heart, Hermione Granger was special to the Weasleys. They... well, we... were all thrilled to welcome her into the family.

Then Lucy Goosey, newly appointed Minister of Magic, floated down the aisle in her robes of state. A lump formed in several hundred throats, including mine. Wishing that Dumbledore were here officiating couldn’t undo the death of that great man... he never lived to see the Armistice, the Pax Dumbledorica, or the triumph of his three most prized students. Surely somewhere in the afterlife, he was pausing in the midst of his next Great Adventure and looking down upon this gathering, eyes twinkling as in days of yore, glad for the happiness of "Mr. Weasley" and "Miss Granger".

Ron, resplendent in regal ivory dress robes with accents of scarlet and purple, then walked up the right outer aisle, closely followed by Harry who was dressed in only slightly less elaborate ivory robes that matched those of the escorts. When they walked past where Fred and I were standing, he nudged his younger brother, then clapped him on the back.

Next, Neville and Susan, who’d been conspicuously late, came stepping up the aisle. They seemed a bit out of breath and red-faced. Fred sent both George and I a look that described in detail what they were most likely doing that had prevented their prompt arrival. Through my tears, I had to stifle a laugh. Trust Fred for that.

After them came pretty Parvati, dark hair twisted into a regal coronet and held in place with pearl pins underneath her wimple. Dean escorted her arm-in-arm, beaming... at the time they’d just begun to date, and were consumed with one another. They were soon followed by Dean’s best friend Seamus Finnegan, and his lovely wife, the former Lavender Brown, whose fair coloring was best suited for the soft pastel shades that Hermione had chosen for her bridesmaids... she was in rose pink, brunette Susan was in soft yellow, and dark Parvati was in baby blue.

Ginny made the most of her solo march, a vision in apple green. A couple of dozen heads turned in Harry’s direction... their amicable breakup had somehow been deemed newsworthy, and there were some who were wondering how permanent this state of affairs was. Harry did smile at her, and the society reporters who’d somehow wormed their way into the private ceremony rubbed their hands together in glee.

Out of what seemed like nowhere, a pristine white, marble walkway appeared down the grassy center aisle. All of the witches and wizards present knew that either Lucy Goosey or Harry had something to do with this. The few Muggles present thought it was a trick... goodness knew how Hermione got permission from the Ministry to have any of her non-magical friends at her wedding. Then again, the fact that she was Hermione Granger seemed to open many doors for her that weren’t accessible to the rest of us. I supposed that there would be selective Memory Charms dispensed sometime during the reception.

Onto the marble walkway stepped little Percy Weasley, Junior, carrying the ring pillow with a sense of inflated importance. Maggie Weasley, Percy’s oldest daughter, followed her older brother, a cloud of flowers about a foot above her head, using what appeared to be some sort of fan to waft the petals over the walkway and onto the guests closest to the aisle.

The minute she reached the gazebo, everyone stood up. Cameras flashed. People gasped. I couldn’t see much from my vantage point. I didn’t need to... I’d been in the dressing room when the butterfly had emerged from her chrysalis.

Ron’s face provided an uncanny mirror of the guests’ reaction, of course magnified several hundred times. He appeared rather dumbfounded at first. Then I suppose she smiled at him, for he began to grin like a Cheshire cat. Could it be... were there tears falling down his cheeks? When Hermione finally reached the gazebo, and he held out his hand to her, she confirmed my suspicions by handing Ginny her bouquet, then reaching out and drying them with her fingers. He had to do the same for her, lifting her filmy veil and touching both sides of her face before they joined hands again.

"Dearly beloved," Lucy said, voice magnified via Sonorus Charm, "we are gathered here today in the presence of this great company of witnesses to celebrate the union of this man, Ronald Arthur Weasley, and this woman, Hermione Anne Granger..."

To describe the rest of the ceremony in mere words simply wasn’t possible. I’d soaked Fred’s handkerchief before they were half done. The part that everyone talked about for weeks... of the ceremony, at least... was when they recited their deathless vows to one another.

Hermione was first. Looking into Ron’s eyes, she said words that would be copied by bridal witches for years.

