Paradise Lost: Chapter Four

Paradise Lost

Chapter Four—What the Body Remembers

...this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

--e.e. cummings

Thursday, September 20, 2012.

Morning, Ayr Island.

The man known as Harry Potter awoke slowly, feeling more than a bit disoriented. This might have been due to the fact that his initial fumblings revealed that his glasses were no longer on his nightstand. It also might have been due to the fact that he had a splitting headache…

I can’t be hung over, I have to teach a ten o’ clock class today. How much did I have to drink last night, anyhow?

Too much, his head seemed to tell him. He sat up slowly. Diana had opened up the shutters as per usual, and the early morning sunlight hit his near-sighted eyes, rendering him momentarily blind.

"Ow!" he mumbled. His mouth felt as if he’d swallowed a lot of cotton. He tried to wet his mouth and lips until he realized that he was nearly all dried out. A glass of water was what he needed.

With a snap of his fingers, a bit of pointing, and then a sharp beckon, the glass pitcher on Diana’s dresser at the far side of the bedroom poured a bit of water into one of the glasses. But as he Summoned it back to him, his concentration slipped and the glass shattered into a million tiny pieces on the hardwood floor.

"Oh, bloody hell," he said, annoyed. The noise was the last thing he needed.

Diana came racing into the room, silk robe fluttering behind her, wand drawn with its tip dripping with something that looked a little like uncooked egg. "Oh no, honey, what’s wrong?"

Harry groaned at his clumsiness and her shrill, panicky tone, then moved his outstretched hand upwards. The shards hovered in midair. When he curled his fingers inward and mouthed Reparo, the shards came together in the shape of the glass.

"Honey?" Diana asked again.

"I seem to have missed a spot… do you see that chink near the bottom?"

"Yes… there it is, I think it’s rolled under the bed. I can see it glinting at the edge of the spread… hold on…"

Diana used her wand to move the chip of glass back into position, where it welded back into place. She plucked it from midair and returned it to the pitcher tray, then moved to sit beside him on the bed.

"You look a bit out of it," she said, leaning over to kiss him. "I told you to quit while you were ahead last night… you had a bit too much of that port, didn’t you?"

"It was a fine bottle," Harry replied, pecking her cheek and then drawing back. "Malfoy’s always got great vintage. Only the best."

"I like him," said Diana decidedly. "He’s quite a wizard… handsome and rich and confident. I would say that Virginia’s one lucky witch…"

"Should I be jealous?"

She giggled airily and threw her arms around him. "You’ve got nothing to be jealous of, Harry. Let me finish… I would say that Virginia’s one lucky witch if I didn’t have someone better."

"Ah, I see…" He drew her closer. "I suppose you’ve begun to make up for preaching the gospel of Malfoy to me…"

"I made it up to you last night, silly, or are you still so hung over that you don’t remember?" Diana smiled knowingly. "Mmm. You were absolutely incredible… you haven’t been like that in ages."

Harry yawned, even though the very muscles in his face protested. "Must have been the magic port, you think?"

"Must have been. Perhaps the Malfoys will give us another bottle as a wedding present?" She leaned up to kiss him again. "Then again, I daresay it won’t be needed. Speaking of which, we really need to sit down together one day soon and finalize our guest list. I invited your old friend Hermione yesterday, so along with whatever guest she brings there’s another two I haven’t counted…"

Harry froze for a moment. "You two got a chance to meet, then?"

"Oh, yes. I wish we could have had more of a chat, but there were so many witches there and the tea really was for her. We took to each other right away. I have no idea why some say she can be a little frosty at times, because I didn’t see that at all. She seems like such a nice, kindhearted witch… one who genuinely cares about people."

"She is."

"Strange how birthdays are… she seemed so happy at tea and at the Weasley kids’ birthday bash, and yet by dinnertime she appeared to be… I don’t know… melancholy. And then she became ill and feverish and had to leave early. Did you get to speak with her before she left?"

Suddenly Harry felt very, very uncomfortable. "For a bit, yes."

Diana leaned her golden head against his collarbone and swung her feet up to the bed, spooning her slender frame against his only slightly larger one. "Harry, is there something more about her that you want to tell me?"

"Sorry, what did you have in mind?"

"Well, you were gone from the party for quite a while last night. Hermione was missing during the same stretch of time. I assumed that the two of you were talking, but no one seemed to know where you were. And then when you finally showed back up, you wanted to come home immediately. I confess that I did find it all a bit… unlike you, although I trust you far more than I trust what idle tongues have to say." The last bit came out in a breathless rush.

"What was said?" asked Harry abruptly.

"Harry, don’t worry about it. Some people don’t understand the meaning of platonic friendship…"

"What was said?"

"Well…"

"Go on."

"Apparently many people think that you and Hermione have had a bit of a history. They say it’s common knowledge that she’s the reason why you never married or were very serious about anyone before me."

"Diana, you can’t believe everything you hear." He sighed. "If you have questions about me and Hermione, I’m the person to ask if you want the truth."

She laughed a little to herself. "Are you sure? I mean, I feel so silly asking when at this point in our relationship I should be secure enough to…"

"Ask away."

"Oh. Well, all right." She paused. "Were the two of you ever… well, more than friends?"

"No..." Harry paused. He knew he was telling a half-truth at best, so he corrected himself. "Not technically."

Diana stiffened in his arms. "Technically? What is that supposed to mean? Or do I really want to know? Actually, I think that I just might. Please explain what you mean."

"To tell you that we’ve only ever been just friends would be misleading, Diana. But so would telling you that we were ever more than that."

"Ah, I see. You’ve slept with her."

Silence.

"So you have. While she was married to Ron?"

"No, no! Never then."

"Then when? Ten years ago? Three years ago? Night before last, when you left the Thomases’ house without a word to me?"

Pause. "Immediately before her engagement, and right after they filed for divorce. Never when I was dating someone seriously. And not since I met you."

"Twice. That’s all?"

"Yes."

"Any particular reason why you haven’t mentioned her in this light before? I thought we were way beyond the ‘talk about your past lovers’ phase, Harry.’"

"Well, Hermione never really fit into that category. Both times that we were together she was recovering from something Ron-related, and she turned to me. One thing led to another and… I suppose you could call it friendship with side benefits. It’s not like we went from there headfirst into some mad passionate love affair. Both times it was something we both needed and wanted, and afterwards we went on with our lives…"

"No, Harry. Don’t lie to me or yourself. You did not go on with your life. She left right after the last time you were together, didn’t she? And you nearly went mad. I remember what you were like when I first came to work at DSG. Oh, heavens, that’s it, everything makes perfect sense now…" Diana sat bolt upright. "You were in love with that woman, Harry, and now she’s back and…"

"She isn’t back," said Harry flatly. "She’s off to South America. Apparently she’s got some hotshot job down there. Nothing left in England for her."

"And just how does that make you feel?"

"It doesn’t make me feel like anything, Diana! Why should what she does matter to me? Why did you have to bring this up in the first place?"

"Because you’re supposed to be my husband in a few short months! I can’t believe I could have been so stupid… so blind…" She buried her face in her hands and began to cry. "Maureen was right, so right… she told me not to trust Hermione, not to believe everything everyone always said about her…"

"Maureen? Is that who you’ve been listening to?" Harry pushed the bedclothes from his waist, swung his legs over the bed, and pulled her close. "Diana, Ron’s wife has her own reasons for disliking Hermione. I’m sure you can figure that out for yourself. Don’t let her issues become yours… certainly I will not allow them to become ours."

He let her cry her eyes out, making a mental note to send a strongly worded owl to a certain house in the Liverpool area before the day was done. They sat there for long moments; she with her tears and newborn doubts, he with his headache and gnawing sense of guilt.

And then a pungent smell assaulted their nostrils.

Diana sprang to her feet and raced out of the bedroom. "Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry! I was making breakfast, and then I heard the crash… and I forgot the eggs…"

Guilt has made many a man do strange things. That morning before he was off to work Harry ate burnt eggs and ham without protest. The draught Diana had prepared to alleviate the affects of his hangover was mixed into his coffee... she was far better at Potions than he had ever been, and both of them knew it. It was far from the worst meal he’d ever eaten.

They both had to get to DSG soon… he had that ten o’ clock class, and there was a lunchtime teachers’ meeting right before their respective noon classes. Afterwards there was prep for the next day’s lessons and an evening debriefing down at the Foundation.

"Thanks for being so sweet," he said, kissing the silky spot behind her ear as she kneaded dough for pie crust. She usually prepared their evening meals in the mornings before they headed to the other end of the island, charming them to cook slowly throughout the day so that by the time they arrived home hungry and tired the entire woodcutter’s cottage was filled with good cooking smells.

Yet as he closed the door and headed away from the cottage on the edge of the woods, Harry knew one thing.

He would have traded the aroma of a thousand hearty meals for just the faintest whiff of sweet vanilla and roses once again.

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

From beyond the thick foliage just behind the little cottage in the forest, the shadow-creature watched the Accursed One skulk away towards the morning light of the midland meadows. It bared spiky teeth in a silent hiss of hate. To strike a deathblow towards one of Darkness’ greatest enemies was its uppermost desire.

Nevertheless, the thing knew that it wasn’t yet strong enough. The one who had Summoned it was not yet Grand Inquisitor... all the powers of hell were not yet at the creature’s disposal. Then too, the Accursed One was strong, perhaps one of the most formidable wizards that the Light had ever seen. He’d been protected since long before his birth, and some residual bits of that shield remained long into his adulthood. Otherwise, he would have been dead long ago.

So the shadow-creature could do little more than watch the Accursed go, go on to his infernal monkey training ground where he taught the filth of the earth to do magic tricks that were supposed to keep it and its kind at bay. As if anything devised by the Light could keep the Darkness from enveloping the earth like a foul fog from the depths of Tartarus.

Tartarus. It was the world of the shadow-creature’s birth, and insofar as it was able to feel affection, it held that foul land in its putrid heart. Yet Tartarus hadn’t always been so foul, and neither had its creature.

In the nebulous time before the Golden Age, when immortals walked all the Thousand Worlds yet cherished the newborn emerald and sapphire Earth above all others, when mortals lived for so long that marking Time was much less important, Tartarus had been the fairest of the worlds. It had been known by another name then, and so had the shadow-creature.

Back then Tartarus had been a lovely world of mountains and waterfalls, of babbling brooks and shimmering seas, of talking birch and linden trees, a place that seemed to be forever in the middle of September... even as its sibling world of Avalon seemed to forever recall the month of May. Yet just as Avalon boasted fully laden apple orchards even in the fragrant perfume of spring, in the Tartarus-that-was blossoms floated down from some of the trees and roses bloomed in what seemed to be autumn.

In time, the fairest and most powerful of the Old Ones--magic folk who’d tasted the nectar of the gods via one means or the other and had won immortality--had grown discontent with her sisters and brothers. She no longer wished to be their equal. She wanted to rule both them and the Source from which all magic and everything that was good and just and true came forth. And thus evil came into the world.

With hex and curse and sword and poison, with subterfuge and deceit and treachery, this immortal witch befouled the innocence of the Golden Age. It was only through a magical alliance of the other Old Ones led by the Inanna that she was thwarted at last. The first Alliance enchanted a stone table carved not by human hands so that it turned into purest gold, tapped into the wellspring of the Source, and after many great and mighty battles cast the usurper down and restrained her to home world... what became Tartarus.

It had long been known to both the magical and Muggle worlds that good is contagious. Evil corrupts all that it touches as well. Confined to her home world, denied her ultimate goal of every creature in all the Thousand Worlds paying her homage, the Dark One--as she would be known forevermore, for her original name had been lost among the ages as surely as any intrinsic goodness and purity that she might have had—succeeded in remaking Tartarus in the image of herself.

Since then, she had worked through the minds of other mages, not content with the measure of power and the lifework given to every man, woman and child by the Source, seeking more, wanting more, and then finally lusting after more. Over impossibly wide dimensions of time and space she reached, infecting the hearts of men and women with her poison and making them do unspeakable things...

Until the worm known as Tom Marvolo Riddle--Lord Voldemort, if such a one from such a weak and unenlightened age could ever be called "lord" save in jest--descended upon Tartarus and began liberating the Dark One from her bondage.

If he had only succeeded...

And yet he had not. The Accursed One, strengthened by a new Covenant, had interrupted Voldemort’s most noble work and killed him. He and his companions had also frozen all of Tartarus. The shadow-creature hissed again. Although a decade of Earth years were nothing to it, the fact that three piss-ants could have wielded such power against the Darkness was infuriating.

The last Covenant had not been like those before it. Such were the strange times that Earthlings dwelled in, where men and women were not true to their word and elders were so foolish to bind together a girl with two that loved her. It was a blunder that would cost the Light Tartarus... and now, the shadow-creature’s world was festering with more infernal activity than ever. It had been hell fourteen years before. It was far beyond that now.

So when Sebastian Borgin had flouted his Grand Inquisitor’s authority to summon the shadow-creature to kill what he called "the pigeon", it had immediately gone to the abyss to seek the advice of the Dark One. Only she was its lady, and only upon her words would it obey the summons.

"Go, my pet," the Dark One had said. "Watch until I give you the signal. Only do not kill her just yet. I have had my eye on this Hermione for quite some time. She is the daughter of all that I hate... blood of one of my rivals, apprenticed for a time to another.

"Yet there is darkness in her, bubbling, building... festering. As a child she belonged fully to the Light. As a woman there is much that has changed within her. Her time here in my lands changed her as much as it changed her companions... one can no more taste my Darkness without being seduced by it than a garment of fine white linen can spare being soiled by a dip in the mud. She has always been proud, oh yes, quite proud... and now that the resentment has set in, I can twist it for my purposes as well. Twist it before she realizes that..."

"Realizes what, my lady?" the creature had asked.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. She shall never realize it before she is fully in the palm of my hand. Once there I shall make her my puppet until I tire of her as I have of all the others..." Here she’d trailed off. The shadow-creature tried not to think the treacherous thoughts that were running through its head, that all of her other incarnations had been defeated by the Light. The Dark One had never actually tired of them.

"Perhaps she can liberate you, my lady," the creature ventured. "Perhaps you can be free."

"Silence! I am not bound! I am your High Queen! I rule the Thousand Worlds from my throne far beneath the Crown World of Tartarus! I am the authoress of death and destruction! I see all and know all! None in the Thousand Worlds have escaped my power!" The brimstone made it hard to see, but a shadow-creature needed no eyes for sight.

"And yet," continued the Dark One in a calmer tone, "she does know the way. This Hermione Granger will obey my summons, once I am ready to call upon her. I shall tempt her with what her heart most desires and she shall not refuse me. Then she shall sit down here upon my throne, and I shall walk the Thousand Worlds once more."

The shadow-creature leered a final time at the prospect. Now its duty was to track the progress of the woman whom it called ‘majesty’ in jest, as its own lady would soon be looking at it through Hermione Granger’s nondescript brown eyes.

And yet, there was something more awesome still about the woman who’d drawn so much Dark attention, something that the shadow-creature couldn’t help but notice on previous spyings.

She is the daughter of all that I hate... blood of my greatest rival, apprenticed for a time to another...

Now, the shadow-creature knew that Hermione Granger was a filthy Mudblood. Why its lady considered a mortal tooth-puller a rival was far beyond it. But the shadow-creature knew full well who Hermione had been apprenticed to, and did not want to tangle with that particular witch again.

The Accursed One was long gone. The creature could no longer sense his vile presence. It knew that the one it sought was still in the woodcutter’s cottage... it knew of the ways of men, and it had been watching its target with the Accursed One the night before on the roof garden. It had been Summoned by Sebastian Borgin at that time... and very well, as it couldn’t spy as easily with the Accursed One about.

