Trouble In Paradise

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

DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognize from the work of the incomparable J.K. Rowling, I don’t own. The Goblin King Jareth belongs to Lucas Films and Jim Henson Productions, as does Sarah. Goliath, Hudson, and Elisa Maza belong to Walt Disney Company and Buena Vista Television. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Seven – The Reconciliation



"Here’s to you, as good as you are,

And here’s to me, as bad as I am,

As bad as I am, as good as you are,

I’m as good as you are, bad as I am."

--Wedding Toast, England, c. 1300

 

Everything happened at once.

Simon, still looking a lot like Not-Colin even with blond hair, ran back into the Leaky Cauldron and up to the unconscious Hermione, who still looked like me. Reaching into his robes and retrieving his wand, he tore open the brown cloak she was wearing and searched for a pulse.

"Someone call for the stretcher-bearers!" he yelled. "Now!"

At Simon’s urging, I got a wet, clean dishtowel from Tom and pressed it to Hermione’s forehead, then whispered words of reassurance that must have fallen on deaf ears. I received no response from her whatsoever.

Sirius reappeared in his regular wizard form and tapped the other Not-Colin, who seemed to be frozen into place. Not-Colin-One was kneeling on the other side of her, one hand resting on the damp cloth absently. The other hand stroked the top of her head. I gathered that he wanted to sit her up so that he could cushion her from the hard stone floor, but I stopped him. From the little I remembered of first aid from my days as a flying teacher and Quidditch ref at Hogwarts, I knew that an unconscious person should be moved with extreme care.

Judging from his expression, "careful" was not a word I’d use to describe Not-Colin-One’s state at that point.

"We’ve got to change her back!" Sirius said urgently. " There isn’t much time, Harry..."

The stringbean wizened wizard who’d been confused by the sight of two of me was even more confused by the sight of two of Colin. He removed his spectacles, and rubbed them. Peering into them once more, he took them off and rubbed again, this time with vim.

I couldn’t blame that old wizard. The Harry Potter I knew was a man of action. Indecision didn’t suit him well at all.

Harry-as-Not-Colin-One wasn’t moving at all. "The baby..."

"If we don’t, you know what could happen to both her and the baby! She can’t be treated in this state."

"Look at how much blood she’s losing. A forced transformation will kill her... it’s violent enough when you’re in perfectly good health..."

Sirius’ wand was upraised. "Harry, move aside..."

"Don’t touch her, damn it!"

A tiny buzzing interrupted them. It was Hermione’s pager, which I suppose had an alarm function. I looked up... Simon was no longer Not-Colin-Two, but his usual charming self.

When I glanced towards him again, Harry’s scar had reappeared and his eyes were turning bright green again. His hair turned black again and grew quickly past his ears... he was wearing it medium length, which made it appear a lot less messy. Then he squinted... fumbling for his glasses in Colin-sized robes that had begun to tear at the seams.

The watching customers gasped. The wizened wizard again was the unofficial spokesperson for them all.

"Dragon’s blood! It’s Harry Potter!"

Sirius no longer could wait for his godson’s cooperation. In an instant, his wand was in his hand, and he was pressing the tip of it gently into Hermione’s ear.

"Revelare," Sirius whispered softly, even as her skin began to lighten and her limp figure began to shrink and curve back into its normal state. Sirius kept his wand in her ear throughout the entire metamorphosis.

Within a moment, she was Hermione again, but a very sick Hermione, virtually swimming in my cloak. Blood was pooling around her abdomen. Her breath came in soft rattles.

She was coming around, but was still very weak. She muttered something to her best friend that I couldn’t quite catch... and Harry must have heard it, because he replied, "Don’t try to talk right now, Hermione. We’ll owl Ron and..."

That’s when she began vomiting red. Tom brought over a bucket and more dishtowels. The gawkers were alarmed... they thought she was coughing up blood... but Tom quickly informed everyone that she had been drinking tomato juice... and for Merlin’s sake, to stop screaming and shouting.

Not a moment too soon, four stretcher-bearers flung open the Leaky Cauldron’s door and rushed towards Hermione, hoisting a polished oak rod tipped with gold high above their heads. Stretcher-bearers are invariably gnomes, dressed in white hooded cloaks with multicolored insignia that corresponded to their various guilds. Like Gringotts goblins, they are smaller than normal men, but much stronger.

Before our eyes, the stretcher-bearers dipped the rod to their waists, and with a quick motion stretched the rod into a rectangular frame with gold-tipped corners. In the middle of it, a comfortable cot with pristine white lines appeared. This they put on the ground, then rushed over to Hermione.

As Harry held her head upright, one of the gnomes placed a round bottle of a thick lavender liquid to Hermione’s lips. Although I didn’t see her sip, some of it disappeared and a vein of red appeared in the vial.

Next, another gnome poured a paper full of minuscule yellow bubble-balls into her mouth... sulfurous smoke began to curl from between her lips. Simon dabbed traces red, yellow, and purple away from the corners of her mouth with his handkerchief... Harry’s fingers stroked her forehead, her cheeks, her brows... and then the gnomes bustled us all aside.

The other two gnomes levitated her quite easily onto the stretcher. The first said in a high-pitched voice, "St. Mungo’s!" and they were gone. Exactly how gnomes transport their patients to A and E departments is a huge mystery to everyone. They don’t fly, they don’t have licenses to Apparate or Disapparate, and the Floo Network is too traumatic for the terminally ill. Unexplained gnome feats such as this perhaps led to the popular saying, "only the gnomes know."

"I’m going to the hospital," Simon said. "Those A&E doctors are so harried that they’re bound to overlook something."

Sirius nodded. "Harry and I will notify Ron. Angelina, if you’d head to the Burrow and..."

They didn’t have to tell me twice. I was gone before Sirius could even finish his directive.

 

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

When Hermione finally came to in St. Mungo’s Intensive Care Unit later that evening, Ron was by her side. Many others were crowded into the small room as well, including her parents, Harry, and the majority of the extended Weasley family. This crowding horrified the doctors as much as it had Madame Pomfrey in days of old, but as there were more of us than there were of them, they couldn’t say much.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open for the first time in many hours a little before ten o’ clock. She appeared disoriented for less than five seconds. Then her normal thoughtful expression returned as she glanced around the room.