"Ron. My friend, my love, my hero... my prince. Loving you is my heart’s joy. It teaches me to be faithful to my personal truths. As I stand here with you on this day, I offer you the very heart of me, filled with pure love. Unconditional. Everlasting. For love bears all things, endures all things, and believes all things. My love for you will never fail... and oh, how I love you, Ron. Mind, body, and soul, I am yours now and for always."

No one would ever forget his response to her.

"Hermione, you are my darling, my sweet, my love... the woman whom I cherish above all others. As I stand here with you on this day, know that there is nothing greater than love. My faith in you and my belief in what we have together makes my life worth living. As I gaze upon your angelic face at this very moment, I am made whole. For a woman’s virtue and her heart are a man’s greatest glory. From this day forth, I promise to honor you, cherish you, and adore you with all that is within me. Know now and forever that I will always love you, my Hermione."

Oh, there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Women were openly weeping. Men were stoically choking back sobs. Even Fred and George, though they denied it ever afterwards, were caught conspicuously dabbing at their eyes with the sleeves of their robes.

The rest of the ceremony went smoothly. The rings. The promises. The lit candles. A few incantations that were obscure enough to pass muster as part of an anachronistic wedding, since there were Muggles present. And then...

"By the powers invested in me by the Crown, the Ministry, and all the faith, hope, and love that has ever consecrated the universe since time immemorial, I now pronounce you..."

She didn’t get a chance to finish. Ron and Hermione were already kissing.

Harry and Ginny led the applause, which was thunderous. Everyone rose to their feet. This time, I saw Harry's nod, and a flock of doves began to circle the procession.

Then all of a sudden... several people’s heads were splattered upon, including mine.

"Fred! George!" Molly Weasley roared, as women used their significant others’ tear-wet handkerchiefs to wipe at the bird droppings.

"It wasn’t us!" Fred shouted back. "It must have been Peeves... how did he get out of the castle?"

"Blame the Bloody Baron, not us, Mum," George agreed.

Ron and Hermione, who’d been protected from the shower by the gazebo, thought it was a great joke. They used it as an opportunity to steal several more kisses.

Removing my pooped-up headgear, I laughed too. I always did hate wimples.

The sounding of a Muggle alarm clock snapped me out of my reminiscing just before I got to the best part of that wedding--the reception that no one ever forgot.

According to the timepiece in Hermione’s MMRI office, it was now six o’ clock, 1 January 2009... that meant I hadn’t seen the inside of my eyelids for five minutes on end for over thirty-six hours. When I finally did crash, it would be with a vengeance. The Prophet wouldn’t see me again until the third at the earliest.

The second picture on Hermione’s desk made me grin despite my sleepless state. In it, she was in between Ron and Harry, arm-in-arm with both of them. Harry was dressed in scarlet Quidditch robes, and his two best friends were in regular Hogwarts uniform. All three were no more than thirteen or fourteen, grinning and looking inordinately pleased with themselves.

There was a date in small numbers on the lower left-hand corner. 1994. From the looks of it, this picture had been taken around the time that we won the Quidditch Cup. No wonder they were so happy... I remembered it all well. Oliver had sobbed like a newborn infant and clutching the Cup... I do believe he slept with it for a week afterward. The twins hoisting Harry on their shoulders was another grin-inducing mental image. Harry was such a pip-squeak back then... he’s taller than both twins now. Katie and Alicia and I had alternated between screaming "We’ve won the Cup!" and throwing nasty looks Marcus Flint’s way.

I was sure that Hermione had accrued many pictures of herself, Ron, and Harry together over the years. I wondered what special significance that particular one had for her.

The final picture was rather strange to me. It was of a young Draco, obviously pre-Hogwarts. At the time that the picture was taken, he probably couldn’t even spell his name. He was playing with a number of blocks by levitating them, and was sitting in the lap of a elegantly attired lady. From her blonde good looks, I guessed that she was Narcissa Malfoy, whom no one had seen hide nor hair of since well before the war ended. All assumed that she’d gone into hiding with her husband, but when Lucius’ body turned up a couple of months before Draco’s pardon was obtained, hers wasn’t found along with it.