So it slipped closer to the cottage windows, staying securely amongst the darkest of the dappled shadows thrown by the leaves above, fully expecting to see her asleep when it found the bedroom. It knew her patterns by now, knew she’d not slept much since she’d been back on English soil.

Its spyings had also been interrupted the night before, twice. The first was when it noticed the man with the gun. Before it could react--it did not want to tell its lady that Hermione Granger was dead--another man appeared out of nowhere. After a brief struggle, danger seemed to have been averted.

The shadow-creature had waited around for a bit, and indeed, saw Hermione as she flew away the next morning after noticing something was amiss in the garden. Yet morning was fast approaching, and the shadows it needed to move about in its weakened state were dissipating. It had retreated.

It had also found her again in the Accursed One’s arms. It would always find her there...

The shadow-creature froze. For presently there was the slamming of a door, and a woman’s hum and whistle as she strode into the garden. Blonde, tall, and very pretty as mortal women went, she was wearing an apron, carrying a basket and gardening stick, and was barefoot, presumably searching for tomatoes... among which the shadow-creature stood.

She looked up and straight at it.

Unlike Hermione and the Accursed One, unlike every other mortal it had ever encountered before...

She saw it.

Its foul appearance did little to frighten her. It should have. It had been the size of a chicken when it had first been sent on its mission. By the time Hermione left Georgia, it was the size of a large dog. Now it was larger than a goat and nearly the size of a small pony.

There was no help for it. She would have to be killed. Pity, though... with her shimmering golden hair, starry pale eyes, and sun-bronzed skin, she appeared to be more godlike than many immortals he’d seen.

The shadow-creature reared and hissed. The woman did not even flinch.

"I know what you are, Engli, demon of Tartarus, and I know why you came," said the woman... no, witch. And a powerful one, that was for certain. One who understood well the Old Ways that so many newfangled modern magical young folks had either forgot or never bothered to learn... one who was powerful enough to draw its very name from the hexes of protection that surrounded the little cottage and bind it to the spot. "Begone from this place."

"Not until I kill you first, mortal," the shadow-creature replied. The hex was strong, but even so, it reared against enchantment. "Mayhap I’ll sport with you beforehand, you’re a comely enough wench." It bared its teeth again. "Have you ever had an incubus before?"

The woman stood her ground. The basket dropped from her hand. The apron disappeared, and in its place she wore a long white robe that shone as midday. She held what had appeared to be a gardening stick high above her head.

A sudden wind seemed to catch her clothing. Her hair swirled around her head. Eyes and skin and teeth appeared to glow as she pointed what appeared less and less like a gardening stick and more and more as a staff straight at the creature.

"Come no closer, Engli, demon of Tartarus. For I, Lenore Raven, golden witch and Sabaean from humanity’s twilight do protect this abode and the one whom you seek."

"I do not seek your man, wench," hissed the creature. "I seek..."

"I know exactly who and what you seek. Hermione Granger is not here, and those who would harm her will draw my wrath and that of my companions. Go back to your dwelling place of pestilence and death. Tell the ones who you serve to turn away from their foolish course of action. All the powers of the Light oppose you and your foul mistress!"

With that, the witch threw a bolt of golden light from the staff that was so powerful it knocked the shadow-creature a few feet back. It countered with a hiss, and the forest filled with foul black smoke that would have killed any normal mortal.

Yet the golden witch stood her ground. Eyes still glowing. Hair still swirling in a halo about her head.

"What are you?" screamed the creature.

"Now, I thought I’d properly introduced myself. I suppose not."

Another bolt of the strange golden light brought the creature to its knees. A final one made the very earth rumble. It cracked the moist black soil of the garden, revealing a chasm nearly eight feet wide that the creature teetered upon.

"You and your mistress wish to interfere with the chosen of this time for your own infernal purposes. Give the Dark One this message," she said in a voice that echoed throughout the forest, "my companions and I got here first. Find your own victims."

And with that, one final lightning bolt sent the creature screaming into the dark depths below.

Less than five minutes later, all was nearly normal again. The forest floor had resewn itself, fallen leaves appearing in the selfsame pattern.

Overhead, the birds refused to sing. There was not a breath of wind. All was still.

The woman known as Diana Oliveira missed neither birdsong nor breeze. She bent over her garden, barefoot and grubby, apron getting smudged as she put some of the choicest tomatoes in her basket.

After all, it was just another day.

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

Saturday, September 22, 2012. Evening.

Ludlam summer cabin near Lake Muskoka, Ontario, Canada.

Ronald Weasley swung his legs over the side of the bed and yawned again, reaching for a t-shirt on the floor. His fingers caught on material, and he pulled the shirt on over his head. He stood up on wobbly long legs, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and after stepping into yesterday’s jeans headed into the kitchen.

Hmm... no one. He cocked his head and listened to the eerie silence. Ron began to think that either something was very wrong or he was still very sleepy. Most likely the latter. After the children were fast asleep last night, he and his wife had... well, suffice it to say that they hadn’t got very much rest. Artie had just passed through his ‘can’t sleep unless I’m in Mummy and Daddy’s bed cause the Dementors will get me’ phase. Much as he loved fatherhood, Ron was very glad that his younger son was once again sleeping in another room.

He heard the squeals as soon as he opened the sliding door on the back. He stepped onto the deck, shielding his bright blue eyes from the sun. At the far edge of their clearing, he could see his two small sons just before they disappeared into the trees.

Ron looked down and saw the back of his wife's head peeking over the back of a soft WeathiChair (stands all forms of precipitation, inside and out, and available at all Dob & Wink's retail stores worldwide). He smiled and stepped quietly from the deck to stand behind her. As he bent over to nip at the side of her neck, she gasped softly, then giggled, raising a hand to idly tangle in his red hair.

"Ah, Raul, you mustn't be here! My husband will awaken any second and catch
us," Mo said in a mock-seductive voice. Ron chuckled against the sun-warmed skin of her neck.

"Ay, mi querida," he returned, putting on a fake Spanish accent. "I shall never be caught by your bumbling husband any more than my wife will catch me leaving for work early."

Mo giggled girlishly and Ron circled around the chair to smile down at her. An outside observer might have thought their little game inappropriate--especially considering their colorful past together--but Ron and Mo were amused by their antics. They no longer cared much about what others thought.
Ron picked up his wife, sat down in the chair and pulled her to sit on his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder, angling for a view to watch the kids as they played with their toy broomsticks.

"So what is it that you wanted to talk to me about last night, babe?" she murmured. In the distance, they could hear the shrieks of their sons playing hide-and-go-seek amongst the emerald foliage of the fir trees.

Ron hesitated a bit. The parchment was in his jeans pocket, which made it unavailable at the moment. He knew already how his wife would react when she read it, and he knew that her reaction would cycle through three distinct phases.

First, there would be the utter shock that Harry would have the stones to write what he’d written. Then there would be the firestorm, the maelstrom of rage over the owl’s content. Finally there would be calm, but with a lingering resentment. He’d had no idea that Maureen, as nonchalant as she seemed, could let a grudge eat at her like a chizpurfle snacks on wand cores...

"I got an owl from Harry last night," Ron said at last.

"And?"

Ron took a deep breath. "It seems he wants us to stop interfering in his relationship with Diana."

Immediately the storm burst forth. "Come again? We're interfering in his what with Diana? That's rich. That really is. And does the great Mr. Potter say how exactly we're supposed to be doing that?"

"He says," Ron stopped and wrinkled his freckled nose. He had half a mind to dig the letter out from under Mo's bottom which would doubtless lead to a lot of activity which would be far more enjoyable than letter reading. But no, he wasn't going to start keeping things to himself. Not in this marriage.

"He says, and I quote, ‘You are to make it clear to your wife that I won't tolerate her telling Diana any more lies about Hermione.’"

Maureen's mouth went into a round 'o' of astonishment. That figured. And then she laughed, throwing her head back, her bright eyes glittering, which startled Ron no end.

"Lies about Hermione?" she snorted. "He ought to thank his lucky stars I haven't told Diana the truth about Hermione! Hmph. Maybe I should."

"The truth?" Ron echoed. "What's that's supposed to mean? You haven't actually been lying about Hermione, have you?"

"Only by omission," said Mo, sweetly, with a wicked grin.

"I don't get it," said Ron. "What are you talking about, gypsy girl?"

"Oh, nothing. Let's get the kids and go flying or something. Better use of our time than talking about that stinking cauldron of rotten fish." She started to get up. He pulled her back down.

"Don't change the subject!" He didn't understand this. There was no longer any storm in Mo's eyes, only a silvery glitter, as if she were still laughing.

"Well, you remember Hermione's birthday party the other day... the one that was supposed to be an engagement party for Harry and Diana until Miss High and Migh-onee showed up?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Well, all that food didn’t agree with this little one," she said, patting her rounded abdomen. "I was feeling a little queasy, so I thought I'd slip off to the roof garden for a moment and get some air. But what I got was an eyeful!"

"Eye full of what?"

"Your ex and that hypocrite you’ve got for a best friend. They were, how shall I put it, ‘reliving their past.’"

Ron’s mouth dropped open. "You've got to be kidding!"

"I'm not."

It was his turn to be flabbergasted. "Well that... that just takes the cake, that does."

"With strawberry icing."

"And he has the nerve to tell us to stay out of his affairs... he’d better be thankful I'm not in Liverpool as he thought. I've a good mind to look him up and punch him in his famous nose."

"Perhaps I should write a letter to Diana?" Now everything made sense to Ron. His wife wasn't brooding over how to avenge herself. She'd already thought of a way.

"No... it's my fight. Promise me you'll stay out of it. Diana's a big girl. She wouldn't thank us for interfering. Please?"

"Well, then," Mo said, placing her tongue in the corner of her mouth. "Since you're begging me, Raul..."

"Your honor will not go unavenged, mi querida, I promise you," Ron said. He switched back to his normal voice. "As soon as our holiday's over, a certain green-eyed bastard's going to get exactly what he deserves."

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

One month later.

Friday, October 19, 2012. Early morning.

Ayr Island.

Harry never Apparated, flew, or Floo’d to work. The way from the woodcutter’s cottage at the edge of the Farquar Forest to the manor house, which served as the Dumbledore School, was far too pretty for that no matter what the season on Ayr.

Like all the Portal Islands, no matter their latitude and longitude, Ayr’s climate could be controlled by magic. Long ago, right after the end of the Second Voldemort War and the subsequent Cleansing, the Order had decided the march of seasons.

The snows began to melt on the highest elevation on the island, Falcon’s Point to the north, around the first of February. By the end of that month, after a last sugar snow, buds began to appear on the trees. Ayr springs were long and glorious, lasting from early March until late June. Then there were the warm halcyon days of summer, when at times it got sweltering enough for a swim to be satisfying, but never quite reaching more than thirty degrees Centigrade.

The air began to cool again around mid-August, and for the next three months the foliage transformed chameleon-like from green to orange, red, yellow, and then chocolate brown before falling to carpet the forest during autumn, the season of bonfires. After that was winter and all of the holidays associated it with it. They had their coldest season from November until towards the end of February or so, depending upon when they decided they were tired of the drifts of snow.

Visiting witches and wizards often remarked that Ayr Island was one of the prettiest places in the wizarding world, bar none. Harry agreed with them. Although not quite as lovely as Avalon, the world of apple orchards and eternal spring, he loved his home of the past twelve years all the better because of its ever-changing moods.

Originally he’d lived in the dormitories with the students, only coming to the cottage when he wanted a little peace and quiet or if he was entertaining company of the witchy kind. Then he began dating--first Ginny, then Cho, and then the parade of others--and it just seemed to make sense to have a place of his own and privacy. Enough of the interns at both DSG and the Foundation lived in the dorms to be given a few extra Galleons in their weekly sacks for serving as semi-prefects and dorm parents.

Harry’s cottage was at the edge of the woods, but from his front door one still had to walk through a mossy clearing and fifty yards of trees before coming to Ayr’s midlands, the rolling meadows that ran for a few miles until one reached the low point of the island and the rest of civilization. This walk was usually very meditative for Harry and pretty decent exercise as well. Whatever demons and ghosts tormented him during the night hours at home, whatever stresses and challenges he faced at work, every morning and every evening he was the only person in the world.

Sometimes in the mornings he’d run into one or more of his students during the second half of his walk, or they’d accompany him all the way to the Forest in the evenings. Whenever this happened, he’d welcome them.

"Hey there, Professor! I’ve been practicing Projection, and I think I’ve finally got the hang of it... when we get to school, want to see?"

"Prof, you will never guess what happened last night! It was a little past midnight, and Angus and I skulked down to the kitchens in search of cookies and milk, when all of a sudden we saw..."

"Oh, did you know that Emmy and Daffy are an item now? And only a month after Rhiannon broke things off with him... Rhiannon’s furious, I’m sure... listen, d’you think I’ve got a chance with her? She’s fit!"

The kids were dreadfully informal with him, something that made the other staff members frown at times. Since their mutual split of duties in 2009, Sirius had been the executive director of The Foundation and Harry was Headmaster of the Dumbledore School for the Gifted. Sirius still retained a seat on the school’s board of governors, and Harry sat on Black and Potter’s board of directors, but they’d given each other a pretty wide berth since the events of 2009.

"A headmaster cannot be so casual with his students, Harry," Sirius said during one of the very few conversations he’d had with him about the matter. "You cannot discipline your friends, and yet that’s what you’ve made these kids out to be."

"You can’t rule by fear, either," Harry said. "Dumbledore didn’t do it... everyone liked and respected him. The only times I ever saw him angry were during the war, never because of what some kid did. They’re thousands of miles away from home, some of them. Others have got no home. We’re all the parents they’ve got... surely you understand that."

"Yes, but it isn’t appropriate for you to allow study groups to come down to your cottage unchaperoned, especially when many of those who ask are female. Harry, half the lasses on this island fancy you, and not all of them are as honest and forthright as you are. We’ve been able to operate here as we like, without Ministry or Confed interference. Yet only consider what might occur if just one of those young witches goes to the press with an invented tale..."

"I trust my students," Harry had said. "If one even thought about such a scheme, the others would hear--there's no lack of telepathic kids around here--and either we’d soon know or they’d take care of it."

"You’re being hopelessly foolish."

"Well, you see the bad in everyone," Harry returned harshly. "Not everyone has got the worst in mind, Sirius. I understand how easy it is to lose perspective when you’re supervising operations below day in and day out, but you’re developing full-blown Mad-Eye Moody syndrome. And the only cure for that I know of is to spend time with these kids. Whenever I do, for a time I forget all the suffering and evil and death I’ve seen. I’m reminded of the good in the world, and of hope. You could do with a reminder as well."

After that, Sirius had said no more to him about the matter.

Over the next swell, Harry could see the manor and its outbuildings in the distance, clean stone bathed in dawnlight. Usually at this point of the walk, he’d stick to the eastern shore of the island, sometimes keeping to the meadow past the stables, at other times walking on the beach. Today he did both, walking in the place where grass mingled with sand and stone.

As he made his way past the stable, keeping his own counsel, he heard a thump followed by a lot of coughing. The door of the stable opened, and out emerged a youth who appeared to be in his late teens. His bearing was surprisingly regal and confident for one so young, Harry thought.

"Good morning," said the young man. Harry couldn’t quite place his accent. It wasn’t British or Scots or Irish, neither American nor South African nor Australian. Yet he spoke English with ease, as if it was his native tongue. "You must be none other than the Professor, the great Harry Potter."

The sudden appearance of the youth didn’t startle Harry as much as it should have. No one could get to the island without proper clearance beforehand, and no one usually got through the stable passage without Janet MacCulloch’s guidance. And sure enough, there was Janet’s kindly face, emerging from the stable just behind the young man.

"Morning, Professor!" she said. "Allow me to introduce Zachary Raupp, Hogwarts class of ’12 and our newest DSG intern. He’ll be working in Telesthetics with you and Professor Oliveira, as per the memo from last week’s staff meeting. And Zachary, I’m sure you must recognize our Headmaster, Professor Harry Potter."