I couldn’t interpret the first sound Ron made. Whether he laughed or snorted or cried... it didn’t make a difference. They gazed at one another as if they were afraid to blink. She reached a weak hand up to touch the side of his face. With trembling fingers, he did the same, running callused knuckles and fingertips against her jawline, her temples.

Her lips parted slowly.

"I’m... I’m sorry I scared everyone."

We all began to protest about her causing us any trouble at all, but the nurse who’d been checking Hermione’s vital signs shushed us viciously. After Hermione had the chance to greet those who’d come and shake off her grogginess, everyone filed out. Knowing that she and her husband had much to discuss.

Percy and Penelope’s twins were asleep, but Malinda was wide awake and insisted on seeing her Aunt Hermione up close. Fred bent her close so that she could kiss her forehead and be kissed in return. But when our daughter tried to throw her arms around Hermione’s neck in an overly enthusiastic embrace, Fred pulled her back before the skittish nurse could protest.

"She’s my niece, Darcy," Hermione said to the nurse. "Honestly, I’m not made of glass, Darcy. I won’t break."

"Still trying to leap tall mountains in a single bound, are we?" Madam Darcy said. Then to the rest of us, "Dr. Granger needs her rest."

Ron, Hermione, and the Grangers thanked us for coming as we filed out. Madam Darcy left right behind Harry. Since I’d been closest to where Hermione was standing, I was among one of the last ones out. My hands were full of my Prophet satchel, my purse, and the backpack Malinda carried when she went to the Burrow on weekdays.

It was an avalanche waiting to happen... and happen it did, right as Fred, George, Malinda and I reached the swinging door. He put her down and both of the twins started helping me pick things up.

I swiveled my head back in the direction of the bed to apologize for the noise. But it seemed as if other concerns were more pressing. Ron bent over Hermione as the Grangers looked on, holding each other and smiling.

Ron’s lips were on his wife’s forehead, on the tip of her nose, on her cheeks. "You know, you are one silly woman, Hermione. Silly. You suppose anyone thinks you need to apologize at a time like this?"

"Please don’t make excuses for me. It’s my own carelessness that put me into this bed... and I am not silly." She smiled at him, still caressing his face. "I love you, Ron."

"And I love you, my Hermione," he said softly, covering her hand with his. Their golden wedding bands clinked as he did so. "I never want to see you hurt. Always know that. Always believe that."

"I believe it now. Honestly, the past few weeks have been sheer torture. I’m so tired of the sniping, and the fighting, and... everything."

"You know how we are, Hermione..."

"No. I can’t accept that we’ll always be this way. It’s not fun anymore, Ron. People say that we enjoy our spats, and we do indeed, but even when they’re over the scars remain. We’re involving other people in our battles these days, and each fight seems worse than the one that preceded it. No more war, darling. No more. All I want is peace."

"I’ll give you that," he said, brushing her lips with his. "Whatever you want. I’ve missed you, my love."

"I’ve missed you more. This was all my fault. Until this very moment, I’ve had no idea what I truly wanted. It took all this time to realize that what I wanted most in the world was this child. Our child, Ron. Speaking of which, is the baby..."

"Darling, your pregnancy is the least of your concerns right now," her father said quickly. Theodore Granger was a distinguished-looking man, with salt-and-pepper brown hair and a noble carriage. He always reminded me of Hermione, especially around the eyes. "Your priority is to land back on your feet soon as possible, isn’t it?"

She shook her head. "Dad, I can feel something isn’t right. You know I’m not keen on pretending things. Tell me, Ron, and tell me now. Did our baby make it?"

The twins and Malinda were already gone. I closed the door, leaving the couple alone with Hermione’s parents. Hermione’s voice was already full of anguish, and we already knew the sad truth that she would soon find out.

The minute the door closed behind me, I heard a pitiful, heartbroken moan. It was Hermione... she’d just been told about her loss.

In all of recorded Weasley history, nothing like this had ever happened before. When a Weasley wife got pregnant, she always carried to term. Plain and simple. Even if the woman herself came from a family with a history of miscarriage, like Penelope’s, it didn’t seem to matter much. A case in point was when I’d developed a rather nasty blood infection while carrying Malinda... she was none the worse for the wear. Fred even told me that Arthur’s sister had fallen down two flights of stairs while five months pregnant. The woman broke both legs and a collarbone, but delivered a healthy baby boy four months later.

Needless to say, Hermione’s miscarriage came as a shock to all.

"Oh, the poor lamb--the poor lamb!" Molly was trying to stifle her sobs in the folds of Arthur’s robes. "I feel horrible for criticizing her... the poor, poor lamb! How can she bear it?"

Arthur put his arms around his wife and patted her head. "There, there, Molly. Hermione’s strong. She’ll make it through this. And so will Ron."

Maureen Ludlam had come with Bill, and was speaking with him in low, urgent tones. Gesturing wildly, but I had no idea what she was about. Bill shook his head, placing a finger on her lips to shush her. Curving a long arm around her back, she leaned against him with a resigned sigh and they Apparated out together.

Percy and Penelope, who’d come down from Hogsmeade, were talking about sending an owl to Charlie with the sad news. Each held a sleeping twin in their arms. They said that P.J. and the other school-aged children wanted to come down, but their parents thought it best if they remained at Hogwarts.

George was thumbing through the last 3W quarterly earnings report, trying to pretend as if nothing untoward had happened. Fred had Malinda--who was still wide awake and taking everything in--up in his arms. He broke off conversation with his twin to speak to me.

"I think I’ll take the kid home," he said. "My broom’s in the dock outside. Coming?"

"Oh, I’ve got to get back to the Prophet. All the articles for tomorrow’s sports pages are still in my satchel, and I know Mwalimu and the other powers are sweating bubotuber pus," I replied, kissing him. "Expect me around midnight."

Everyone was now going their separate ways. Everyone, that is, save for Ginny and Harry. They were standing directly outside of the door we’d just come out of. Speaking in loud, heated whispers... but about what?

Trying to appear extremely interested in the evening edition of the Prophet, I inched a bit closer.