What did Draco’s mum mean to Hermione? The Malfoys had been virulent and notorious Muggle and Mudblood haters. Lucius Malfoy had financed and personally designed the Sponge upon orders from the Dark Lord himself. Why would Hermione have his wife’s photograph anywhere in her office?

Even though my curiosity was piqued, my body was beyond caring. I was rapidly beginning to shut down. I needed to get home soon. I could only hope that Fred had managed to finish whatever he was doing and get some rest. Maybe he’d even feed Malinda and put her to bed... knowing him, I doubted it. Most likely, he’d invent some new game to entertain them both, which meant that I’d have to morph into Mean Mummy when I arrived home.

Debating on whether or not to place a Sleeping Charm on my eternally restless child whenever I finally arrived back in Hertfordshire, I flicked off the lights with a quickly muttered Nox, and left Hermione’s office.

**************

From my tour earlier, I’d come to the conclusion that the MMRI was designed with the same shifting components as many other magical buildings, such as Hogwarts and the Ministry Headquarters. As I was unfamiliar with the premises, I could only hope that either I would find what I was looking for, or someone who knew the place would eventually stumble upon me. The ceiling, floor, and walls of the floor I was on was made of dark green marble. Light emanated from some mysterious source, and there were cedar doors with golden knobs all around.

After fifteen minutes, it became obvious that when Michelle had claimed there was only a skeleton staff working, she meant it. In any other high-security facility, I would have been stopped and questioned by now. Even 3W’s concept engineering suites right down the yellow brick road had better surveillance than this.

That’s when I began checking doors. All of them were locked, and what the knobs did to me when I tried to turn them was quite unpleasant. After nursing my third second-degree burn with annoyingly detailed first aid magic and unsuccessfully attempting to use several spells to blast the door open, I began to despair. The walls were of course Soundproofed... the doors were shut tighter than Percy’s arse... there didn’t seem to be any staircase or elevator or way off this floor. I tried to Apparate... not only did that not work, I received a painful jolt for my trouble. Even if I had been able to fly, it wouldn’t have helped me out of the situation.

Angrily, I flung myself against the wall... and the security medallion I was wearing grazed the marble. Only it didn’t exactly graze it... it went through.

Immediately, I slipped the medal from my neck and began to bang the wall with it. Nothing happened. Then I came up with the bright idea of using the medallion to open the doorknob to Hermione’s office. It melted.

Making a mental note to inflict severe physical pain upon my young sister-in-law when next I saw her, I sat down on the floor right outside Hermione’s office. Hard. Pulling out my wand, I looked at it. Think, Angelina, think!

My eyes caught the light. Again. Perhaps, if I somehow got up to the top of the corridor... but how? I couldn’t fly, and neither could I levitate...

Actually... I could. If I could save my Grandmother Lavinia’s best china from my husband’s playful hands, surely I could save myself.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" I cried, concentrating with all of my will. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Soon, I was at the top of the corridor. And the light was coming from the outside! This was the top floor of the MMRI...the ceiling wasn’t attached... it floated!

There was just enough room to squeeze myself out between the two feet of space between ceiling and floor. Dead certain there was some sort of security measure in the field that held the building together, I stuck my newly Hermione-encoded wand into the space... and was sucked through the shaft onto the domed roof.

*********

I wasn’t extremely interested in the dome at first. Walking to the very edge of the roof, I stuck my hand out—and was again badly burned. Everything I knew from my thirty-one years of being a witch instinctively told me that passing my entire body through that invisible fire field was not a good idea.

So I decided to explore the dome. It was made entirely of emerald glass, and upon first glance it seemed to be filled with rather plain-looking ferns. A greenhouse, I decided. The corporate version of Madame Sprout’s domain. I was rather surprised to see that its single, oval door was open... and even more surprised to hear what sounded for all the world like faint giggles.

I stepped into the dome... and into paradise.

The outside view was evidently a false one. Inside, the roof garden park was utterly dazzling. A veritable tropical paradise. Flowers, the like of which I hadn’t seen since my last trip to the Caribbean, nodded gently in the perfumed breeze. Their scent made me heady. Longing for the summers of my childhood, spent on my parents’ native island, I inhaled deeply. Tropical fowl from parrots to quetzals to tiny hummingbirds flittered from tree branch to tree branch, singing sweetly.