Harry shook Zachary’s extended hand firmly. The lad had a good grip and a steady eye, and Harry instantly liked him.

"The pleasure is all mine," said Zachary politely. "Please call me Zach, everyone does. You know, I was tickled when I got the owl... I knew Professor Weasley said he’d put in a good word for me, but I never really expected to get in as I was not selected to attend DSG myself."

"We’re no privileged elite here," Harry said. "You transferred into Hogwarts from Hatrack River at the end of your sixth year, right? Well, Percy Weasley’s told me all about your budding gift for Empathy. As I’m teaching the Telepathy courses and Di’s doing Telekinetics, you’ll have your own niche here. We also expect to have a special guest here to help during your internship."

"Oh!" Zach’s bright, large blue eyes lit up with excitement. "You don’t mean to say that Dr. Granger... the Dr. Granger herself..."

Harry cut him off abruptly. "Most fortunately, Dr. Granger isn’t the only hyperempath in our world. We’ve got a few board members who are just as gifted. Dot Lightfoot will be coming later on in the term, and then there’s another who if she can be persuaded to come, she’ll also be welcome."

"Well, I’m looking forward to meeting Diana Oliveira," said Zach. "I’ve downloaded all of her articles in telesthetics to my Spider, and I have quite a few questions I’d like to ask regarding Professor Oliveira’s work in..."

Janet’s face was still pleasant. "I’m sure you’ll find all of the staff here more than willing to aid your research and teaching, Zach, and your training more than adequate," she said. "Now, it’s only half past, and I’m sure breakfast isn’t quite finished... shall we go up to the Hall and have a bite?"

They did so, the sun bright and warm on the right sides of their faces, the slightly chill breeze from the sea swirling about them. Zach peppered the rest of the walk to the school with his curious questions about DSG and environs, and Janet was the obliging hostess as always.

Harry remained quiet, however. Zach’s questions about Hermione and Diana were like twin pinpricks. Knife gouges, rather. Over the past month he’d managed to salve the wound that Hermione had caused by her abrupt leavetaking by just ignoring it. Voicing her name only caused the ghosts to return.

At first, he’d entertained wild thoughts of going after her. She’d admitted to him that she wasn’t going to bother with Fidelius. As far as her assertion that she’d leave if he found her again went... well, he knew he could be very convincing when he put his mind to it. Her avid response to his kisses on the balcony told him that she still had feelings for him. He heard her thoughts, heard her internal war... and at one point, he’d thought that he’d won... that he’d have her in his bed that very night, heartache and history and engagements be damned.

Moments later, she was gone.

Harry knew that the only reason Hermione had left him this time was because of Diana. He knew that in the moment of decision, she’d thought of Ron and Mo, and how betrayed she’d felt by their affair. She had far too much pride to ever become a Maureen Ludlam. Hermione would never play second fiddle. Even his promise that he’d leave Diana and make things right wasn’t enough.

Just as she turned away to leave him for the third time, he saw the anguish in her eyes, and heard her last wistful thought:

I know I deserve this, but Harry, why couldn’t you have waited for me?

One thing was for certain. When their paths crossed again, he wouldn’t let her get away from him so easily.

Where that left his relationship with Diana is what had troubled him for weeks. The second he saw Hermione on that Oxford dawn, he learned how much he didn’t know about himself. He’d thought that if he ever saw his old friend and flame again, he would angrily confront her about the way she’d left. He thought that he would feel absolutely nothing... indeed, would be relieved to be finally free of their unnatural bond.

Instead, on Hermione’s birthday he’d learned that what existed between them was the most natural binding that could ever exist between two people... secured with ties that could not be severed without causing both of them pain.

Whenever he was with Diana, he felt as if he’d come alive again after twelve long years of enchantment. Loving Diana Oliveira had been relatively easy. Where Hermione was spirit and fire and dew, Diana for two years had been spring water to quench those embers and sea breeze to dry the rain. Hermione had known all of his vulnerabilities and had purposely hurt him by disappearing. Diana had provided balm for that injury in her own quiet way while only knowing the surface of who he really was.

Diana was almost too good to be true. Speaking in a strictly aesthetic sense, she was perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. She was also patient, domestic, issue-free, and constant. Except for the minor tiff after Hermione’s birthday party, they never argued, either. Diana was sweet and fragrant and soft and had a great sense of humor...

And for all that, Diana still wasn’t his Hermione.

As they entered the courtyard of the manor house that served as both classroom building and dormitory, Harry didn’t think twice about attaching the possessive to her name. She was indeed his Hermione and always had been. She’d been his Hermione at Hogwarts, even though both of them had been oblivious to it.

She’d been his Hermione through a decade of Avalon dreams, and for three glorious weeks on that blessed isle. She’d even been his Hermione through two years of engagement and six years of marriage to their best friend.

The time that they’d spent together last month had let him know that she still was his Hermione. His. All his. His alone. Three years in the arms of some old Muggle man hadn’t changed that.

She always would be his Hermione. The heart wanted what the heart wanted, and her heart longed for him no matter what her head said to the contrary. When next they met, he’d...

A small hand curved upon his shoulder. He looked down into Janet’s face, still smiling yet concerned.

"Professor? Are you quite all right?"

Harry wondered how much Janet had heard. She was one of the most gifted telepaths in all of Ayr. Then he inwardly shrugged. There was no changing what had already been done. Besides, he trusted Janet. Even if she had not been so gifted, she would have certainly known that something was amiss.

He nodded. "Zach’s gone in?"

"Yeah, I tempted him with the breakfast menu. Good fare, just as Nigel prepares whenever we have guests... fried eggs, bacon, sausages, potatoes, fried bread, beans, sliced tomatoes, fried mushrooms... you get the picture."

In spite of himself, Harry’s stomach grumbled. Having a plate of what sounded like very good food would perhaps fill the emptiness there... and also help him avoid Diana, who’d left the cottage at the crack of dawn to ‘set up’ for the classes of the day. No more morning kisses or lovemaking before work or breakfast in bed for a couple who was growing more and more withdrawn by the day.

The fact that Harry hadn’t missed their time together that much made him feel worst of all.

***********

Same day, same hour.

Location and time zone indeterminant.

"Check the coordinates yet?"

"In a minute, in a minute." Silence, then a melodic humming, much like the vibrations of a tuning fork. "These things take time."

"While we wait, any updates?" There was a slight pause. "Any news from Logan and her team in South America?"

"None so far. Last we heard, they were scheduled to give a report once they’d completed their operation and spirited the doctor away to Belem..."

"Did you relay my last orders? No drugs, no restraints..."

"Certainly. And in the last ansible transmission we received back before they teleported into Manaus, Logan answered back in the affirmative. They will rescue but yet not restrain. She’s bound to be frightened out of her wits, Heath, by the Cabalistica tests alone. If she escapes..."

"Then it is of no concern to us just yet, as long as we continue to be vigilant. Already we have affected much change... it is better for us if she is alone when he finds her anyway. What of our young German friend who’s flown the coop? Has he come into contact with the rogue bird yet?" The last question was accompanied by a dangerous curling of the lips.

"Not so far as we can tell. There’s been no news out of Scotland. That phase of the operation required much careful forgery, much of it via the very primitive means available these days. How people can live this way is far beyond me..."

"Enough of the comparative history lesson," Heath replied. "It’s certainly got a lot more going for it than where we came from. I mean, when’s the last time you breathed without a respirator, or walked around without covering less than ninety percent of your body mass? I don’t know about you, but I’m having the time of my life here. Nothing like the last few times around."

"Agreed," said Seal, who’d been quiet before. "This is the zenith of human development. Might as well enjoy it... and if the coordinate run is successful, we can celebrate with a dip at the beach of our choice before riding off into the sunset."

"Coordinate run complete," said the woman who’d spoken earlier. "Let me bring it up. Just a few seconds more."

"So, Heath," said the man who’d critiqued the living conditions before. "Have I won my bet yet?"

The wide grin spread across Heath’s face. "That’s for me to know and you not to find out, Dale," he replied. "Since when have I broadcast my conquests and the details of them for the world to know?"

"Since you fell head over heels for the target of our mission," replied the man called Dale. "Seriously, it’s great to see you all ga-ga over a babe again. We thought you’d never recover after we got here and found out what our rogue scout had pulled."

"I don’t see the attraction," said Seal. "I mean, she’s okay, but if you took her with us, she wouldn’t be much to ansible to your mother about. Most of the women here aren’t."

"That’s because most of the women here aren’t made the way our women are, just as most of the men aren’t made the way we were. If I had my way, they’d never be made our way again. Are we any happier or better off because of what we look like or what we can do?"

"Certainly not," said the sole woman in their party, finalizing the coordinate lock. "I find the men here oddly attractive as well... so vulnerable, somehow. So I think I understand Heath, in a way."

Seal shook his head. "No, I think what Heath sees in the doctor isn’t just the novelty of a woman who’s different not only from ours, or from most of the ones here. I think he sees someone else in her... someone who hurt him badly... someone who betrayed us all. Therefore, I say that he just may not be as infatuated with her as he wants us to believe."

Heath’s iron gaze locked on Seal. He did not seem amused.

"Captain," said the woman, "I’ve got it."

They all raced over and stared at the numbers hanging in the air, little pinpricks of light.

"Vick, that can’t be," said Dale, as if his lower lip were numb.

Vick turned to the one in charge. "Heath, Captain, shall I run the coordinates again?"

"No."

"There could be something wrong with our instruments..."

"There’s nothing wrong."

"Something has to be wrong, Heath," insisted Seal. "After everything we’ve done... after all we’ve changed? Perhaps Logan failed..."

"Even if she did," said Heath, "enough has been changed by all the other agents put together to have changed this. And yet, this hasn’t. The last coordinate set has been steadily pushed back until this month. Now we’ve run them three times and they haven’t budged."

He turned to Vick.

"Pull up the full report," he said. "Yes, I know it’ll take the better part of an hour. Even if the coordinates haven’t changed, perhaps other details have. They must have.

"Seal, pick a light team--no more than three--and get to South America. Try to contact Logan before you go, but if you can’t, make sure to transmit to me every fifteen minutes until you’re back here.

"Dale, you come with me."

Dale, like everyone else in the crew, was stunningly handsome. Where Heath was dark and his younger brother who was just sent to Scotland was fair, Dale had brunette good looks. Brown eyes and hair, windburned skin, in the same superb physical condition as his boss.

"What are we going to do?"

"Until Vick brings up the report? Do some comparative history. I’ve got to come up with another plan, fast, and you are going to help me."

Dale nodded and walked ahead. Heath followed him, the numbers and letters that he’d just seen slowly burning into his brain.

Lifeline Target: Hermione Granger

Birth Coordinates: 19-09-1980

Death Coordinates: 15-03-2013

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

Later that afternoon, back on Ayr.

The bell sounded loudly, jarring Harry out of silence. Normally his students worked outside on the grounds or in his plushy classroom. Since today he’d administered a rare written essay exam, he’d borrowed Penny Linsenmayer’s Foundations classroom for the purpose.

His students shuffled for their parchment rolls and began to disperse from the classroom, giggling and talking loudly. A boy with sandy hair tripped over his too-long robes and would have gone sprawling across the classroom floor, had it not been for a red haired lass who broke his fall with a quickly conjured feather pillow. Instead, the boy's books landed with a small puff and feathers filled the air.

Harry stood from where he’d been sitting behind Penny’s desk, containing a smile, and went to help the boy up.

"All right, Matthew?" Harry asked, brushing feathers off of Matthew's robes. Matthew sneezed and nearly dropped all of his books again.

"Yes, Professor. Ear infection’s got my balance off, s'all," Matthew said. He was from the States, somewhere in the South, and his accent was very pronounced. A few of the other students had made fun of him at the beginning of term, but those same students soon learned that it would be impossible to poke fun at someone who was different: they were all so diverse that it was futile. "Thank you, sir." With that, Matthew quickly scampered out of the classroom.

After a quick clean up of the feather incident, Harry walked back down the corridor, leafing through the parchments he carried. It had been a challenging test, and the students were beginning to show signs of struggle. Some reteaching would have to be done before he could move forward...

"Professor?" a voice said quietly beside him. DSG Head Girl Celeste Vasilova, a seventeen-year-old Muggleborn student and perennial staff favorite, appeared next to him. Pyrokinesis, Antipathies, and Advanced Offence Against the Dark Arts texts were clutched tightly to her chest.

She had dishwater blonde hair that fell to her shoulders in lovely curls and light hazel eyes that seemed to always be sparkling with a warm smile. Harry remembered a time when it hadn’t been so... when first year Celeste had been deemed by her peers as the worst witch that DSG had ever seen.

That was before Lupin had taken her in hand over four years ago, learned she wanted to study the magical sciences, and set up an internship with Hermione. Celeste had spent the summer of her thirteenth birthday living and working at the Paracelsus Institute. She’d had some minor troubles since then, but after summer work at wizarding companies such as Malfosoft and Higginbotham’s, she’d grown more confident and bore little resemblance to the trembling, anxious little girl she’d once been.

"Yes, Celeste. Is there something I can help you with?" Harry said pleasantly.

"Actually, it’s not me that needs the help. Just wanted to let you know that there’s someone here to see you."

"Who?"

"Professor Weasley, actually," Celeste replied. "It was great to see him, it’s been ages... he said he’d wait in your classroom."

Harry inwardly groaned. He hadn’t talked to Ron in a month. The last he heard, Ron was still in Canada with his family. Whatever he had to say couldn’t be work-related, as Ron worked under Sirius at the Foundation.

After thanking Celeste, he walked into the classroom, invisible haunches up, on guard. A part of his brain told him that this was Ron, that he shouldn’t feel this way about the man who was the closest thing he had to a brother.

Then again, brothers weren’t supposed to do to each other what he, Harry, had done to Ron long ago. It had stood between them ever since his bitter divorce from Hermione, perhaps even before then.

Harry wondered if the past would always stand between them.

"Hey there," he said uncertainly, walking over to the window seat by which Ron stood and dumping his parchments onto it. "I see you’ve made it back from your holiday."

"I see you haven’t taken one yet," Ron returned. "How have things been around here?"

"The same. How are Maureen and the boys?"

"Good, thanks. Perhaps even better if you wouldn’t send owls like the one from last month. What was that all about?"

"You know very well what it was about," Harry said sharply. "Or can’t you read? Wife or not, I’m not going to have her filling Diana’s ears with all sorts of tales..."

"‘Tales’? So nothing she said was true, was it? Or was Mo attempting to save the poor girl from the fate of all the other women who have boldly gone before her? Not Diana’s fault that she isn’t Hermione, is it?"

Harry glared at Ron, then walked away. Calling over his shoulder, "Don’t be ridiculous."

"What’s wrong, Harry? Can’t handle the truth?"

He stopped in midstride and turned around. "Truth? From you and Maureen Ludlam? Please, don’t make me laugh."

"You can insult me all you want, Harry. But I stand behind my wife. Despite what you might have thought, she did not tell Diana what she saw the night of that party."

Harry was furious. "And just what was that?"

When Ron told him, Harry reddened.

"So now that we’ve established that my wife really isn’t a liar, I’d like to know what’s going on between you and Hermione."

As if he had any right to ask! "Absolutely nothing," said Harry a great deal more calmly than he felt towards Ron at the moment.

"Now who’s the liar?"

Harry fought the urge to punch Ron. Fortunately, he was very practiced at fighting that particular feeling. "Why, disappointed that we finally haven’t succumbed to temptation and proven that you were right all along about us... that we were shagging while you two were still married? Is that what’s still bothering you? Well, we weren’t!"

"You might as well have done," said Ron quietly. "I never had a fighting chance with her because of you, Harry, and you know it. Don’t you even feel the slightest bit sorry about what you did to me?"