"You can’t keep blaming yourself every time something happens to them, Harry!"

"Yeah, well, I am to blame. I suggested the venue. I let her drink it. And when she was on the floor, gagging and hemorrhaging, instead of doing something to help, I... I sat there. I did nothing."

Ginny groaned. "You don’t have to be the hero all the time, Harry! Hermione knew the risks full well... I’m sure you didn’t consider them. It’s common knowledge that you’re rotten at Potions and always have been. All you cared about was helping her with Danae. This isn’t the end of the world."

"No thanks to me," he muttered. "You tell me, Ginny. What would I have told Ron if she had died back there? What could I have said to him?"

"But she didn’t die," I interrupted. Both of them looked at me. Of course, I had no business eavesdropping or interjecting, but I was beyond care.

"That’s exactly what I’ve been telling him, Angelina. No one is to blame for this. Hermione has been under a lot of stress lately. She was fighting that flu that’s been going around. She was even using that Time-Turner McGonagall gave her to pull long hours at St. Ormond’s, her clinic, and the MMRI... nearly drove me crazy a couple times when she couldn’t find it.

"Just last week, she told me, ‘Sleep is such a relative thing, Gin. We actually can survive on four hours a night for long stretches of time.’ She’s the doctor... she knew when she took that Polyjuice, she was playing Russian roulette with her life and her baby’s life."

"I'm really sure she'd be careless with the child they've been trying to conceive for the past five years," Harry said testily.

"Come, Harry, you know that Polyjuice Potion is volatile enough when you have a clean bill of health. Hermione must have thought she was superhuman... which, by the way, is something you both have in common, Harry. She thinks that because she’s a genius, she’s omniscient... which is why it kills her when she doesn’t see trouble coming far enough in advance to prevent it. That goes for you too. Powerful you might be, but you are not omnipotent. Face facts, please. You’re just as fallible as the rest of us. And so is she."

Caroline Granger’s head poked out of the door. She looked up and down the hall, then craned her neck around and spotted Harry.

"Harry? Do you have a minute? Ron and Hermione would like to have a word with you."

Ginny nodded at Hermione’s mother, vindicated. Harry disappeared inside the ICU, passing Ted and Caroline who were on their way out.

"They were right... he was beating himself up about it, wasn’t he? It’s a wonder that the poor boy hasn’t disowned our daughter and that husband of hers long before now," Caroline said offhandedly to Ted.

"No, it isn’t, dear," Ted replied with a chuckle. "The wonder is that in almost twenty years of friendship, those three have never failed to show the rest of us what ‘unconditional’ really means. That’s their strength. That one word holds that friendship together... and it’s why come what may, that friendship will never fail."

I thought about that long afterward, even amidst the hustle and bustle of the Prophet newsroom. Unconditional indeed. What most of us wouldn’t give for a friendship like that.

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

Hermione’s convalescence was long and slow. I went to see her often. Sometimes with Fred and Malinda, sometimes with Ginny, sometimes alone. Always bringing with me a satchet of scented potpourri, or a clipping from the AWP that might amuse her, or fresh herbs from my kitchen window garden.

She’d usually be propped up in her king-sized bed, a bunch of pillows under and around her, covers pulled up to her waist. If she wasn’t reading, a book would be open on her lap. And she was never alone... so I never got the opportunity to ask any of my burning questions about the Polyjuice Conference.

At first, there was little to no response from her. When she first was released from St. Mungo’s, she’d listen to the conversations around her, contributing little more than a nod or a pointed look. By the time February arrived, she was smiling and chattering again. And the week before Valentine’s Day, her merry laughter rang through the rooms and halls of her Notting Hill home once again.

Time truly is the greatest healer of all.

Ron was the devoted husband. Except for when he had a game or practice up in Liverpool, he rarely left her side. He kept their room filled with fresh flowers... mostly tropical, exotic ones that were brightly colored and fragrant. Her favorites were the daffodils, however... she got a bouquet of them every day from an anonymous "secret admirer" who everyone automatically assumed was Simon.

When she refused to eat anything in the beginning, Ron insisted on feeding her. He turned the meals into a big game much as one would do for a small child, spooning chicken soup or oatmeal into his wife’s mouth. Then he’d wipe the upturned corners of her mouth with a napkin, and give her a kiss of gratitude. She’d ruffle his red hair... and pull him down for another snog... he’d start tickling her... the rest of us would make our excuses and leave.

Harry came often as well, always bringing her a book on some obscure topic or the other. She devoured these tomes at an alarming rate, and then they’d have these long drawn-out debates on abstract issues such as the origin of magic, the history of anti-Muggle and Mudblood sentiment, future trends in magiterrorism and biomagical warfare, and the herbological usage of rainforest plants. Once when I was there, he had Cho along with him, and you could see some of the old spark returning to Hermione’s eyes as she sparred with both of them.

And here all I thought Harry was interested in was Quidditch and epic adventures. In school, he’d always struck me as one of those buggering-about sporting types. Perhaps between dating Cho and his current line of work, he’d gained a bit more depth.

The funniest thing was, their discussions would become quite animated. She’d try to pull rank by virtue of being a doctor, a researcher, and several dozen IQ points smarter than he was. He wouldn’t get offended... he’d just point out that most of her knowledge was theoretical. After all, he was the expert in counterterrorism. Her forte was books; his was real world experience. Then she’d reply smugly that without a theoretical basis for evaluation and interpretation, all of his anecdotes were bunk.

Watching them disagree was funny. Ron was far more practiced at arguing with his wife than Harry was. A typical Ron and Hermione quarrel was usually a draw... when they were done, both of their virtual daggers had been bloodied and bent beyond recognition. Harry, on the other hand, wasn’t much for going back and forth. He invariably let Hermione get the last word, descending into monosyllables, then artfully changing the topic.

Ron would shake his head at them both, and listen without comment. Then he’d interject something funny, they would either laugh or send him an impatient look, and Harry and Hermione would go right back to debating world hunger or Amazon plant and wildlife preservation.

Heaven forbid that Draco should drop by while Hermione was in the mood for a Great Debate Over Life, the Universe, and Everything. He was the powder keg, Hermione was the spark, and you could almost feel the earth move as they crossed wands. Even Harry would make his excuses, and go talk Quidditch with Ron in another part of the house. Sometimes I’d join them. Sometimes I’d make my excuses and leave.