And there were butterflies. They fluttered around me, forming a spiral that made me laugh. One landed on the tip of my nose, and I let it linger for a moment before I brushed it away with gentle fingers.

I was just going to step back onto the roof when I heard the aforementioned giggles again, coming faintly over the splashing of a waterfall. Wondering if Draco perhaps kept a naiad or two up here for "gentleman’s sport", I moved closer to the source.

When I arrived at a hedge of roses just beyond the waterfall, and peeked, I had to divert my eyes. Obviously, I had been on the verge of interrupting something important.

Before I turned away, however, I’d caught a glimpse of brilliant red hair.

"I’ll never understand you, Draco. You just finished putting my clothes back on, and now you’re busily trying to remove them again!"

Inwardly, I sighed. My jaw had dropped open so many times during that week that I was sure it would soon lock in that position.

"If you must know, my dear, I’m timing myself. So far, my fastest estimated time for manual disrobing of you is three seconds... that was when we spent those five days on safari in equatorial Africa, and I had to watch for lions and wildebeest. Now that I can work at a more leisurely pace..." here he trailed off for a moment and she giggled, "I’m simply attempting to break my own world record."

She giggled again. "Surely you’re far too busy for this."

"Actually, I was otherwise occupied until you walked in my office all those hours ago demanding an encore of our... how shall I put this?... danse nue pour deux last night. I thought I’d satisfied Miss Insatiable quite well this morning. When will you ever have enough of me?"

"Never," she said, punctuating the word with a low, heady moan.

"Greedy, aren’t we?" After a few more moments, he added in a husky voice, "I always thought phenomenal breakup sex was a one-shot deal. Will wonders never cease?"

"Good question. My answer would be ‘no’. Let me show you exactly what I mean..."

"Mmm. Indeed, sweetheart. I’m more than up for another round of show-and-tell."

Obviously, the trysting pair were oblivious to everything in the world save each other. Nothing on earth was going to make me intrude just then. It didn’t bother me a great deal that Draco had made my youngest sister-in-law utterly forget about my existence... they’d after all dated for five tumultuous years before calling it quits last June. I didn’t begrudge her the steamy office sex session, either. Goodness knows I’ve been there and done that.

Of course, I didn’t have anyone waiting on me any of those times, and certainly not a woman who hadn’t slept in almost two days, but emergencies do occur. Perfectly understandable.

So I prepared myself a pallet right outside the dome’s glass door, using my voluminous crimson wool cloak as a cover. The Heating Charm I used on Malinda’s blankets was definitely in order. It wasn’t until I inserted myself into this makeshift cocoon that I had to contend with the ruby robes I’d worn to the Snitch. Having had not even the sparest second to change, I still had them on.

I promised myself that when I finally did take the blasted things off, I’d burn them.

************

Did I sleep at all? Did I dream? I never knew. It felt as if I’d just dozed off when something began poking me in the side, prodding me awake.

"She’s up here! I’ve found her!"

Those were Simon Branford’s shouts. Sitting up groggily, I heard shuffling footsteps and men’s voices. When I removed my fists from my sleep-filled eyes, there was a small crowd gathered around me. George, Ron, and Harry stood in a loose half-circle. Fred, with Malinda on his shoulders, arrived through the top floor shaft a moment later.

"There’s Mummy, little one! See, I told you we’d find her."

My daughter ran over to me. Her usually merry hazel eyes were unusually bright, and as she leaped on to my lap, I noticed there were white streaks on her face. Tearstains... I hastily rubbed them away, feeling guilty about being the cause of my child’s consternation.

"Oh, Mummy, where were you? All the camera people were there... I saw Tirzah and Colin and everybody... and you weren’t there."

"I wasn’t where, darling?" I wondered if persons who’d been under a Memory Charm felt as stupid as I did at that moment.

"At the press conference, Angelina!" Fred shouted. "Hermione told us that she’d sent you two here, but hadn’t the foggiest notion why it would have taken you so long to deliver a single package!"