Harry folded his arms. "I think that I’ve done more than enough penance for it over the years, and I don’t expect you to ever understand. Actions speak louder than words."

"Yeah, you ought to know. What about when you asked Diana to marry you? And every time you tell that girl you love her?"

"What can I say, old friend? I learned from the best liar I know," Harry shot back.

To Harry's great surprise, Ron let out a deep breath and took the high road.

"This is absolutely ridiculous and getting us positively nowhere, Harry. I came here to make sure you weren't going to mess up like I did and end up hurting Hermione," Ron said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the window. "That’s all I care about."

Harry opened his mouth to shoot back that Ron had beaten him to the punch on that one, but realized that Ron had already humbled himself. Humble... Ron? Harry's eyebrows narrowed. What the hell did Ron think he was playing at?

"I've messed up too many times and gotten her hurt too often to watch you do it again! You're not going to propose to one girl, snog another and then get off telling me how to keep my own wife in line."

Harry could not believe the hypocrisy coming out of what he thought was once his best friend's mouth. Ron must have anticipated this, because he quickly added, "Do as I say, Harry, not as I do. Never as I do."

Harry studied Ron for a moment before saying, "You know, it's easier to be infuriated with you when you're not being philosophical and humble."

A broad, familiar grin broke out on Ron's face. "Easier to hold a grudge when you’re not being a daft git as usual. You know, I thought you’d grow out of the clueless phase someday, Harry, but somehow I hold less and less hope of that."

Harry shook his head, frustrated. This was impossible. How could a man hold a rational conversation with someone with emotions more varied than a Gringotts’ cart ride?

"Any other advice?"

"Certainly. Make a choice, Harry, and stick with it. It's not fair to have both of them. I know I'm the last person who should probably be telling you this, but it’s the truth and well you know it. Choose the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with and just do it. Stop being so indecisive, it doesn’t suit you."

Ron raised his eyebrows, waiting for Harry's reaction before he continued.

"Actually, I’m fairly certain that you made your choice a long time ago... you just don’t want to have to deal with the consequences, that’s all." He nodded, as if his own assessment of the situation pleased him a great deal.

With this, Ron brushed past Harry and towards the door. At the last moment, Ron turned around.

"Oh, and Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Can't fault your taste, mate. When she kisses, does she still do that little thing with her nose after she pulls away?" Harry took one look at Ron, then turned towards the one piece of furniture in the classroom--a built-in bookcase--to Summon his gigantic stone Ashwinder paperweight.

Before he could chuck it at Ron, there was a dry chortle, and a pop!... and the doorway was empty.

Harry walked slowly towards the spot where his best friend had been standing a moment earlier. The gulf that remained between them was still wide, yet with each conversation over the past three years it had narrowed a tiny bit. It had helped that neither of them ever mentioned Hermione while she was gone, although her presence always lingered somehow...

He realized that it was perhaps the healthiest conversation he’d had with Ron in years.

Voices, coming from the next classroom. Two of them. Male and female, both rather young-sounding to be faculty, and yet only faculty would be around the classroom corridor around now as it was nearly time for dinner.

"...seek me out after all this time?"

"You know why, Lenore. Heath is furious with you. He let you go, only to arrive here and find that you had directly defied his orders. Now it seems as if the coordinate shifter is jammed, and Seal says..."

Harry moved closer, eyes narrowing. He’d not forgotten one iota of the September day he’d spent with Hermione. He remembered the names Heath and Seal. Why his new telesthetics intern Zach would use those two names in particular was a matter that interested Harry a great deal.

"Oh, snarks to whatever Seal has to say! He’s got no idea what it was like when I arrived here year before last. The situation was nothing like we anticipated... my very arrival changed things irreparably. Sirius Black found me, and..."

"Spare me your lies, Lenore," said Zach. "My brother won’t be so kind when he gets his hands on you and learns what you haven’t done here."

Harry’s eyes were slits now. A glance through the cracked classroom door confirmed the truth that his ears had heard.

"What I have been doing is carrying out the orders given me," said Diana (or was it really Lenore? Harry thought). "I have done just as much for her as any of you have, Zach."

"Excuse me, Lenore, but enlighten me. What have you done to help? By wheedling your way into Black and Potter when you were told to infiltrate the other organization? By somehow getting the twice-blessed man to propose to you? How exactly did any of that help our cause?"

"Well, in all the reports, it seems that she is with him when she is killed. And everyone at Black and Potter isn’t necessarily as virtuous as their founders. So far I have only aided..."

"You have aided us in nothing. Yet you have caused much damage. I left before the last coordinate run... I certainly hope that everything we’ve sacrificed and wished for and hoped hasn’t been undone because of your treachery." He brushed past her. "And I wish my brother had never laid eyes on you."

Harry had already doubled back into his classroom, and now pretended as if he was just coming out of it just in time to run into Zach.

"All right, Zachary?" he asked, keeping his voice light.

"Excellent. Just speaking with Professor Oliveira about her research," Zach replied. "I’ll have some dinner now and unpack... of course, your lovely fiancee has invited me down to your cottage to discuss some matters of grave importance tomorrow morning." He cocked his golden head back towards the next classroom. "Isn’t that right, Miss... Oliveira?"

Diana came out of the classroom. She glared at Zach, then affixed her magnificent starry eyes upon her fiancé.

"Oh yes, for certain," said Diana smilelessly. "Come down in the late morning and we’ll have lunch when we’re done."

Harry watched Zachary head to the kitchens without comment. Time enough to expose the boy as the mole that he was and find out who sent him. Zach couldn’t be granted Black and Potter access without clearance from either Harry or Sirius, and Sirius wouldn’t until he’d cleared it with Harry. Clearances were only done on weekdays at Stacy’s insistence, and it was a bit after four o’ clock, which meant she was already speeding home via the honeycomb portal at the Narcissus Tower and the ABFN...

Thank heavens it was Friday.

Diana heard his last thought and smiled.

"We haven’t had much time alone to enjoy each other lately, have we?" she asked, attempting to lace her fingers through his.

"Oh, we’ll have some time alone this evening," said Harry flatly, drawing his hand away as if her touch was venomous. "Not sure how enjoyable it will be for either of us. I’ll see you there."

With that, he Apparated away, leaving her staring after him.

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

Later that same evening, night, and the next morning.

Ayr, woodcutter’s cottage.

Diana didn’t arrive home until much later that evening. Harry was waiting for her in front of the fire, refurbishing an antique broomstick he’d bought off a Danish dealer when last he’d had occasion to stop in Jutland. Although the polish was a brand-new bottle, he’d had the twig clippers, other instruments, and case since his thirteenth birthday. Thanks to his leaving it at the Weasleys the summer after sixth year, it was one of the few items he’d owned as a teen that hadn’t been destroyed during the first storming of Hogwarts.

No, Harry corrected himself. The 1998 Death Eater raids were not the first time in history that Hogwarts had been seized by unfriendly magic. There had been several other invasions in the past, one a mere three-quarters of a century before their time. Of incidentals and dates, he couldn’t be certain without looking them up... thanks to Professor Binns, History of Magic had never been his favorite subject.

The latest invasion in 2011 had been different than all the others, Harry thought for the millionth time. He hadn’t told Hermione everything... hadn’t had time to recount the sudden, strange occurrences of that last winter.

Harry had been one of the few in the wizarding world who’d felt that the Victoria Jenkins scandals were ridiculous. Plenty of Muggles already knew of the existence of the wizarding world, and as the number of Muggleborns increased, so would the number of those with MagiCards. Harry had been raised in the Muggle world. He knew that those who believed in magic didn’t need any proof to confirm it for them, and those who didn’t believe would scoff and search for another explanation even when the truth was staring them right in the face.

Yet matters had escalated fast, almost as if they were being orchestrated. When he brought this up to Sirius, he was rebuffed and told that he was being paranoid.

"Harry," his godfather had said, "defenseless children are in danger. It stands to reason that the security and stability of our world is at stake. Orchestrated or not, what does it matter?"

It mattered a great deal, Harry thought, if the wizarding world was rising to the bait. Walking into a trap set by... who? Already they’d been caught up in a wave of anti-Muggleborn sentiment that seemed not to be abating as most of the other witches and wizards of the Order thought it might.

Something had to be done. Harry knew who could help him make his case to the Order most effectively. And yet an ocean and many regrettable memories stood between him and her.

He wished, for the thousandth time, that Hermione was there.

The bolt on the cottage door sprang upright. Diana, swathed in her dark blue cloak, stepped inside, drawing her wraps off and using her wand to levitate them over to the coat rack.

Harry watched silently from the armchair, not moving but not taking his eyes off her. She crossed the room towards the kitchen when she finally seemed to see him, and she gave a little startled gasp.

"Oh! Harry, I didn't see you there," she said, pulling her hand away from her mouth.

"Which is why Professor Capulet is teaching Stealth and Field Tactics, not you," Harry returned without a beat of pause. Diana's face crumpled in hurt.

"That wasn't very nice." Diana looked away from him and started for the kitchen again, but in a flash, Harry was on his feet and grabbing her arm.

"We need to talk," Harry said flatly. Diana looked up at him with the wide blue eyes she usually used to weaken his knees. Judging from his unrelenting stare, they weren't functioning correctly today.

"Then let's talk, honey," Diana said.

Harry's hand dropped from her upper arm, and Diana's fingers went for his hand. He pulled away before she got a chance to try.

"All right then," Diana said, crossing her arms defensively and pursing her lips.

"Sit down," Harry said, nodding his head toward the couch. Diana opened her mouth to protest, but Harry cut her off with a loud and firm, "Sit. Down." She looked miffed for a moment before stalking to the couch, sitting and crossing her arms over her chest again.

Harry faced away from her for a moment. He'd had his end in mind -- finding out what the hell was going on -- without bothering to devise the means. He rubbed his hands roughly over his face, wishing he'd remembered to shave that morning, and finally turned.

"How did Zachary gain access to Black and Potter?" Harry began. Best to start off with questions rather than accusations.

Diana cocked her head slightly and studied him carefully. Harry had the impression she was trying to get into his thoughts, trying to see what he knew, before giving up any information. He steeled his mind and put up a wall. Diana licked her lips nervously.

"Honey, Zach doesn’t have access to Black and Potter as far as I know. He’s just an intern. An intern with an overinflated opinion of himself, but an intern nonetheless..."

"All right, then. Next question. How did you gain access to Black and Potter, Diana? Or should I call you Lenore?"

Diana’s pale golden skin turned snow white. Her eyes widened.

"Who is Lenore?" said Harry in an iron tone. "And while we’re at it, who the hell are you?"

"Harry..." Her voice was soft, pleading.

"Just answer the question."

"Lenore is... Lenore’s my middle name. It is what I used to be called all the time." She must have known Harry was searching her thoughts, for her mind was quite blank.

"How exactly did Zach know that when I didn’t?"

Sigh. "Zach knows quite a lot about me."

"Interesting. You’ve never mentioned him."

"You never asked. I’ve told you all about my ex, Jerry, the one I left just before coming to work at Black and Potter. Zachary is his younger brother."

Harry’s eyes narrowed much as they had at the school. "What, do you all have code names? Your ex's name wouldn't happen to be Heath, would it? Do you all have secret decoder rings too?"

Diana’s features were masklike. "I don’t think that’s any of your business."

"What do you mean, it isn’t any of my business? You could be a bloody Cabalistica agent for all I know!"

"Cabalistica?" Diana gasped. "Is that what you think of me, Harry?"

"I’ll tell you what I think, Diana. I think you have reasons for being here that have got nothing to do with teaching or research or me. I think you do know exactly who this mysterious Heath character is, and why he’s stalking Hermione. I think that there is much, much more to my darling Diana than meets the eye, and I am ready for some answers!"

Her starry eyes sparked furiously.

"Answers? How audacious of you, Harry! After all that talk of answers, you're the one who was snogging another woman--that Hermione creature--only a month ago!" Diana spoke so quickly that Harry didn't have a chance to prepare a reaction and immediately drew in a sharp intake of breath. "Harry, I wasn’t born yesterday. Between Maureen’s advice and the way Hermione looked after your ‘chat’ with her, I knew."

"You don’t know anything..."

"I do! Don’t even try to lie to me! You think about her all the time... don’t forget, I can hear you. Lately you’ve even talked in your sleep... you’ve said her name. All you really care about is her, Harry, and you’re either too stubborn or too stupid to admit it. I've tried my hardest to make you love me, but I’ve learned my lesson. No matter how hard you try, you can’t make anyone want you..." With these words, Diana's face crumpled, and she sobbed openly.

Harry was caught so off-guard by her revelation and change in tone that he stood stiff for a few moments. Even after the shock had passed, he remained frozen. What if this was some sort of trick to soften his anger?

Feeling extremely guilty, Harry sat beside Diana and placed a hand on her shoulder as she wept into her palms. She showed no indication that she felt him touch her. He began to pull his arms around her but she jumped away from him as though his touch was iron hot.

"Don't you dare touch me, Harry Potter! And don't you ever ask me to expose all my private business after you've spent years keeping yourself hidden from me!" The tear tracks and red eyes made her look both dangerous and desperate. "Until you're ready to share and share alike, I will not share a bed with you!"

Harry watched, slack-jawed, as Diana crossed furiously to the bedroom and slammed the door shut. A moment later, the door reopened and a pillow soared at him. With his Seeker reflexes, he snatched it out of the air and started towards the bedroom door. He reached out and touched the doorknob, but it sent an impulse through him so strong that it knocked him to the floor.

"Damn!" he said, standing up and dusting himself off. He glared at the closed door for a moment before balling his hands into fists. This was his bloody house, and he’d be damned if he’d be shut out of his own bed by some melodramatic, lying little treacherous...

No, no. Someone had always told him to temper his anger at least one good night's sleep before exploding... to think through the consequences of his actions... someone named Hermione.

Harry swore again and headed for the bathroom. Perhaps a cold shower would cool his temper.

He made his way to the bathroom and swung open the door with less-than-gentle care. He was relieved to find a pair of dry towels and his pajamas from the night before. After taking a glance in the mirror (that whistled at him in a very rude manner), he pulled aside the shower curtain and turned on the water. He tested it for a moment with his hand before straightening again.

He undressed quickly, his body swiftly becoming chilled in the cool air. With a little yelp, he leapt into the shower and then yelped even louder and leapt back out, burned by the hot water. The mirror's whistles and comments grew increasingly lewd, and Harry pulled his wand from his robes on the ground and brandished it angrily at the mirror.

"One more comment..." he threatened. The mirror fell silent with a little snicker. Harry dropped the wand and grumbled. "Man can't even take a shower in his own house..."

Harry stepped back into the shower, this time a little more cautiously, and slowly let himself get used to the warm flow of water. He ran his fingers through his hair, and then reached for the soap. As he showered, he hummed to himself, a desperate last attempt at distraction from the evening's blow-up. Finally, he tilted his head forward and rested his forehead against the shower nozzle, letting the spray run all over his face.

Hermione. The one word, the one sweet name, pounded through his head. What was he going to do about her? He remembered hearing about the time that Fred had asked George what he was going to do about Anya. George had replied, "I’m going to take care of her, protect her, love her, marry her if she’ll have me… and then perhaps I’ll see what this fatherhood business is all about." Excellent idea.

In theory.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Part of him had spent his entire adult life aching for Hermione’s company: her touch, her words, her laugh, her thoughts. Still another part wished that he’d never fallen for her... or at least, wished she had never come back and reopened old wounds only to leave again.

Come back to me, Hermione...

Through the water, he felt something brush his unshaven cheek. Lightly, tentatively... but undeniably nonetheless. A ghost of a kiss.

Harry opened his eyes and looked around abruptly. He stuck his head out of the shower. No, Diana hadn’t joined him. He was alone.