Once in early February, when I’d headed to Notting Hill bearing a small basket of dried apricots, I arrived just in time to witness the crossfire between Draco and Hermione. She acknowledged my entrance with a nod, then jumped right back into the argument without missing a beat.

"Malfoy, surely even you can’t refute the fact that the House-Elf casualties in VW2 led to an increased demand for domestic magitech. That ‘spike’ in their birth rate that you mention is simply the population re-stabilizing to normal levels."

"I haven’t the time or inclination to read the study you quote, Granger, but if that is the case, expect to see elves holding up ‘Will Work For Work’ signs at an ABFN portal near you. The latest volume of the Paracelsus Psychosociology Journal clearly states that the percentage of wizards and witches willing to own a house-elf have dropped 66% over the past decade. Now don’t get me wrong, I employ several in my own home, and thousands in my production plants..."

"You ought to be drawn and quartered and fed to a hydra," Hermione snapped. She was still as passionate about equal rights for all creatures as she’d been as a teenager.

"...but most in our generation don’t have the means to support them. Thanks to your high-profile bellyaching, we now have to consider wages, benefits, even elvish trade union negotiations. Their incessant demands will inevitably lead to corporations like mine conjuring up robotics to replace them... and replace them we will. And spare me the sentimentalism. It’s not personal, it’s business."

"It’s personal to them! What you propose could lead to their extinction! Have you seen the reports of increased elf suicide rates? Not to mention the number of them Ernie MacMillan treats at our clinic for depression."

"Survival of the fittest, Granger. Adapt or die..."

He trailed off as Ginny walked into the room with a watering can. Grey eyes turned into liquid mercury, pupils dilating, zoning in on her every move.

One couldn’t help but get a kick out of watching Draco Malfoy, wealthiest wizard in the civilized world, a heartless monopolist who’d driven hundreds of companies into the dust without the slightest tinge of remorse, melt at the sight of a woman he’d spent the better part of a decade blowing hot and cold with. Poetic justice. All things considered, it was no more than he deserved.

He didn’t appear comic, however. Neither did he seem the muse of tragedy that he’d been in that Jamaican garden. Rather, he seemed like a predator zoning in on his prey. There was nothing of the plaintive lover about him anymore... nothing quite so sweet and guileless.

I wondered what had changed over the weeks since then. Had Ginny finally found a backbone? Was she finally over Draco?

She pretended to ignore him, pouring water onto the live plants, topping off the vases. But as she moved from plant to plant, she began to lose her cool. Her trembling hands belied her true feelings, as did the flush that burned into her cheeks. When she got to the last plant, she reached to pull it closer... and almost jerked it off the stand.

I couldn’t blame her for being nervous. She may have truly wanted to move on, but good intentions never freed any woman’s soul. Even after all their years together, I wondered if his intensity ever frightened her. Draco Malfoy didn’t do things by halves... failure was a foreign word to him.

Hermione couldn’t quite stifle her snicker. "Should I leave, Malfoy?"

"Of course you shouldn’t," Ginny snapped, refusing to look in their direction. "After all, it’s your bedroom, isn’t it?"

"I didn’t think your last name was Malfoy, Gin," said Hermione, winking at me. I bit my lip to stop from laughing. "At least not yet. But I’m sure the Malfoy I was addressing would be amenable to some mutually satisfying arrangement."

Ginny whirled around with the watering can, fully intending to give Hermione a piece of her mind. Instead she was caught up in Draco’s iron gaze. At that moment, both were the only two people in that room as far as they were concerned.

He looked ready to devour her.

She poured the remaining contents of the watering can onto Hermione’s hardwood floor.

"Mutual satisfaction, is it?" she said, tipping the can back up and setting it on the dresser viciously. Anger made her quiet tone almost menacing. "There was obviously nothing mutual about the arrangement we agreed to last June. And I’m certainly not satisfied..."

"Then the Quaffle’s in your possession, isn’t it, sweetheart? I only aim to please."

"Then you misfired, Draco. Pleasure has nothing to do with you playing cat and mouse with me all these years! Do you know what your problem is?"

"Not this time. But I’m certain you’ll tell me. You’d disappoint me if you didn’t."

"You’re all head and no heart. What you’re offering me is not enough. And it never will be. I shouldn’t have to give you an ultimatum in order to receive what I deserve. I truly deserve more than you, Draco. I’ve never loved another man the way I love you. And all I’ve received in return is hurt..."

"What have I always told you? No one can ever hurt you..."

"...Unless you empower them to do so. But you took that power a long time ago, Draco. You took it and you abused it. Truth be told, it even amused you to hurt me in the beginning... it was almost like you got some sort of perverse pleasure out of it, knowing that I would take it without a sound..."

"Gin, enough with the melodramatic tirade. There was never a time when I got perverse pleasure out of anything involving the two of us when you didn’t make a sound..."

Hermione held up a hand. "Would you two mind terribly if I asked you to continue the banter outside of my bedroom? I’m still recovering, so forgive me if my ears are delicate."

"He was just leaving anyway," Ron said, coming into the bedroom, followed by Harry. Both were glaring at their old nemesis. Which was strange. I thought Harry and Draco were getting along these days.

"Ron, love, don’t you think that..."

"Thinking? Granger, after all these years you must know you’ve got the wrong husband for strenuous mental exercise," Draco said, leaning up to peck her cheek. "Feel better."

She smiled warmly. "Thanks for dropping by. Our debates always get my blood going."

"You’re a worthy opponent."

Harry stepped forward. "What part of ‘leave’ didn’t you understand, Malfoy?"

Draco took his time straightening up. He regarded Harry with folded arms.

"Careful, Potter. I rather enjoy the spotlight you despise so much, but one of these days it’s going to shine fully on you. I wonder what tarnish we’ll find on the hero’s armor then?" He laughed to himself. "You see, folk rumor has it that you’re the most perfect man walking on Gaea’s green earth... but I know otherwise."

Harry and Draco engaged in a staredown. When Draco turned to Ginny, he lost. "Are you coming with me this time, Virginia, or are you going to stay a child forever?"