"Don’t be ridiculous, Fred, and while you’re at it, stop bellowing at me. Of course we missed the press conference... we were never supposed to go in the first place. However, it’s only a little after six, Greenwich Muggle time, right now..."

George thrust his watch out at me. "Er, Angelina? I think you had better get a new watch. Or leave the Muggle timepieces alone entirely."

When I saw the time, I was fully awake. "It’s almost half past nine? Where did the time go? It was just six!"

"I’m sure it was... three hours ago," Ron said grimly. "You know, it’s getting a bit tiresome, running all over the damn British Isles trying to locate the women in this family. This is what I want to know. Why are you camping out on the roof, and where is Ginny?"

I shrugged. With any luck, she’d gone home or to Draco’s... although she was in for a piece of my mind for stepping over me on her way out. "Well, now you can concentrate your efforts on finding her. Help me up, someone... the only thing I want to concentrate on right now is my bed."

George took Malinda, and Fred lifted me up. The minute I felt his arms about me, a piercing scream sounded from the depths of the domed garden. It sounded a bit like a woman, but "banshee" was perhaps a more accurate term. The only problem with this scenario was that I was the only woman in the vicinity. And never in my life had I produced such a sound.

Before I could think of a good cover for my stupid sister-in-law, Ron, Harry and Simon immediately raced into the dome... and soon then there was a very different kind of screaming. Loud snarling from someone... probably Draco. Then there was a spectacular blast, followed by a huge splash.

Harry immediately shouted for Fred and George. George tossed Malinda to me and ran into the dome as well... the light inside of it was rapidly changing colors and sparks were shooting onto the roof. Tersely, Fred ordered me to take Malinda and go home.

"How on earth am I supposed to get home from here, Fred Weasley? I can’t fly, and if you think that I’m going to walk from here to the Octagon Room portal, then take a Muggle taxi home when I don’t have a pound on me, you’ve got another think coming!"

Malinda was tugging on her father’s sleeve. "Dad, is that Aunt Ginny in there? What’s wrong with her? Is she going to be all right?"

He didn’t answer her. Instead he said to me, "Harry can send you both back. And when he does, stay there. I’ll be home in a tick." He kissed both of us, then disappeared inside the dome as well.

Almost immediately, Harry raced back out of the dome, pulling his wand from the depths of his robes and issuing hasty instructions.

"This will make you dizzy, but in fifteen to twenty seconds at the most you’ll be at your front door. Just relax, enjoy the ride, and whatever you do, keep your arms in."

Why did Harry Potter always speak in code? "What on earth, Harry?"

"Harry, get your lanky arse back in here before Ron kills the slimy prat!" That was either Fred or George. For once, I couldn’t tell which.

Quickly, Harry muttered something under his breath and traced a spiral in the air with his wand. The golden spiral became a glowing golden globe. It grew until within a few seconds it was over six feet in diameter. With another flick of his wrist, the globe sucked us both in.

"Don’t forget to keep your arms in!" Harry shouted again. Just before he disappeared back into the dome, his wand flicked toward us a final time...

Malinda vocalized the sensation we both felt. "Whoa... whoa... whoa!" she screamed, instinctively starting to flail.

"Stop that, Malinda Weasley!" I ordered, catching her little hand just before it slipped outside of the bubble. Outside of the light globe, buildings flew by seemingly at the speed of light.

In less than thirty seconds, we were standing on our front doorstep. Not a trace of the strange golden light could be seen. I only could pray that none of the neighbors had seen "those strange Weasleys" just up and pop out of thin air. I liked my home and really didn’t fancy moving.

For once, I was a dutiful, obedient wife. I’d had more than enough. Praying that all in that dome actually lived to fight another day, I made a quick dinner of cold turkey sandwiches for us both, scrubbed Malinda until her mocha skin was squeaky clean, and got her ready for bed. She was a little frightened--children always know when something is wrong--and insisted on sleeping in her father’s place. I welcomed her being there, and soon her tiny, warm body was snuggled against mine in repose.

Just before I drifted off to sleep, I made myself a promise.

If I ever again had a two-day stretch like the one I’d just lived through, my husband’s sister and brothers and their significant others could clean up their messes without my help.

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