He let the water run over his eyes once more. It was no longer warm but tepid, but he welcomed the feel of it. The creepy cheek-touch had caused his shoulderblades to prickle. His forearms were covered with gooseflesh, too, causing the smooth black hair there to stand on end.

It’s nothing, he told himself. Just your overactive imagination.

Harry quickly rationalized it away. He’d been thinking of Hermione. Hermione’s signature greeting and parting for him since they were in their teens had always been a simple cheek kiss... a peck.

Unbidden, an obscure old nursery rhyme that his Aunt Petunia used to sing to his cousin Dudley raced about rent-free in his head.

I love you... a bushel and a peck...

A bushel and a peck... and a hug around the neck...

It was a gesture that spoke far less of desire than it did of their abiding friendship. It was also something that only Hermione did. He didn’t have any memory of his parents or any other relatives pecking his cheek that way, and there was no one else in his life who ever would kiss him so casually.

Touch is a basic human need, yet it is essential. Harry had heard somewhere that babies who were never held in orphanages died of it... most likely it was something Hermione had told him long ago. He had no childhood memories of hugs, hair ruffles, or cheek pecks until Hogwarts... ten long years without any human contact.

Then all of a sudden there were pats on the back from Hagrid and Quidditch teammates, and hugs from Hagrid and Mrs. Weasley. Cub-like wrestling and punches from Ron and his dorm mates. Hair ruffling from Sirius and on one memorable occasion, Dumbledore.

Although Ron, Sirius, Hagrid, Dumbledore, the Weasleys, and others had served as surrogate family, although the whole of Hogwarts was the closest thing he ever had to a childhood home, no one ever offered as many unconditional, sustaining touches as Hermione had. As a hyperempath, even one who was a bit afraid of her abilities, proximity and touch was a natural way for her to communicate. With hugs that said "You’re the greatest, Harry, and I’m so proud of what you’ve done." And shoulder pats that said "It’s going to be all right." And cheek pecks that said "I’m here for you always."

She’d done it so many times, he realized, that he associated that particular touch with her. Nothing from their stolen, heated moments of passion could compare.

Now, Harry treasured the memories of other kinds of Hermione-kisses, accompanied by corresponding caresses... crescendoing and decrescendoing, his body her instrument to play a symphony upon. He could at any given moment close his eyes and recall exactly the way it felt every time her limbs would wrap about him, enveloping him in a chrysalis of her... recall echoing shudders and sighs... even taste the tears that would form at the corners of her eyes.

Yes. Even knowing, ever remembering every moment of being with her in that way...

...the thing he missed most about her was a simple peck on the cheek.

Strange, what the body remembers.

There was now a funny pressure at the back of his eyes and another to match it at the back of his throat. Willing his eyes not to smart, he shut off the tap. The droplets of water that clung to his skin made him shiver as he stepped out of the shower and into an oversized, thirsty towel. After getting most of the water off his body, he wrapped it about his narrow hips, gathered his clothes and (ignoring the mirror) padded down the hall towards the bedroom.

The door was still shut. Harry, if he had really wanted to, could have gained access to his bedroom by force. He almost did... at least he could have put his dirty clothing into the hamper and grabbed another pair of pajamas. Yet he had no wish to confront Diana any more tonight. Perhaps letting their tempers cool would be the best solution, he thought. The darklings and fears of the evening and the night never seemed quite so insurmountable in the morning.

So he made do with last night’s pajama bottoms, and with a swish of his wand, stoked the fire in the living room until it had banished the slight chill in the air and felt toasty warm against the bare skin of his arms and chest. Harry stood before the fireplace for a moment, mesmerized by the flicker and crackle of the flames, trying to clear his mind.

And then he felt it again... another strange touch. This time an unseen finger, softly tracing his spine from the nape of his neck all the way down to his...

Harry spun around, wand clutched in his hand, ready to cast at a second’s notice.

No one. Absolutely no one was there.

Placing his wand on the mantel, his brows furrowed in a frown, Harry ran a hand through his hair. Completely frustrated, not to mention flustered. Realizing that the anger that had coursed through his veins just a short time before had been almost entirely replaced by another kind of madness entirely.

But I just took a cold shower, he thought to himself. Perhaps I need some other distraction.

So he kept busy. He finished refurbishing the old Danish broomstick, settling it in one corner so that the varnish could dry overnight. He checked the remainder of his students’ compositions, glad that the class average wasn’t as horrible as he’d initially thought it would be.

Harry then spread the latest edition of Quidditch Digest out on the rug and read it. It provided the distraction he needed as he exercised a bit. He did so many push-ups that he lost count of them. He’d learned long ago that he flew a lot better when he was in halfway decent physical condition and didn’t eat a diet that consisted wholly of salt, sugar and fat... only house-elves knew how to prepare that kind of food calorie free.

He also quite liked the increased energy and sense of well-being that being in good shape afforded... as he spent most of his days with kids half his age, he needed it.

Mind and body now sufficiently distracted, Harry was tired and ready to rest. His living room couch was actually a futon that had been a twenty-first birthday gift from Sirius, procured during a Black and Potter mission in Japan. The futon had a cherry wood frame and a ridiculously thick black mattress that Harry had charmed to conform to the sitter or recliner’s body in the long-ago days when it had served as both sofa and bed for him.

After blowing out all the candles and torches, he, the pillow Diana had thrown out for his use, and a warm afghan bedded down upon the pulled-down futon for the night.

The crackling fire threw patterns of shadows on the walls and ceiling. Outside, the autumn night winds blew against the windowpanes and around the door, stopped by the braided, rolled-up rug Diana had stuffed at the threshold to stop the drafts. Harry’s eyelids dropped slowly... first one, then the other...

He was not yet asleep when he felt the afghan lift. His reactions were sluggish with fatigue, but he was able to get his eyes to open after a few moments. He could see no intruder, but there was a large lump beside him beneath the covers.

Perhaps it was because he was so tired. Perhaps it was because he welcomed the mystery. But he waited until he felt soft breath on the side of his neck before he opened his mouth to protest.

Before a single sound could escape from his throat, lips--invisible ones--covered his in a kiss so sensual that it stole his breath away. He fell back against his pillow out of sheer surprise and made a strangled noise. He found himself powerless to push away the soft weight pressing against his side, spooning closer to him.

"Who are you?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper. A heady shush in his ear relaxed his muscles, but sped up his heart rate. "I demand to know who..."

Another shush sounded in his ear, and he fell silent. This... this had to be some sort of sinister magic, but it was seductive. Intoxicating. He'd always thought little of those seduced by the Dark side, thinking they were nothing but fools with no willpower. And now he found himself powerless against this quiet temptation, wicked though it was. Wicked though it had to be.

All of his senses save his sight attested to the stark reality of this event. This was no dream. This was pure waking fantasy, spiraling into something else...

Soft fingertips stole up his spine again, tracing arcane patterns upon the skin of his back. Here and there, he fancied he felt the blunt, smooth wedge of a fingernail. Then those unseen fingers made their way to his hair, twisting, smoothing, teasing.

The selfsame sweet lips found his again and again. At first, their kisses were like fireflies lighting at dusk--touch and go. Then they drank deeply of each other. He reached out and made contact with petal-soft skin, smooth and warm under the backs of his hands. Soft, petal-like skin that quivered beneath his. Smooth, warm skin through which he could feel a living pulse that quickened at his touch.

If I could touch you one place, Harry Potter, it would be here... that way, I could feel the warmth of you... I could feel the breath of you... I could feel the lifeblood of you...

Harry’s heartbeat quickened in his ears. He could not shrink away or rise from this makeshift bed. He could only open his arms and close them again, enfolding this bewitching, invisible creature against his heart. Whether woman or angel or demon he did not know. All of his training, every instinct that he had was shrieking at him, admonishing that he stop this now, demanding that he investigate this strange occurrence.

Yet now was not the time to place mind over matter. Now was the time to touch and kiss and feel. In his heart, Harry decided that there was nothing evil or sinister in his arms. He’d mucked about too much in the bosom of Hades not to know all the guises of hell... both incubus and succubus had attempted to attack him once long ago, many years before in Tartarus, but not like this. Never like this.

Darkness knows only of lust. It knows nothing of love, and certainly less about the making of it.

So that night, a very lonely, very sad Harry Potter allowed himself to be loved... and indeed, he was loved in return.

When he awoke late the next morning, there was not a single trace of the events of that long night. No lingering warmth, no other telltale signs.

It was almost as if it... no, she... had never been.

There was, however, a note tacked to the mantlepiece. The sole window of the living room was open, and the parchment fluttered in the breeze. After shrugging off the afghan, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and reaching for his glasses, he crossed the room in a few strides and snatched it up.

-----------------

Harry--

We’ve been through a lot together. Two years of one’s life is a nice chunk of time to dedicate to someone. We had good times and bad, but all in all, I thank you for the ride, sir. It’s been more than wonderful.

There were times, Harry, when I thought you really were the one who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Everything would be so wonderful between us for a while. And then... something would happen to make me doubt it all, doubt the credibility of us.

Last night I didn’t sleep. I realized that everything in the cauldron of what we had together had suddenly boiled down to a single issue--either you loved me unconditionally or you didn’t. But you never let me be completely sure of how you felt about me. I need that assurance, Harry, an assurance that I don’t think you can give me.

I refuse to ask what I must. This is because I am afraid of your answer.

I’ve gone away, Harry. I have things to do, things that you couldn’t even begin to understand. Don’t look for me. Don’t worry about Sirius, either... I’ve owled him as well. Zach will be more than competent in my place. You’ll find that he needs little training, and may provide some of the answers that you wanted last night from me.

I’ll miss you. Take care of yourself. Be safe.

All my heart,

Di

(P.S. No matter what happens, know that I did love you... love you still.)

------------------

Harry crumpled the parchment in a sweaty palm. Which was strange--his hands rarely were anything but dry.

His eyes were moist too.

Blindly, he cast the letter into the fireplace. The edges caught fire, blackened and curled. He watched until the blue inked words were completely obscured, until the parchment was reduced to cinder and ashes and dust. Then he put the fire out and leaned against the mantelpiece, glasses tilting askew.

There, a bright glitter caught Harry’s eye. He squinted, readjusted his glasses, and saw it.

It was Diana’s ring.

He picked up the diamond and gold band, holding it between forefinger and thumb. Staring at it until his vision blurred.

Who were you really, Diana Oliveira?

Harry waited for answers, but none came. So he reached for his wand and lit the fire again. After only a moment’s hesitation, he dropped the ring he’d given to his golden girl back on the mantel and stared into the flames. Feeling a thousand times lonelier and more empty than he had ever felt before.

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

Time indeterminant, deep below Tartarus.

Engli, the shadow-creature, spun into the abyss that the golden witch had cast him into. It was not afraid as a mortal in the same circumstances would have been. It had thus far lived forever and there was very little that could maim it. Besides, the Darkness was its companion... whither should it be afraid?

And so it spun, down, down, down... until it landed with a thump! in the midst of the throne room of the Dark One.

The manacles which bound her were of a magical substance that no longer existed in any of the Thousand Worlds. The incantations and hexes that kept her imprisoned were such that if a mortal sorcerer of the more recent ages could have attempted to replicate them, he would have perished before the second word was out of his mouth.

For someone who’d been chained to her throne for nearly ten thousand years, the Dark One was remarkably unaccustomed to her bondage. She paced about as far as her chains would allow her, blood-red robes swooping around her, red and black wings flapping impatiently behind her.

It would have come as no surprise to her contemporaries, but many in the Age of Partition would have been stunned by her imposing appearance. The mistress of Darkness was beautiful to behold. Her skin was the light olive-brown of her father, who’d emigrated from the Fertile Crescent of Earth to settle in his new wife’s homeworld.

Her eyes were the deep, swirling amethyst-purple of her mother’s people, and she had the bendy-curvy mouth that was the signature of all humans and human-like creatures of the Tartarus-that-was. At nearly seven feet tall she had been merely average height for a woman of her time... after all, her life had begun when none but giants walked the earth.

Her hair had once been reddish brown, but long it had been black, black as a raven’s wing, swirled and piled into an elaborate coif that rested on the top of her head. Both nostrils, both earlobes, her lower lip, and several other spots on her body had been pierced long ago. Each now held a different enchanted jewel through which she could draw and channel power.

If its mistress had been disrobed, Engli could have seen what it knew was there--intricate runes and curses tattooed and hennaed on the curves and planes of her immortal body, every inch of which was dedicated to perdition.

Curses to match those raining out of the Dark One’s mouth.

"So she wishes to defy me! A mere stripling of a mortal... far too young to be considered a babe in any of the Thousand Worlds? Well, she shall soon see what happens to those who step unbidden into the path of Darkness."

"What of these Sabaeans, my lady?" asked Engli timidly. "The taste of her aura bespoke the youth of her years. She seemed younger than the youngest of babes, and yet scarce I have met a witch or wizard who could cast me out for a thousand Earth years or more. Those of this day cannot even see me until it is too late for them."

The Dark One glared at her minion, then continued to pace.

"I know not of these Sabaeans. They are not of the Thousand Worlds." She quickened her step. "And you say she is living with the Accursed One, my pet?"

"Yes, my lady. Again, from the taste of her aura," Engli licked his lips, remembering, "I would say that she holds his heart..."

"There is more to this Sabaean, as she calls herself, than meets the eye," said the Dark One. "It is the habit of witches who adhere to the Old Ways to bind mortal men--knight and wizard and king--to themselves for their own purposes. Spare me your sniveling talk of heart. The whole notion of chivalry was a silly invention of the Receding Ages, and its home is Avalon with doddering old fools like Morgan and Merlin and Vivienne... fools who are upstarts compared with the likes of me."

Her sharply arched eyebrows drew together for a moment... but only for a moment. Almost instantly her face was an emotionless mask once more.

"When I hold all of the Thousand Worlds in my palm, I shall crush the Old Ones one by one. I shall make their homeworlds over in my own image as surely as I have rebirthed my own.

"Even now, my good servant Sebastian has made plans to stir up discord among the ranks of my worshippers on Earth in this age, this... this..."

"Cabalistica?"

The Dark One glared at Engli, who shrank.

"Yes, yes. The names change with each generation... their filthy, despicable souls and lust for power do not. It seems that this Sebastian has done much while you were tangling with the Sabaean, my pet." The Dark One leered.

"What is it, my lady?"

"Apparently the pull of the Darkness is succeeding. The one whom you were trailing and tormenting, Engli, has come to us."

The shadow-creature made a gesture of surprise.

The Dark One simply cackled.

"Yes, yes... it seems that she slipped out of England right under your nose, my pet..." here Engli cringed, "but as she has been found, I shall postpone your punishment for a later date."

"Found, lady?"

"Yes, found... and will soon be in my servant’s clutches, unbeknownst to the traitorous Grand Inquisitor of this Cab... Caba... Cababa..."

"Cabalistica."

"Caba... silence!" When the Dark One punished it, it felt that every particle of its disembodiment would be separated from the others. A soundless scream raged through it. "Do not deem yourself worthy to correct me! Else you shall find yourself in the same position as the rogue Inquisitor!"

Once her rage had cooled somewhat, the Dark One beckoned to her pet. In the very center of the throne room was a dark, lagoon-like pool that was her mirror to the outside world. It had not been there when the prison had been created untold eons ago, but then, neither had the elaborate throne.

"Come, redeem yourself with a glance," the Dark One said to Engli. "Already Sebastian is making the preparations. Once this Hermione Granger is safely in my servant’s clutches and she has been made ready, I shall pay Earth a little visit... with you by my side."

Engli looked. And as it looked, its guffaws disturbed the glass-like surface of the waters.

The Dark One laughed as well, laughter like the off-key clanging of brass cymbals, a discordant prelude to the drums of war.

"Yes, all is nearly ready. My reign on Earth shall begin with a plague, the like of which mortals have scarce seen since the First Age."