Her eyes--regular brown now, for she wasn’t wearing her usual designer contact lenses--were spilling over tears of frustration.

"Ginny, don’t you move!" Ron roared. "Draco, you’ve got ten seconds to get out of my house, or so help me, I’ll turn you into a bloody brush and clean loos with you!"

Draco shrugged. I gathered he wasn’t much for theatrics.

"In case you haven’t realized it yet, Weasley, no one in this room is fifteen years old anymore. If you’re willing to believe in the notion that life hasn’t changed since Hogwarts, enjoy your fantasy while you can." He gave Ginny a final, sweeping glance. "And when you decide that you’re going to be a real grown-up, vixen, send me an owl. Can’t guarantee that I’ll wait forever."

With a sweep of heather grey cloak, he was gone. And good riddance. Draco Malfoy seemed to have a talent for bringing out the worst in people... and judging from his comment, perhaps unearthing things best left buried.

 

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

 

We all knew that Ron and Hermione were back on track when they appeared on the cover of the London Daily News, the Daily Prophet, and were featured on the BBC Breakfast News the Monday after Valentine’s Day. When I first heard what happened, I couldn’t believe it myself. Fred and I laughed ourselves to tears over it, although when the subject was broached in polite company we were more subdued.

Valentine’s Day that year fell on a Saturday. Ron and Hermione had gone on a long-overdue holiday over the weekend. Alone. Where, no one knew. They left no forwarding address, and no one bothered to ask. Hermione had finally been given a clean bill of health, and the couple were virtual newlyweds again. The Thursday before Valentine’s, I knocked for about ten minutes before I realized that neither of them were going to answer.

The story that we pieced together was this. Ron and Hermione had arrived back at their home late Sunday evening. They disabled the magical wards and entered through the back, but apparently were too distracted for whatever reason to do anything about the Muggle silent burglar alarm or reset their wards. In their rush to honeymoon all over again, Ron had forgotten their Muggle keys. Using a handy lock-pick spell, which they should have known would alert the Ministry watchdogs, they stumbled... well, I’m sure they walked calmly inside.

About fifteen minutes later, one of the neighbors on their posh street noticed an unusual glow coming from two of the upstairs windows. The glow appeared to be coming from behind the shades downstairs as well. Alarmed, the neighbor called the fire brigade. Although the actual fire didn’t get started until they got caught... thankfully, one of the Ministry officials was quick enough on the draw to put it out without attracting undue attention from the Muggles.

Indeed, complete details of the tableau that the Muggle police, the fire brigade, and the Ministry officials stumbled upon when they burst into that house were never fully disclosed. Hermione, who was utterly mortified, would ever afterward rage at anyone who dared to mention the event. Ron would chuckle to himself, but of course wouldn’t get specific either.

Fred and George discerned the ingredients involved almost immediately. Over a thousand candles. Red satin sheets. Several hand-held fans. Confectioners’ sugar. And several varieties of syrupy stuff... maple, chocolate, treacle, and strawberry were among the flavors.

"I told him to use plastic sheets, didn’t I?" my husband remarked with a chuckle. "Ickle Ronniekins never listens."

I took the article away from him and scanned it. "Icing sugar, you say? Hmm. That’s a new one."

"Been there, done that," George said dismissively, with a wave of the hand. "I’ll lend you a spell or two... sugar’s dead easy to conjure. Just ask Mum."

So Ron and Hermione ended up on TV and in the newspapers. Standing on their front lawn. Red-faced with white smudges. Wrapped up in sticky black satin sheets and little else, hair stuck with powder and various syrups. The pictures and video must have been snapped before the firemen put their coats on the thoroughly embarrassed couple... Ron was raging at the cameramen, and Hermione was hiding her face in his chest.

Cassandra expressly told the editorial conference not to run the article. In her opinion, it was in bad taste. But she was away visiting family in Seattle, having delivered the message via Humperdinck and not in person. So the copy desk and layout staff decided to slip it under her nose. I was glad that I was at home packing for the Quidditch All-Star Match that evening... according to Tirzah, Cassandra chewed out every Prophet staffer who was in the newsroom that evening.

It wasn’t all as bad as it seemed, though. The incident was sufficient enough to convince the press that perhaps their New Year’s Day scoop was poop. Support for Ron and Hermione poured in from all over the globe, along with a few choice words for Rachel Ratliff, Cassandra Claire, and the rest of the staff. Orla Quirke hadn’t been heard from in over a month... the child hadn’t been produced. And Brian’s auditors had been combing Maureen Ludlam’s files for over three weeks, confounded by Bill’s creative accounting spells.

The week after Valentine’s Day, three weeks before I was scheduled to step down as sports editor, Cassandra Claire did something that she’d never done before.

She printed a retraction.

"On behalf of the Daily Prophet and its affiliates and subsidiaries, this editorial conference offers a sincere apology to Ronald Weasley, his family, his employees, and any others directly affected by the article that ran in this newspaper on January the first of this year. We have no way of undoing the irreparable harm we have caused, but we do extend the olive branch toward those we have wronged by our breach in journalistic integrity and good faith."

Of course, Ron’s public stock rose even further when Maureen sent a press release over the AWP announcing that her client was not planning to sue the paper or anyone else for defamation of character. As far as her client was concerned, all was forgiven. He planned to go back to what he did best--playing Quidditch.

Many of the "One Big Happy Weasley Family" moments Ginny despised so much followed. Ron and Hermione were joined at the hip again. She was at all of his games, not even bringing along any of her medical journals. He in turn braved the MMRI, and I couldn’t help but chuckle when I met Simon Branford in Diagon Alley one afternoon in late February.

"He stays overnight whenever Dr. Granger does," Simon told me, an incredulous look on his face. "And that office door doesn’t open before ten the next morning. The first time it happened, I believed they were both dead in there."

"Far from it, I’d wager," I said with a laugh. "And how is life treating you, Dr. Branford?"

He grinned. "Quite well. Danae is finished, and after the tests are complete we plan to introduce her to the public sometime this spring. And..." he paused for effect, "I’ve begun dating your sister-in-law."

That was news. "Really? And your boss..."