Almost eagerly she touched the surface of the water with a bloodless hand, bringing up the face that Engli had learned in recent days to call "majesty."

"Look upon the face of pestilence and death, my pet, and marvel at the transfigurative power of the Darkness. For she whom her world called Healer shall soon be known as its Destroyer."

The Dark One smiled.

So did her pet.

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

Saturday, October 20, 2012. Noon.

Ayr Island.

Zach was late. That in itself was enough to annoy Harry, who wasn’t in the best of moods anyway. He’d just finished shaving and dressing and was attempting to scarf down a slice of dry toast when the knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," Harry said, voice coming out in a croak. It was the first time he’d spoken aloud in well over sixteen hours.

Zach walked into the little house. He was nearly a half head taller than Harry, who at an inch shy of six feet even was no longer the shrimp he’d been in childhood. Zach Raupp was broad-shouldered and strong-armed, with looks that instantly reminded Harry of Draco Malfoy’s cousin Dante Rosetti. Yet where Dante’s blue eyes were mischievous, those set in the lightly tanned face of this youth looked tranquil as the Ayr shore on a windless summer day.

Well, he could be a Cabalistica spy, thought Harry to himself. Yet somehow, I don’t think it’s as simple as that.

Those eyes flickered about very briefly before he stated the obvious.

"Professor Oliveira isn’t here, is she?"

"No, she stepped out early this morning."

Zach didn’t seem unduly surprised. "Stepped out? I told her to expect me..."

"She’s gone, Zachary."

Zach nodded as if this was only confirmation for what he’d suspected all along. "She should have been woman enough to face you, Professor. I don’t understand why she’s changed so much since when I last knew her."

"You and Heath, you mean?"

Zach’s eyes remained steady. "Yes, Heath and I have known Lenore all our lives. Her parents and ours are very good friends."

"Why is Heath trailing Hermione?" Harry asked. Arms folded. Jaw set.

"My brother has his own reasons for what he does, Professor, reasons that often he shares with no one but himself. Just know that Heath is attempting to protect the doctor..."

"By frightening her witless? She claims he’s been playing with time all around her." Harry’s eyes darkened. "If he's trying to protect her, he's surely got her convinced otherwise."

"Well, if he wasn’t attempting to save her, certainly she’d be dead by now..."

Harry whipped out his wand, green eyes flashing. The sixteen hours of pent-up frustration, hurt and anger were about to be taken out on Zach... who, being a probable Cabalistica spy deserved no less.

"One of my very first and very best friends is being stalked and manipulated by your brother," he said, pointing his wand at Zachary Raupp. "And you will tell me everything you know. Now."

Zach opened his mouth to say something and turned his palms outward in a gesture of conciliation, but the sound of the door slamming loudly behind him cut off anything he would have said. Zach whirled around to see the door lock itself.

"Professor, you're going about this all wrong. If I knew anything..." Zach began to plead.

"You expect me to believe you know nothing of your brother's actions and how he's endangering my friend's life?" Harry nearly laughed. He'd heard some pathetic excuses before in his counter-magiterrorism work, but sheer ignorance was so simple that it was almost never used... and if it was, coercion usually made it crumble.

"I never said that I didn't know anything. I was about to say that I don't know anything that I can tell you without endangering the lives of both you and Hermione. You're telling me you've never kept secrets out of necessity?"

Harry lowered his wand.

"This is not about me," Harry bristled. "It’s about what Heath’s intentions are towards Hermione..."

Dauntless, Zach pressed on. "You know, Professor, you worry so much about Dr. Granger that it's no wonder Diana left you. She's a good person at heart. You just can't stand that she has the exact same flaws you do. Do you really detest your own personality that much?"

Harry was shocked. He'd had a speech prepared about how keeping vital information from a Black and Potter superior was worthy of an insubordination hearing, but this was fast turning into an analysis of Harry's very character.

Zach sighed deeply, knowing he’d overstepped his bounds.

"I’m sorry, sir, but it needed to be said. You wish for others to respect your privacy, and yet you don’t choose to do the same. Now, both Professor Oliveira and I passed all the security tests for the Portal Island of Ayr. If we had ill intent, we wouldn’t have been allowed to enter.

"Neither of us have any contact with Heath at this time. So please, can you not believe we’re evil? I’ve heard about the great Harry Potter since I was a child, and I want to enjoy my internship with you. Watch me like a hawk if you must, stir Veritaserum into all my meals, but don’t judge me before you get the chance to know who I am and what I stand for." Zach’s tone was steady and serious. "Sir, I am Heath’s brother, but I am not my brother."

Harry sighed. "Well, I must notify Sirius and the other board members of your relationship to Heath, whose description has been entered to our database. You may be interrogated, and we can’t grant you disk access to the Foundation below until the board is satisfied that you’re not a mole."

For the first time, Zach’s eyes seemed hesitant and unsure, almost as if he was debating on whether or not to say something. Then the truth won out.

"Professor, I’ll undergo interrogation willingly. Today, if you like. However, before I do, there is something that I must share with you and no one else. May I?"

Harry studied the youth’s face. "Go on."

"The Cabalistica has already infiltrated Black and Potter. Please don’t ask me how I know this, and I don’t know the spy’s identity. I have learned, however, that the mole is one of the higher-ups on your board... someone who has turned... someone who’s got Mr. Black’s ear."

"Who?" Harry’s mind was racing, forming a list of all their European and North American operatives.

"I’m not sure, sir," said Zach. "But I’ll do everything I can to help you find out."

Harry’s eyes narrowed. "And just why should I trust you?"

"Let’s just say that if you do, you’ll be glad you did. As soon as I can, I’ll reveal more about how I know what I know, and how Diana’s and my family are connected. But we don’t have that kind of time right now..."

At that moment, there was a loud swoosh! in the fireplace behind them. The head of Stacy Apostolides, Black and Potter’s special assistant to the executive director, had appeared in the middle of the flames.

"Hey, teach?" she asked. "You there?"

Shooting a "stay put" glance at Zach, Harry walked out into the living room. "Right here. Anything wrong?"

"Well, just get down here as soon as you can. Sirius wants you right away. Seems that there’s a guest waiting for you at the school... a MagiCarded Muggle." Stacy paused. "He contacted Sirius early this morning and Janet and I arranged his transport here."

"A Muggle, wanting access to Ayr? Who is it?"

"Hmm, let me check... here it is. A Mr. Theodore Granger..."

Harry turned extremely pale. "Theodore Granger? That’s Hermione’s dad.... what, is there something wrong with Hermione?"

Stacy’s eyes widened. "Now that you mention it, that’s who he reminded me of. And as for Hermione, I haven’t heard anything yet, but I’m sure Mr. Granger could tell you more about that..."

"I’ll be there right away," said Harry quickly. Turning around, looking for Zach...

But the younger man had already Disapparated. Where, Harry didn’t know.

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

Ted Granger was waiting for Harry in the plush circular classroom. Sitting on a window seat. Staring out of the window at the unfamiliar surroundings. October on Ayr was a bit warmer than latitude and longitude should have dictated, and to a Muggle, the Indian summer day must have seemed uncanny.

Hermione’s father was in shirt sleeves and trousers, a bit more dressed down than Harry ever remembered seeing him before. His brown curls, salted liberally with gray, were a bit unruly. He had not shaved, either. There were dark circles beneath his dark brown eyes... eyes almost exactly like his daughter’s.

For the first time in a long time, Harry didn’t feel intimidated in the slightest by him. This was an accomplishment for him. The selfsame man who had faced down the most formidable Dark wizards and witches of his time was usually completely unnerved by this rather pompous Muggle man.

Harry was sure that there had been a time when he wasn’t nervous around by Ted Granger. As a kid, he hadn’t known much or cared much about Hermione’s parents. He didn’t really notice them until she had the O.W.L.s revision weekend at her home during fifth year, and then only to note where his best friend had got the various bits of her personality from--her sweetness and caring from Caroline, her drive and bossiness from her dad.

It wasn’t until he began to want more from Hermione than friendship that her parents began to matter to him. After they’d come back from Tartarus, he found himself wanting to know all about where she’d come from, what her relatives were like. Did she have anyone other than her parents? he asked Hermione, during their time together in Avalon, and she’d told him as they walked hand in hand through one of that island world’s many orchards.

He’d learned that three of her grandparents had died before she was born, that her maternal grandmother had been dear to her, that Nana Helen had died when she was five. She shared that her father did have one living first cousin whom his parents helped raise after his mother’s sister died long ago. That cousin, Dorothy, was a solicitor who had met and married an American lawyer while working in Durban, South Africa. The couple lived in Boston and had a daughter around Hermione’s age.

"Darice is really very nice, but I’ve not seen her very often since childhood." Hermione had shrugged nonchalantly. "That’s all the family I’ve got, I think. Not much."

"More than me," he’d laughed. "Your mum is the best, though... for a dentist, she certainly makes excellent treacle tart."

"Sugar-free treacle tart, that is," Hermione had groaned, pulling a face. "You can’t know how much I miss gorging on all those sweets at Hogwarts, Harry. I swear to never feed my children saccharine."

"Our children," he’d corrected her. And on Avalon, she’d smiled and whispered "of course" against his lips just before she kissed him in earnest...

One small mercy in the entire Avalon situation was that Harry didn’t have to ask Ted Granger’s blessing for anything regarding his daughter. He who invariably greeted Ron with uncharacteristic warmth, clasping the youngest Weasley son’s upper arm, shaking his hand as if he were a long-lost son, always treated Harry rather coolly. When he had occasion to visit the Granger home during youth and young adulthood, he noticed Ted’s eyes following him.

Invariably, the look in them was hostile.

Caroline Granger wasn’t like that. Where Molly Weasley was nurturing, fussing over her children’s friends just as if they were more of their own, Caroline was more like a friend. She was the kind of woman who a bloke could ask for honest and clear advice if he needed it, who could put the feminine perspective into terms any man could understand. With the husband and daughter she had, Caroline had to be the diplomat. Harry had liked helping her clear away after a dinner party just to have a chat...

But that was all a long time ago. Caroline was sleeping beneath the soil of an Oxfordshire graveyard, and Ted was here now. Wanting to have a chat. Presumably about his daughter.

"Good afternoon, Harry," Ted said. "Got anything to drink?"

Harry was taken aback. "Er, well I... none in the classroom. But I could send word down to the kitchens and ask the steward for..."

"No, if you don’t have it here right now then never mind. Have a seat, please."

Still caught off guard, Harry sat.

"You might be wondering why I called and asked to come today. Well, I think you should know that you were my last resort." Ted paused and cocked an eyebrow, obviously waiting for a response.

"Well, that’s good to know," said Harry, biting back several sharp retorts.

"Whatever is so good about it? Don’t you want to know why I’m here?"

Harry cleared his throat. "I assume it’s got something to do with Hermione."

"Yes, it does. You know, I was against her going to that wizard school from the start. I often regret letting my wife talk me into it. Caroline’s own mother believed in magic and all that, believed that our daughter was something special, and my Carol always could talk me into anything. My daughter could have done well for herself, Harry, without all the hocus-pocus and wand-waving and muttering spells and other mumbo-jumbo nonsense." The eyebrow raised again. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

"I think," Harry said slowly, "that Hermione is one of the most talented witches the world has ever seen. You’ve got a lot to be proud of."

"I’m proud of her Oxford education and her work in pathology. Hermione was bound to do well in everything she set her mind to... she’s got my tendency to see things through. I loved her mother, love her still, but my daughter’s made of tougher substance than my wife. Which is why I’ve come." His confident pose seemed to wilt a bit. "Harry, Hermione has gone missing."

Harry’s first instinct was to Disapparate and begin a search. I should have never let her out of my sight... why the hell did I let her go when I knew this would happen?

Stay calm, Harry. This has happened before. And the most recent time it happened, Hermione went missing on purpose.

"How long since she was last seen?"

"I last saw her on the twenty-second of last month. It was a Saturday. I drove her to Heathrow and saw her off to Brazil. She was to fly from London to Miami, from Miami to Rio de Janeiro, and from Rio to Manaus... do you even know where that is?"

Harry was going to explain where Manaus was located until he realized that Ted was not wanting information, he was being condescending. He didn’t tell the man that he not only had been all over this world, but had trekked over several others in half Ted’s lifespan. He didn’t say anything, though... this was still Hermione’s dad, and he needed to figure out what was going on.

"Right, then," Ted continued when Harry fell silent. "She was supposed to either Spider or phone me at each airport. Caroline and I traveled to Brazil long ago on a dentistry mission to the Amazon when we were first out of Oxford. Beautiful country, but it can be dangerous in spots. I distinctly ordered her to phone me in both Rio and Manaus."

"I got a call in the middle of the night from Miami. She told me everything was fine, that her flight was lovely, that her friend Jack had come down from Georgia to meet her," here he studied Harry’s face for a reaction, and finding none, continued, "and said she’d be phoning me from Rio the same time next day. The call never came." He shook his head. "She never called."

"Did she call this Jack from Brazil?" asked Harry calmly, inwardly hating that particular CDC director beyond all reason.

"No, she didn’t. He drove her from the airport, put her on the plane, and that’s the last anyone’s seen of her..."

"Was she really on that plane, or do you only have Jack’s word for it?" Trying to stay calm. Objective. After all, this was his workspace, where he taught dozens of students on a daily basis to separate their will from their emotions. No sense in being angry at a Muggle who was half a world away when there were more pressing matters at stake.

"She appears on the passenger manifest of all three flights. Even the Rio to Manaus one... when she hadn’t phoned when she was supposed to, I didn’t worry. My Hermione has always been independent. Yet when Jack phoned the next day--he told her to check in with him as well--I began to grow concerned.

"She didn’t answer her cell phone. She didn’t return Spidered messages. I phoned Hugh Turner, but his answering machine picked up at home and his secretary claimed he was still on holiday.

"Hugh arrived back in England on the twenty-sixth. He came to my office straightaway. He was alarmed that Hermione had gone on to Brazil... not only had he not authorized the trip, he hadn’t any idea that the World Health Organization was planning a project there. Yet Hermione told me that Hugh offered her this job in person." Ted shook his head. "I reported her missing that same day."

You should have contacted us that same day, Harry thought, trying not to be angry. Muggles always wanted to come up with a rational explanation for everything. The fact that Hermione had spoken with a not-Hugh should have flagged magical involvement. Ted should have known that... in order to receive a MagiCard, Muggles received a full seminar conducted by the Ministry of Magic within the privacy of their homes.

Harry was willing to bet that it was Caroline who’d been attentive during their seminar, and Ted had been there in body only.

"Have you contacted the Ministry of Magic already?"

"Not until she’d been missing for three weeks. I didn’t think of it, really... she’s not been active in your world for years now. Once I did, I used Hermione’s owl--she left him behind--and sent a letter directly to the Minister himself. Hermione told me long ago that was the thing to do, and I remembered it." He sat back, folding his arms.

This was getting worse and worse. So Brian Riordan, or one of his staff members, had known that Hermione was missing before he had. And what Brian knew, somehow the Cabalistica always ended up finding out... although the man was supposedly estranged from his wife, it was common knowledge that she influenced him still.

"Did Brian respond?"

"Yes, he did, and right away. He came to my home the very next day, accompanied by a few foreign blokes. Confeds, he called them. They took a lot of notes, said they’d contact their counterparts in America and Brazil, and they’d get back with me. That was a week ago.

"It’s been the longest week of my life. Last night I had a nightmare. Made me wish I had never used that owl after all. I awoke and went to Hermione’s bedroom, searching for something, for that owl of hers never returned after I sent it to the Ministry... and I turned up a card for Black and Potter. Funny how there’s no address on it. Yet I turned it over on the back, and found your name and Spider information."

"Well, we’re a private organization," Harry said. "We do keep one phone on the island, because there are a few MagiCarded Muggle government officials who like to stay in touch. Our friends who go between the worlds have the number as well."

"I’m grateful that you did," said Ted Granger, frankly. "I spoke with Mr. Black, who arranged for me to come here without delay. When I got here, I wanted to speak to only you. So here I am."

Harry studied Ted Granger’s lined face for a couple of moments. Then he stood up, walked a few feet away, and stared out of the window.

She’s not dead. She can’t be. If she were dead, I’d know it the same way I knew when Dumbledore and Hagrid died. There is no way she could pass out of this world without me knowing.

But she’s in trouble. In the back of my mind I’ve known it all month. This isn’t something she’s doing on purpose. The Brazil job was a set-up... but why Brazil? Why do they want her there, of all places?

She overestimates herself... always has. She’s one heck of a witch, but in the end, she is only one witch.

I hope she didn’t leave her wand like last time. At least she’s got two of them now, one for each hand...

As if that will help. I doubt if the Cabalistica is as stupid as they were three years ago. From the state of wizarding world affairs today, I know they aren’t. They won’t be so arrogant as they were last time. They’ll surround her with legions of Cabalistica minions.

I don’t know why they want her.

She’s in trouble.

She’s in trouble and I have no idea where she is. I can’t keep her safe. I can’t stop those holding her against her will from hurting her.

If they’ve hurt her...

This is the last time this will ever happen.

I will find her. I will make whoever did this pay.

And once I find her, letting her out of my sight again won’t be an option.

Every time I’ve let her go away from me, she’s walked into one bad situation after another. A marriage that should have never happened. A vain lamia. A stalker who thinks time is his toy. Now this.

Damn her stubborn pride. Damn being her own witch.

Women’s liberation is all well and good, but it’s far past time for her to realize that she’s not just her own... she is mine.

Ted came to stand next to Harry.

"Is there something outside that window that will help you find my daughter faster? If not, then what’s all this about?"

"Nothing." Harry snapped out of it and turned towards the father of the woman he loved. "I’m glad you let us in on what’s been happening. And trust me, we will find Hermione for you."

"For me... or for you, Harry?"

"Ultimately, for herself," Harry replied without missing a beat. "Once she’s back safe and sound, she’ll be free to make her own choices."

"She made her choice a long time ago," Ted said flatly. Studying Harry’s face intently.

"We make choices every day, Mr. Granger. Muggle or witch, we make choices... and sometimes, we change our minds. I'll call a board meeting with the rest of the staff, and we will find your daughter."

To Harry's utmost shock, the corner of Ted Granger’s mouth twitched, as if he wanted to smile but was so unused to the gesture that he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it.

Janet appeared at the door. "Professor, Dr. Granger, there’s tea in the staff room. Can I tempt either of you?"

"Thanks, Janet. Perhaps you can show our guest where it is, and I’ll be along shortly. I need to find Stacy and set up an emergency board meeting for tomorrow morning. We may need your help alerting the network, too, if you don’t mind."

"Certainly, Professor. Dr. Granger, if you’ll just come this way..."

Just before Ted left, he did something that he’d never done before.

In passing, he patted Harry’s shoulder.

"Wonder how much red tape I'd have to go through if you weren't in love with her. Let me know when you get any information."

And out he walked, leaving a stunned Harry in his wake.

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

Next afternoon, around the same time of day.

Executive suite, The Black and Potter Foundation.

Carole was waiting for Sirius when the emergency board meeting was over. She’d set up the picnic on the small conference table instead of in their usual spot behind the manor. With her right hand, she graded a stack of World Magical Cultures exams. With her left, she swished her wand in order to amuse their three year old son... blowing bubbles for him to catch.

Little Max was in the middle of a leap when he saw his dad. Before he could even react, Sirius swooped down upon him and placed him atop his shoulders.

"Whee! Turn around, Dad!"

Sirius obliged, allowing himself and Max a spin or two. Then he set him down before he could whine about "wanting to play with Snuffles". It amused his son to no end that his father and pet were one and the same, even if that pet were a huge bear of a black dog.

He walked over to his wife. Carole looked up with a grin, setting down a quill that dripped with blood-red ink. "I didn’t want to break our routine," she said. "It’s been a long time since you’ve worked on Sunday."

He leaned down and pecked the tip of her nose. "I see you’re working, too."

"A teacher’s work never ends," she replied. "As well you know."

Sirius shook his head, sitting down next to her. "Yes, but it’s very well that I’m no longer upstairs. I don’t have anywhere near your patience level. Harry is a much better headmaster than I ever was."

"You sell yourself short. Without you, the school would have never been."

"The vision was both of ours jointly. Harry came out of the war with unshaped ideas about what to do if we wanted to prevent the next one, and while he was recuperating in Avalon I had plenty of time to formulate a plan. He was the visionary; I the shaper."

"How did he take your decision in the meeting today?"

Sirius let out a gust of breath. "Not well."

"You anticipated that, though."

"Harry doesn’t understand. If she were his sister or his wife, our protocol would demand that he not be directly involved. There is no way he can be objective when it comes to her... he could jeopardize the entire team." He shrugged. "Besides, he’s got a school to run and classes to teach. Not to mention a wedding to plan once Diana comes to her senses."

"Don’t you think that girl is gone for good, Sirius?" asked Carole. "When Diana came around yesterday morning she seemed pretty distraught. I’ve never seen her look like that before."

"Lovers’ quarrel," said Sirius. "They haven’t had one yet. Better for them to blow off steam now than to let it build up until December."

Carole nodded. "Who are you sending to South America instead?"

But before Sirius could answer, there was a knock. Without waiting for a response, seconds later the door swung open and Harry stepped in. The agenda from the board meeting was a parchment roll in his hand.

"Excuse me, but do you have a moment?"

Sirius glanced at his wife, then at his godson. "Can this wait until after lunch?" he asked, standing up in a gesture of conciliation.

"No." Tone flat. "We need to discuss this. Now."

Carole looked from one man to the other. Neither was breaking eye contact. Sighing to herself, she picked up Max before he could reach Harry in greeting, and said, "We’ll be outside. It’s getting a bit too chilly for picnicking on the grounds, but there are lots of piles of leaves on the ground to jump into, aren’t there?"

Max laughed. "See you soon, Harry!" he giggled, as Harry smiled in spite of himself and Sirius mouthed a "thank you" to his wife over the little boy’s head.

The second the door closed, Sirius spoke before the barely checked anger on Harry’s face could form words.

"Harry, the selection of the team was by joint board consensus. We are sending operatives to South America solely based on their experience and skill level."

"Experience and skill? Qing-Jao’s only got six months’ field training. Last year this time Wiley was a foreign correspondent for the Daily Prophet. I’m more capable of getting the job done than all six of them combined..."

"Nice to see you’ve retained your characteristic modesty as well," remarked Sirius dryly. "What you fail to realize is that no one in that meeting even considering sending you. You are in the middle of a school term... you took time enough off when you went searching for the girl before.

"Which brings me to another crucial point. Everyone who knows you knows that Hermione Granger has been one of your very best friends for years... including everyone at the Foundation. Several know that you feel something more than friendship for her. Now, once she’s back, you and I can both talk to her about the security risk that she poses by going off into the Muggle world unarmed. We can also get more particulars on this Heath character..."

Harry listened to his godfather making plans and at the same time didn’t listen. He hadn’t shared with Sirius his newfound suspicions about both Diana and Zach. It was indicative of his relationship with Sirius these days... cordial, professional, but with a minimum of affection and warmth. He knew the cause of it, of course.

Did all things in his life begin and end with the selfsame woman? Was she the answer to everything?

"No, she is not," said Sirius. "I hate what you’ve allowed her to do to you, Harry."

Harry felt murderous towards this godfather of his, from whom even his very thoughts were not private.

"Well, I hate what you did to us," he said, very quietly. "I trusted you, Sirius. First I trusted your judgment, and then you talked me into giving her up. Then I trusted you to keep my secrets, and you opened your mouth at the worst damned time. So forgive me if I no longer trust your judgment... or trust you."

Sirius shrugged. "You trust me more than you think. Otherwise, you would have never let her leave. You know that I think you’re blind, that you’re better off without her, that if you ever were to have what your heart desires you would regret it."

Harry folded his arms. "Yes, I know that somewhere along the road you grew to hate Hermione... a girl who you once admired, a girl who you even teased me about long ago."

"Yes, long ago. Harry, I... your mother and father are not here, and so there’s no one but me to save you from yourself. Hate is such a strong word. It’s not that I hate Hermione. Quite the contrary. But I do not think that she is the woman for you."

"Right, I know that, of course. You’ve never explained."

"If I explained fully, you’d likely end up attempting something that both of us would regret. So for the thousandth time, I ask you to consider your reasons for wanting a woman who has voluntarily left you three times."

"That’s unfair and you know it! Eleven years ago you forced her to do what she did! Three years ago she was still technically married to Ron, and thought me the worst sort of cad... again because of what you did. And last month I was engaged and she had a job on the other side of the world. She never left me just to spite me. That’s not her, and if you think it is, you know nothing about her."

"I know enough," Sirius replied. "I know that a witch-hyperempath, if not wise about her powers, can Enthrall a wizard when she heals..."

"Be careful, Sirius. Godfather or not, I’d choose my words carefully if I were you," Harry said, cracking his knuckles.

"I am not saying she did it intentionally, Harry. You were very young when you were sent into Tartarus, using magic that has killed many adepts who have tried to wield it. And you cannot wash the poison of that world off very easily... only time and distance can cure you of it, which is why Nephthys, Drakkar, and the other Old encouraged you to seek Avalon. Yet looking at Ron and Hermione, I nearly wish we had sent them away too. At the time, we thought because they’d had comparatively stable childhoods...

"Anyhow, recently I’ve thought about it, and it came to me. Much of what you feel for Hermione just might be due to the healing she performed while you were in Avalon. My theory is that when she was done, she left part of herself inside of you and in return kept a bit of you. Which actually is quite correctable. A simple spell, and..."

"I don’t want any more of your magical solutions," snarled Harry. "I don’t want your wand ever pointed at her again."

"Only see how unreasonable you’re being, Harry..."

"No, you’re being pigheaded and rather stupid. I was half in love with her before we ever went to Tartarus. I can’t believe that you’d try to cheapen the very act that saved my life... if Ron hadn’t found me when he did, and she hadn’t done what she did, I wouldn’t have survived that night.

"I was sixteen years old when I realized that she wasn’t just meant to be my friend. I’m thirty-two now. After spending my childhood saving the world, I’ve spent the entirety of my adult life feeling incomplete... except for three weeks, a night, and a day. I’m tired of regretting and waiting and wanting, Sirius. I’m ready to live."

"Which is why you’re with Diana. I wish you’d wake up and realize what you have underneath your nose."

What, a traitor? A spy? Harry nearly thought, but knew Sirius was listening. "Well, she’s gone, evidently."

"Evidently. She’s the one you need to be going after. Diana has been by your side for the past two years, working for you, taking care of you, loving you. Is it fair to repay her by racing off to search for an arrogant, self-centered witch who has done nothing in recent years but cause you grief?"

Harry’s jaw and fists slowly clenched.

"So you are saying that you hate her. Sirius, if you hate Hermione, then you hate me."

And with that, he turned and walked towards the door.

"You are not to go to South America with the team," called Sirius. "That’s an order, Harry."

Harry did an about-face. In three quick strides, he was face to face with Sirius again.

"I may be your subordinate in the Foundation half of Black and Potter. As Grand Wizard of the Order, you are my superior as well at the stone table. But you’ve been a bloody poor excuse for a godfather, and I am an adult. How I run and staff my school, and how I spend my free time is no longer any of your business."

He tossed the parchment roll with the Black and Potter logo at his godfather and business partner.

"Oh, and Sirius? Don’t ever give me an order again."

***********

Usually when he wanted to be alone to think, Harry flew. Since he’d never had the benefit of conventional magitherapy, it was self-help. He knew his mind could be troubled and tumultuous at times. He could fly without thinking. It was stress relief and fresh air and exercise all at once.

Yet after he stormed out of Sirius’ office, feeling seventeen again, he was too out of sorts to fly. He thought about the antique Danish broomstick, varnish dry, ready for a trial run. But the thought of going back to his lonely cottage at the edge of the woods was abhorrent. He thought of what was waiting for him there... unwashed breakfast dishes in the sink, unchecked student tests on the table, silence, solitude...

Loneliness.

So instead of going flying, Harry sat by the seashore just beyond the ferry landing, watching the waves. He liked beaches, although thanks to his upbringing with the Dursleys and a lack of a physical education course at Hogwarts he could do little more than float. Ron and Hermione were virtual fish, and he remembered the time they tried to teach him how. He and Cho had accompanied them to Ibiza for one of the weekend trips they so loved to take early in their marriage.

Cho could swim as well, but insisted upon sunbathing for a while. He was going to do so as well, but after he’d rubbed lotion on her back and midriff, Ron and Hermione insisted on taking him out. Well, they did more than insist. They practically dragged him to the shore and threw him in.

Water filled his nose and eyes and ears. He panicked, thrashing and flailing. After surviving so many things, he was doomed to drown within sight of a crowded tourist beach.

Above the water, he heard Hermione saying something, then Ron’s hands tugged him back onto his feet. He coughed, water flying out of his nostrils, gulping in sweet breaths of air.

"Harry, it was just four feet of water," Hermione said once he’d recovered, obviously trying her best not to laugh.

Ron was laughing at him. "All you had to do was stand up."

After that, he avoided further impromptu swim lessons, but still enjoyed watching the water. He loved the endless ebb and flow of the waves, the tang of sea-salted air, and the way sand felt a bit like dry snow underfoot.

The cry of a seagull sounded overhead. It was soon joined by another, and the pair of them soared out to sea. Strange that the two birds were separated from their flock... from what he knew of gulls, they seemed to travel in packs... but not strange that a mate would seek its own. He knew nothing of bird mating patterns, but perhaps the one somehow got separated from the rest, and the one it was paired to went to find it.

The same way he’d have to find Hermione.

Harry knew he wasn’t alone even before he looked up to learn the identity of the footsteps he was hearing, crunching through the snow. He was surprised that he wasn’t very annoyed by Zach Raupp’s presence. He welcomed it.

Zach didn’t say anything, just lowered himself onto the chilled ground, eyes fixed on the sea.

"Did you tell Mr. Black about Diana and I, sir?"

Harry shook his head.

"I’ve been away searching for Diana. She’s long gone, Professor." He didn’t seem surprised at Harry’s lack of reaction to this announcement. "I know you wanted answers from her, but since I’m the only one here, I suppose I’ll have to do."

"All I want to know is this. Was she spying for the Cabalistica?"

"Assuredly not," said Zach. "Think about it, Professor. Wouldn’t you have been able to tell if she was? If she or I had ill intent, there are charms that would ensure we never saw the light of day again. No, your problem most likely is underground at the Foundation... one of the staffers, perhaps, who lives and works below."

Harry didn’t say anything. He still did not trust Zach and knew there was far more to him than met the eye. He did, however, think Zach could possibly help him.

"Zachary," he said slowly, "how would you respond if I asked you to do something that could possibly cost you your internship here?"

Zach cocked his head to one side. "Professor, that would depend on what you’re asking me to do."

It only took a minute for Harry to explain the rough outline of his search plan. First, they’d pay a visit to Charlie Weasley in Argentina. Even after having to close Dragonworld because of the topsy-turvy economy, Charlie and Liz were still prominent members of the wizarding community at Bariloche... several hundred expatriates and refugees from the Voldemort Wars made it a European city in the heart of Latin America.

Then unless someone at Bariloche had more information or connections, they’d plunge into Brazil. Harry had only been to Brazil once, for a Quidditch match, and he knew two things about it: it was beneficial if you were fluent in Portuguese, and the wizarding community was a bit more provincial and far more hostile to outsiders than that in Great Britain. So they’d most likely need an interpreter along... but that could wait until they arrived in Argentina.