"Mr. Malfoy has moved on. He personally gave me his blessing," Simon grinned. "Oh, we’ve only gone out twice. It’s nothing serious as of yet. She is quite a woman, though. Sweet, pretty, has a wonderful sense of humor..."

"I’m sure you’re well suited," I said, still a little surprised. "I hope it goes well for the two of you."

Bill’s promotion dinner had been delayed due to several factors, the foremost one being the Ludlam Agency audit he was working on for Maureen Ludlam. The word was that they were inseparable... one could spot them together everywhere if they weren’t secluded in her Emerald City office. Mo regularly came over to spend time with Molly, who took to her like a house-elf takes to excessive labor.

"What a sweet girl," Molly remarked one day when I came over to pick up Malinda after work. It was almost as if Mo was the standard she wanted the rest of us to measure ourselves by. "Bill will do well if he marries her."

"Mum, come off it! They’ve only just started dating!" Ginny, who’d come by for dinner, exclaimed.

I shrugged. "That doesn’t always matter. Charlie and Liz met each other in Romania and married seven weeks later. Love at first sight, they say."

"Such a thing doesn’t exist," Ginny scoffed. "Anyway, love is a huge myth. It’s a sick fantasy that men conjure up so that stupid women will agree to shag them."

Her mother’s eyebrows raised. "What rubbish! You can’t truly believe that, Ginny. Haven’t we taught you anything?"

"It’s not a matter of belief, Mum, it’s a matter of experience being a damned good teacher. I’ll not play the fool again."

Molly studied her daughter carefully. Then she sighed and returned to whipping fish batter with her wand.

"So, when do we get to meet this Simon boy?"

"He’s isn’t a boy, Mum. He’s a nice wizard. Remember Marvin Pringle, who I dated for a while before... well, who I dated years and years ago, right after Harry? He reminds me of Marvin. If you like, I’ll ask Simon to Bill’s dinner party."

"Please do. If he’s anything like Marvin, he’ll fit right in, won’t he?"

"Oh, sure," Ginny replied absently. "He’ll fit right in."

Yes, in Weasley family terms everything was back to normal. Ron and Hermione were lovebirds again, Draco Malfoy was finally history in Ginny’s eyes, and Molly had handpicked Maureen Ludlam to be Fleur’s successor in her oldest son’s life. The rest of us were maintaining our usual stability.

The general opinion was that life was as it ought to be.

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

I waved hello to Lee Jordan as I stepped into the press box. Already in the midst of the pregame broadcast, he held up a finger so that I would wait before heading to the designated spot for Prophet reporters.

"This is Lee Jordan and Chela Rivera, coming to you live from the beautiful Manatee Stadium in South Florida, an easy broomstick ride from Fort Lauderdale and Miami... the temperature is seventy-five degrees and the wind is blowing from the Atlantic at a gentle fifteen miles per hour. Perfect flying weather... perfect Quidditch weather. We’ll be back after this commercial break."

He threw off his wireless headphones almost before he finished the last sentence. His co-anchor grinned a bit before turning to another glass panel and speaking rapid Spanish to it.

"Angelina, baby!" I'm afraid he got just a bit overzealous as he lifted me and spun me around... as he always did. "You get prettier and prettier each time I see you. Tell me, what’s your secret? If it can be bottled and sold to Higginbotham, I’ll make a mint. Giving you a reasonable cut, of course."

"Nice to see you, too, Lee," I laughed as he let me back down.

Fred's suspicions that Lee had a romantic interest in me years ago had been derived from such innocent displays of affection. He’s quite the sweet talker, but the only inkwell he’s dipped his quill into for nearly a decade belongs to my best friend. Alicia’s just as outrageous as he is... she has a bad habit of squeezing men’s bums when they hug her.

It had been years since I’d covered an All-Star Quidditch Match Weekend. The year Malinda was born, I’d fallen ill two months beforehand. After I was released from the hospital, Fred had become extremely overprotective. At seven months pregnant, he hardly let me out of his sight, let alone go to a Quidditch match.

Each year after that, there’d always been something to prevent my attending. First, Malinda was too young for me to leave all weekend... then the next time it rolled around, Fred and George had a 3W crisis and I felt bad about leaving them.... then Malinda broke her leg at a friend’s party... and so it went.

Needless to say, I was thrilled to be back in the thick of things again. I loved the press box at big games... Lee was always there, and so were many of my colleagues from press agencies all over the world, not to mention the agents who were jockeying for their clients to be well covered. The sensation of Things About To Happen never failed to give me a thrill.

When I finally got to the Prophet section, Jeralyn Curmudgeon was already there, chatting up a storm with Maureen Ludlam. Word had it that when she proved her worth in the recent media scandal, Ron gave Luke the boot and now had Mo handling all of his affairs. She was for the moment, the agent-in-demand. She no longer had to solicit new clients... the clients came to her.

I was glad for her. As unisex as the sport of Quidditch was on the field, you didn’t see too many witches in power behind the scenes. Which was unfortunate.

"I hear your own brother will be playing for Canada this year," Jeralyn was saying. "All are saying that he’s the rookie to watch."

"Yeah, well, until they turn pro they’re like a bag of popcorn kernels... some pop, some don’t. I played for Winnipeg almost a year before I realized my true calling." She turned and greeted me with a friendly smile. "Angelina! They said you never come to these games."

"That was by circumstance, not by choice," I laughed, hugging her. "Sounds like you come from quite the sports family."

"Of course. Both of my parents played for England before the first war, and they finished up their careers in Canada. My little sister... she’s over there with the Ontario Oracle... writes Quidditch. My little brother plays Quidditch. And me... well, I sell Quidditch." She snapped her fingers. "Seventy-two clients on my agency’s roster. Two hundred and sixty-four owls a day. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m best at. It’s what I love... hell, it’s my life."

"Surely there’s more to life than Quidditch," I said, thinking that perhaps the woman needed someone like Bill in her life more than we knew. "I love the game more than almost anyone else breathing, but I love my husband and child as well."

"Of course you do," Mo smiled. "But let’s be honest here..."

"Honest?" Jeralyn stifled a laugh. "Sweetheart, you’re a bleeding agent. You kiss babies and sell dragonshit for a living."