Of course, Harry didn’t speak much Spanish, either. Wizarding languages he knew aplenty, there was the Latin he’d picked up at Hogwarts, and because of his penchant for foreign women, his past lovers had taught him a smattering of words in languages from Albanian to Gaelic to Urdu. As he’d never had a Latina girlfriend before, about all the Spanish he knew was taco.

He thought, irrelevantly, that Hermione was fluent in French and Latin. She also could get on very well in German, Italian, and Spanish. He had no idea if she’d ever bothered to learn Portuguese. Knowing her, the second she got the Brazilian assignment he knew she was likely off to the local Borders or Spidering at Amazon.com to pick up language discs...

Then he resolved to stop thinking about Hermione at every turn, or else he would drive himself insane.

"Well, I’m fluent in Spanish," said Zach. "It’s a language that was spoken at the school I attended before receiving my wizarding training. Can’t help much with Portuguese, though..." He seemed to be going over the details of Harry’s plan in his mind. "Her destination was Manaus, you say? That’s deep in the Amazon, right?"

"Yeah. You either get there by air or by the river. There are really no viable roads from the South, and it’s a bit too far for accurate Apparition. That’s really all I know about it, but we can do our research once we’re in Argentina before heading north." He sighed. "We don’t even know if she’s in Manaus. For all we know, she never made it there."

"Then she might not still be in Brazil."

"No, I’m fairly certain she’s there, or was there," said Harry, without knowing why he was certain. "The question is where. Brazil is a huge country... far larger than England is, and it’s hard enough finding the missing here. Then, too, when Minister Jobim was assassinated their wizarding government descended into anarchy. Not a good place for known Muggleborns to visit." All things considered, looking at the state of things over there, perhaps Brian Riordan isn’t so bad after all.

"Well, we may actually have more success than the Black and Potter team. In a situation like that, my guess would be that stealth is the key."

I’m still not certain that I trust him, thought Harry. He knows far more about me and my life than I know about him and his. He also read me like an open book yesterday morning. Young upstart.

Can I trust him?

"Professor?" Zach was saying.

"Yes, what is it?"

"I’ll go with you," he said. "Even if it costs me my place here."

Harry was floored. "Why?"

"I’ll tell you. But first, tell me about her. Start at the beginning, on the day you first met, and continue on to the last time you saw her. Tell me why you’re willing to drop everything and risk all because she’s in danger. And then I’ll tell you, but I think you’ll already know."

"Well, those would be my reasons, not yours."

"Not at all. Begging your pardon, sir, but when you went to Tartarus, were all of your reasons so concrete? Did you just go to save your generation, or did you go to save all generations? Did you go just to increase your own magical ability, or did you go to preserve all magic? Did you go just to save your own love, or did you go so that love in general would remain in the world?

"Professor, in the place where I come from, the most abhorrent thing that a man, woman, or child could ever do is to live and die for their own selfish gain. I am going with you because I see her in your eyes. Twenty-first century and women’s rights aside, I believe that a lady in trouble deserves to be snatched out of that trouble if at all possible. So I go with you, and you have my pledge than I will remain with you to the end."

Harry looked into the lad’s clear, frank and unblinking blue eyes... and saw reflected there something innocent... something that cut him to the heart... a reflection of what he had once been.

He sighed. "I’ll welcome your companionship, Zachary. But if we are to be comrades on this mission, I must insist that you call me Harry."

Zach nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "Well, thank you, sir... once we’re off this island, will do."

They clasped hands and shook. Harry clapped Zach on the back, and the younger man smiled.

"So, what are we waiting for? We’ve got a damsel in distress to rescue!"

"Right. Well, then, gather what you’ll need from the manor and meet me at the ferry landing at sunset. But not straight to Argentina, though... before we go, I’d like to extend the invitation to one more person."

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

The next morning.

Weasley home, The Wirral, Liverpool.

When Ron came down to breakfast, Mo was sneezing again. As she prepared pancake batter, she used her wand-hand to stir and the other to blow into one of his paisley handkerchiefs. The boys were already seated at the table. Maury was playing a game with his Piggy Puffs, attempting to charm them up into his spoon via a toy wand, yet only succeeding in snorting a lot of milk on his nose, which he then blew out on his little brother.

"Mummy!" yelled Archie in his shrill toddler’s voice, waving a piece of soggy cold toast. "Maury snot me!"

"Well, then, snot him back," said Ron, coming in.

"Don’t listen to Daddy, you cannot go around snotting people," Mo replied. He looked her over with a grin. Despite the red nose and the smudge of flour on her nose, she was still the loveliest lady he’d ever laid eyes on. Pregnancy only served to enhance her beauty.

He was glad to see that the hives had nearly disappeared. Sleeping in the guest room had helped, although sometimes she slipped in with him. She paid for it the next morning, however, in various rashes and swellings that Blaise Zabini would simply give her creamed potions for, shaking his head at her, and his long bony finger at Ron.

"Pregnancy-induced mate allergy syndrome is nothing to play with," he invariably fussed. "You’ve got to limit physical contact with your wife. It’s only going to get worse until she delivers, and you don’t want her having an allergic reaction that could jeopardize her life or your unborn child’s."

Now, Ron knew from Hermione that Muggle women sometimes suffered from something called PMS, tied into their menstrual cycles or something. As no adult witch ever had to suffer the monthly curse, witch PMS was very different, and far rarer than the form that the version their Muggle sisters suffered from.

When witches got PMS, they were invariably pregnant. The source of the allergy was whoever the sire of the child was. There had been quite a few PMS-induced divorces when here and there a wizard came to realize that his pregnant and glowing witch was now inexpicably allergic to the owlery keeper.

Mo had first shown symptoms of PMS when they got back from their Canadian holiday. She’d sneeze uncontrollably whenever he was in the room. At first, they thought she had a cold, but when she didn’t respond to Pepper-Up Potion or anything from Higginbotham or Parkinson-Locke, they took her to Blaise. Blaise immediately diagnosed the problem, but the cure was a bit more than either of them could take.

"Move out?" said Ron. "You’ve got to be kidding! There’s no way I’m going to abandon my gypsy girl for the next six months. Impossible." He leaned over the examining table to kiss his wife, who coughed in response.

Blaise had warned them of all the dangers, but really, Ronald and Maureen Weasley found it rather hard to keep their hands off one another. They’d been together for all intents and purposes for five years and married for three, and were still the same fun-loving, passionate and well-matched couple they’d been since the beginning.

At first when they learned she had PMS, Ron had been tentative about kissing, touching, and lovemaking, but Mo wasn’t. "No pain, no gain," she’d say, and after all was said and done he’d invariably be left with a huge Cheshire grin on his face.

He had the same grin on his face as he walked over to the counter, spun his wife around, and kissed her until even her sniffles subsided.

"Ewwy! Mummy and Daddy are playing kissy-face again!" said Maury in disgust, while Artie simply giggled hysterically.

Mo then gasped suddenly, breaking the kiss.

Achoo!

Artie nearly fell off his chair. "Mummy snot Daddy," he said between chortles, bright red fringe dipping into the milk that remained in his bowl.

Mo grabbed up a tea-towel and wiped her husband’s face.

"Oh no, babe, I’m sorry about that."

"I’m not," he said, smoothing her hair back. "How are you feeling?"

Her reply was another sneeze, this time caught on the tea-towel. "What did I do to deserve this punishment? All I ever wanted was to love my husband in every way possible and this is the thanks I get... I get sick every time I’m near him."

Ron’s hand went to her beautifully rounded midriff.

"Well, it’s not a life sentence, is it? Just a few months more, and you’ll be giving me another son."

"Don’t you ever tire of boys?" asked Mo, nose still buried in the towel.

"When I do, we’ll wrap things up with a baby girl. Which is the way families should be... lots of brothers, and then a sister at last."

"No, that’s the way your family is," laughed Maureen. "Think I’m Penelope Weasley, do you?"

Ron smiled. "Well, you’ve got her beat as it is. Penny was only pregnant twice... the first time with P.J., and the second with the twins. She got a ready-made family in the other four. Are you saying we ought to adopt?"

She kissed him again, ignoring her sniffles.

"Not on your life. Genes as sexy as yours ought to be preserved for the benefit of posterity."

There was a firm knock on the door. Ron let his wife go reluctantly and went to answer it, sons racing to it in front of them.

When they saw the visitor, Maury and Artie jumped up and down.

"Uncle Harry, Uncle Harry!" shouted Artie, giggling as Harry tossed him up seconds after greeting Ron, leaving him suspended in mid-air.

"Have you brought us presents, Uncle Harry?" asked Maury, and was rewarded with a sack of assorted Honeydukes sweets. "I knew it!"

"Harry, stop that, they just ate," said Mo cordially, coming out of the kitchen. "Still ready to boil me in hot Horklump oil?" Her tone was light, but she wasn’t smiling.

"Actually, Maureen, I need to talk to both of you. Something has happened that put everything that’s gone on over the past couple of months into perspective."

"It’s Hermione, isn’t it?" asked Ron. "What’s wrong?"

They sat down, kids playing underfoot. Harry recounted what Ted Granger had shared with him, and as much of the day before’s Foundation meeting as he dared disclose. Then he shared the plan he’d formulated with Zachary Raupp, who was in Diagon Alley finalizing their travel arrangements.

"I’d like you to come along with us, Ron," said Harry.

"Are you certain about that, Harry?"

"I’d like to know how I’d be able to do it without you. Ron, I need you along... I can’t do without you. You have to do this for me. And her, of course. Think about it. She’d do the same for you and so would I. No matter what’s gone wrong in recent years."

Ron glanced over at his wife. She’d stopped sniffling. Her face had become extremely hard, even though she was holding Artie on her lap.

He turned back to Harry. "How soon do you want to leave?"

"This afternoon, if at all possible. Zach has reserved three tickets on Aerolineas Argentinas for Buenos Aires. We’ll be there this time tomorrow."

"Have you owled Charlie?" Ron asked, immediately standing up and walking to the sofa table for a rather large owl directory.

"No, I thought it would be better if we surprised him, for security reasons. I didn’t want to owl from Ayr."

"Knowing Charlie, we had better owl in advance. He and Liz tend to travel a lot these days since little Elizabeth’s at Hogwarts now. You don’t want them to be in Romania or Hungary or China when we show up on their doorstep... here, just a brief note to let them know we’re coming..." He was reaching for a parchment and scrawling quickly. "Scout, bring Dad’s sealing-wax from the desk upstairs." Maury raced upstairs.

Then Ron turned to his wife. "Won’t you go and pack a few things up for me, love?"

Mo’s lips were set into a firm little line. "I can’t believe this. Just like that, eh? You’ll drop everything and run after her? What about your family? What about me?"

"You’ll be well taken care of... I know gold’s been scarce enough lately, but you’ll have enough to... anyway, you’ll know how to get in touch with me. I’ll make sure of that."

"It isn’t enough," said Mo flatly. "Why do you always have to go running after her? Bad enough that he always does it," here her eyes flashed at Harry, "when most likely this is another one of her attention-gathering stunts..."

"It is not," said Harry. "No one has seen Hermione for a month. No one. Now, perhaps you don’t care whether or not she disappears from the face of the earth, but your husband certainly does!"

"He’s my husband now," snapped Mo. "Haven’t I suffered enough because of that fact? Hasn’t she made sure I knew how much she and all the other witches in our set hated me because of Ron? Why should I give an imp’s arse what becomes of her?"

"Maureen," Ron said quietly, before Harry said or did something that wouldn’t have been proper for children to witness, "I’m not tagging along with Harry to plunge down onto my knees and beg her to take me back, you know. Hermione isn’t my wife any longer, but there is always the Covenant."

"Which she broke."

"Yes, she did... but Harry and I didn’t. I owe her my life, love... without her, you wouldn’t have ever met me. Surely you understand why I have to."

Tears were running down Mo’s face. Ron walked over to her, reaching out a thumb to dry them. As for Harry, he was so angry that he’d turned toward the fireplace, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets.

Ron pulled his wife close. She sneezed into his chest, crying openly now. He whispered into her hair how much he loved her, how she was the only one for him, how she’d brought so much happiness into his life. Asking her if she would show how kind and generous and unselfish she was by supporting him in this. Promising that when they brought back Hermione safe and sound, she could let the other witch know exactly how she felt about things.

"If you don’t want me to go, Mo," he said finally, "just say the word and I won’t."

The look on Harry’s face spoke volumes. Still he said nothing. The situation was too dire, and he needed Ron, who was perhaps one of the best-trained wizards in the world when it came to reconnaissance. Although it had been more than a decade since Ron had gone off on such a quest, he had been trained at seventeen by Drakkar the Chalybian. Those kinds of lessons one couldn’t exactly forget, no matter how hard one tried.

Still, he made a mental note to let Maureen Ludlam Weasley know exactly what he thought of her once Hermione was all right. Crying as if she was the one in danger...

"You can go," said Mo. "Only because you have to."

Ron leaned over and kissed her. "I love you."

"Yeah, yeah. Just come back to me in one piece."

"Oh, we happen to be very good at that," said Ron, winking at Harry. "Got full marks in that ‘coming back alive’ column every time."

"Let’s hope your luck holds," Mo replied. "Harry, you know you owe me."

If you weren’t a woman, I’d... "Sure. Put it on my tab. That’s how your husband usually does it."

She stared at him, obviously resenting his lighthearted tone. Didn’t he understand what he was taking away from her?

"I’ll run upstairs and pack you a bag," she sighed finally, then disappeared.

"She’ll be all right," said Ron quickly. "Just that Hermione isn’t her cup of tea. Had you come wanting to rescue Diane Riordan herself, I doubt she would have been as stubborn."

"Do you think they’ll always resent each other?" asked Harry. "Mo and Hermione, I mean?"

Ron shrugged. "Hard to tell with witches. They aren’t as simple as we are, I guess. Know how they’ll bring up something that happened five or ten years ago in the middle of a blazing row?"

"Oh, yeah... and it’ll be totally irrelevant to whatever you’re talking about. For certain."

"Frustrating. They ought to be more like us."

Harry considered this. "I’m sure they say the same about blokes. Anyway, if we find Hermione, we can have her send a brief owl to Mo or something..."

"When we find Hermione, you mean," corrected Ron.

He let out a heavy breath. "I don’t know what I’ll do if we don’t find her, Ron."

Ron had an indecipherable look on his face. "We’ll find her, Harry. And when we do, the two of you need to sit down somewhere and have a long talk, I guess... but first, we’ve got to find her. And we will find her, understand? You’ve got to know that."

Harry nodded.

"Great. Let me get my pack, kiss the wife and kids good-bye... and then we’re off to Brazil via Argentina."

***********

Tuesday, October 23, 2012. Afternoon.

Executive suite, The Black and Potter Foundation.

Sirius Black finished the memorandum. With one hand, he fanned the ink on the parchment dry and called for his assistant.

"Stacy, can you get Harry in the fireplace for me?"

"Sure thing, sir... just one moment."

When she returned, she had an odd look on her face.

"Well, Stacy? What is it?"

Stacy wrung her hands before answering. "Um, well... it seems as if the Professor isn’t in this morning. Janet MacCulloch is covering his and Diana Oliveira’s classes."

"Then get him at home."

"According to Janet, he isn’t there either."

"Then when will he be back? Did you ask her that?"

She walked over to the desk and put her hand on her boss and friend’s shoulder.

"He’s taken a leave of absence. Left Jocelyn in charge, as the length of his leave is indeterminate." She sighed. "Sirius, I think he’s gone to South America anyway."

Sirius’ fist plunged down on the desk.

"Damn!"

**********

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

i am never without it (anywhere i go you go, my dear;

and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear not fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)

i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

~e.e. cummings

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