"All right, let’s leave my profession out of the equation for the moment. Do an instant soul search, Ange. Can your man and your child give you the same kind of rush as this?"

She swept her hand toward the panoramic view of the field that the press box window afforded.

No less than ten thousand witches and wizards of all shapes, colors, nationalities, and sizes had shown up in South Florida to witness the final game of the Quidditch All-Star Match. Playing in the final were the South American and European teams... the North American, African, and Australoasian teams had been trounced in semi-finals the day before.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about the All-Star Match was that the players involved were prohibited from playing their regular position on their seasonal Quidditch team. For example, Ron was made Keeper for Europe. Cho Chang, another famous Seeker, became a Chaser who now had to deal with Quaffles instead of Snitches.

Bread and circuses indeed. The sensation of being an insider at one of the most star-studded wizarding sports events of the year was more than a heady rush. It was almost a turn-on. I inhaled, touching the press pass that hung around my neck.

"Well?" Mo asked, smiling knowingly.

"You’ve got a point," I said.

She winked. "I thought so. Always remember this: Quidditch is life. The rest is just stuff we do to pass the time between games."

After taking her leave of us, Mo continued making her rounds of the press box. She was completely in her element. Her quick mind and easy wit earned her the respect of the other agents and the press. She seemed to be one of those rare creatures who never forgot a name or a face or an important date, like a client’s cousin’s wife’s anniversary. The epitome of a people person... she played social games as well as she played chess.

Her looks probably didn’t hurt her much, either.

I sat down beside Jeralyn and pulled a roll of parchment and a Quick-Quotes Quill out of my robes and set it on the table before me.

"Grapevine's got it that you're going to step down as editor," Lee said in passing, taking what would be his last break before the game started.

"That's ancient news, old friend. I'm planning on becoming a correspondent soon... I need to spend more time with my child. She’s five next month... a few more years, and she’ll be at Hogwarts," I told him, still marveling at the overflowing stadium below us. "We've got quite a turn out, haven’t we? What a crowd!"

"Gets bigger every year," Jeralyn said, cocking her head for Lee’s friendly peck. Oh, yeah. He was such a flirt.

"Last count at the door was twelve thousand, four hundred and eight," he said around his WWN mug. "That blows last year's nine thousand forty-two clean out of the proverbial pond, doesn't it?"

My Quick Quotes Quill was dancing across the page, doing the subtraction to find the difference and beginning my notes on the game. "They must have oversold the tickets like they always do for games in the States. Bloody capitalistic Yanks..."

"Well, you’re half-Yank yourself, aren’t you?" Lee said, dodging the balled-up parchment I threw at him as Jeralyn tried to hide her grin. "Hey! Not my fault you can’t handle the truth!"

"The truth is that you’re a scoundrel, Lee Jordan. Always have been, always will be." This time, my paper ball landed in his mouth, stifling his last chortle.

"No need to get violent... it’s just about game time!" He cracked his knuckles around the mug, tilted his head from side to side, then raced back to his position at the front of the press box with the other broadcasters. They always get the front row... we print journalists sit on a raised platform directly behind them with our cameras and our quills.

Jeralyn nudged me. "I’m going downstairs to take some pictures... I know Colin’s working the field, but..."

"But you just want to be at the gates when the players are announced and the stadium roars," I grinned. "That’s fine. I’ll hold down the fort."

Squeezing my arm gratefully, she Disapparated. I picked up a pair of Omnioculars from the table to scan the crowd for any key figures, celebrities, or dignitaries who were present..

After only a few moments of picking out familiar faces in the VIP Section, I found Hermione, who was sitting very far forward in her seat and watching the European gate intently. She was sitting next to Harry, who was looking in the same direction through his Omnioculars. A South American player’s wife or girlfriend was sitting on the other side of him, whispering something that was making him grin... I had to turn my enhanced eyes in another direction when she squeezed his thigh.

"Let's get this show on the road!" Lee announced. He tapped his wand against one of the glass panels. The other broadcasters were doing the same thing.

"Sonorus." The dozen broadcasters said it at the same time. The glass of the window panels began to shimmer, making a noise like a tuning fork. Then it disappeared altogether. Fresh, sweet subtropical air wafted gently into the press box. One couldn’t help but feel alive and whole at the scent of it.

Leaning close, my old friend began his commentary. He was so good at it that his colleagues regularly borrowed his phraseology and observations to send over their own wireless networks. Even the foreign-language broadcasters seemed to be taking cues from Lee.

"Welcome, one and all, to the three hundred and fifth annual All-Star Quidditch Weekend!" A huge cheer went up in the crowd and several wizards deemed it necessary to set off Dr. Filibuster's No Heat Wet Start Fireworks. "Playing this very fine last day of February in the Sunshine State of Florida, we have Team South America--Equipo Sudoamericano--aaaaaaaaaaaand.... Team Europe!"

He remained silent for a dramatic pause. One had to admire the way he worked the crowd.

"On Team Europe, we've got seven of the Eastern Hemisphere's most astounding players ever to grace the Quidditch field. Our first Chaser is not only dead sexy, but is one of the best Seekers to ever grace a broomstick. She hails from the UK... Cho Chang!"

I watched Cho zoom out of the gate, do a flashy maneuver, and zoom over the VIP box. All the males over twelve got slack-jawed, but she pointed at Harry and blew him a flirtatious kiss.

The girl never changed. You had to love her as much as Malinda did.

Harry winked at Cho and pointed back before he realized that more than ten thousand pairs of Omnioculars were on him. Just before he pushed his sunglasses back down on his nose, revealing his scar again, you could see his green eyes roll up to the top of his head. Next to him, Hermione was cackling and saying something, most likely teasing her best friend about his complete inability to attend any major event incognito.

Lee went on to name the two other Chasers, Maria Woleska and Roderick Montague. Rod Montague had been an older Slytherin in my Hogwarts days and ended up marrying--if you can imagine--a gentle Hufflepuff named Jocelyn Capulet right in the midst of VW2. From what I'd heard, they were very happy together. Sure enough, Jocelyn stood up in the box just in time to catch the rose Rod tossed down at her.

The Beaters were next... a set of twins from Belgium, Gregory and Frances Fripple, who were both famous Seekers in their country. I chuckled aloud and reminded myself to tell my husband and his own twin about it. Surely they'd get a kick out of it.

Dennis Creevey, star Beater and brother of my colleague, was announced as Seeker. Finally, Lee got to the final player: "Guarding the goal posts is one of my dear, dear friends... the Red Weasel!"

The crowd went absolutely insane before Lee could say Ron’s name. Apparently, the Daily Prophet articles had done nothing to subdue the attention and collective desperation of his fans. Women clamored to the front of the stands to get a closer look at the legendary Red Weasel. Men yelled their admiration and hedged their bets accordingly.

Undaunted, Ron flew directly to the VIP Section. Slapped palms and punched shoulders with Harry, who shouted something unintelligible back. Both men roared with laughter... the crowd was still on its feet. Even the large Brazilian and Argentinian contingents were cheering.

He then snatched Hermione up onto his broomstick and gave her a kiss that I would have had to cover Malinda's eyes for. I really thought the crowd was going to explode then. You would have thought the man had caught a Snitch and there was no need to play the game. Leaving a furiously blushing Hermione behind, Ron grinned in triumph and zoomed back to the rest of his team.

"Loves his wife, doesn’t he?" Jeralyn, who’d just Apparated back to the press box, chuckled.

"Enough to make even the great Cassandra Claire eat crow," Mo said in passing. "He’s the ideal client... a hero, a damned good player, a media darling, and a total family man. Not to mention the fact that he has a great attitude about giving me a commission that’s more than fair. With a minimum of complaints."

"You’re priceless, Maureen," Jeralyn said. "The masses see a legend in the flesh... you see Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. What a life philosophy."

"What can I say? Pays my bills... works for me." She threw back her head and laughed at my horrified glance. "Don’t look like that, babe. Ron’s become a great friend, and I love him dearly. But this business is quite mercenary. It’s eat or get eaten."

"And you tell me I shouldn’t be shocked, Mo? Surely you don’t mean all that."

"Angelina, it’s simple. The athletes on my roster play the game. I do everything else for them... the contracts, the endorsements, the financial management, even the damage repair when they act like three year-olds. I have to think on my feet when clients like your brother-in-law don’t... the Orla Quirke fiasco was a case in point. Should I apologize for doing my job?"

"Of course not. I’m a journalist, a card-carrying member of the fourth estate. Competition is cutthroat, you must get the story regardless of the human cost, and often you do have to place mind over matter. But Maureen, if this is empty," I placed my hand over my heart, then moved it up to my head, "this doesn’t matter very much."

Before my eyes, her facade crumbled. Her exuberant self-assurance disappeared. If Maureen Ludlam was indeed the only brunette veela on the planet, the beauty had far less of their nature than met the eye. Instead of a heartless, brittle woman surfacing upon my heavy words... a little girl appeared.

The strongest women often have the softest sides.

"There’s more to life than Quidditch, chess, and money," I said quietly, touching her hand where it rested on the table between Jeralyn and me. "You’re a lovely lady, and I know Bill and the family thinks the world of you. Don’t be afraid to feel once in a while."

Her eyes filled with tears. Without another word, she pulled her hand away from mine, whirled around on her heel, and walked out of the press box.

Jeralyn clucked her tongue, picking he. "Poor thing. Ironic, isn’t it? The prettiest girls often lead the loneliest lives."

I shrugged and sighed. I’d missed the entrance of the South American Team. Fortunately, my trusty Quick-Quotes Quill had made a neat list:

Andrea Bonfanti - Keeper

Rosa Andujar - Chaser

Janaina Tibirica - Chaser

Josefina Oliveira - Chaser

Ana Maria Cavalho - Beater

Pilar del Toro - Beater

Monica Starling - Seeker

It was an all-female team! The South American women were a diverse bunch, hailing mostly from Brazil and Argentina, though Tibirica was from Venezuela and del Toro was a legend as famous in her native Peru as Cho was in England. All seven were in their mid-twenties to early thirties, in the prime of their careers, and attractive. They received just as much adulation from the Europeans as their own countrymen had given the other team. Unlike the World Cup, the All-Star Match was a goodwill celebrity-studded event, with ticket proceeds going to charity.

And so the game began. Competition was fierce, but Ron wasn't letting any goals past. That was fortunate, as the European Chasers turned the Quaffle over to the South Americans the first two times they got it... making me chew my tongue in frustration. The problem was that Cho, Maria, and Ryan were not working in tandem, and the other team would clobber them if they didn’t shape up soon.

During a game, if you are a Chaser you cannot be an individual. In order to win a game, you have to share a brain with the other two in your position. On that Gryffindor team, we all had our place. Katie was great for stealing the Quaffle from the other team, Alicia was best at assists and bluffs, and I was the scorer. By fifth year none of us had to think about what the other two would do. That’s why Fred and George were so good as Beaters... they’re identical twins.

Even the Keeper has quite a job on his or her hands. The Keeper has to get inside the three-for-one Chaser psyche and interpret their offensive moves. The Keeper also can see the entire game from his or her vantage position and hence should be great at analysis and troubleshooting. Most Quidditch coaches are former Keepers. Oliver Wood, who was coaching the Europeans, was a case in point.

Only the Seeker has the luxury of thinking on an individual basis. He or she has to be able to fly like lightning, have excellent vision and depth perception, and be great at noticing details. The best Seekers are somewhat team-minded... Harry of course had been one of the few who was... after all, they have the weight of the game and the team’s ultimate success on their shoulders. But Seekers play an entirely different game than the rest of the team. They’re often their team’s darling, the celebrity, the superstar.

Seekers are usually notoriously arrogant. Both Ron and Cho were the exception to that rule... but they both also enjoyed the fame their positions brought them. So did the Fripple twins. The problem with the European team was that it was chock-full of superstars, mostly Seekers, who were used to being in the spotlight.

On the flip side, the South American women were working as a cohesive unit. The Keeper, Andrea Bonfanti, checked the Quaffle both times Cho arrived at the goal posts.

Monica Starling, a Beater on her regular team, seemed to have Dennis marked instead of searching for the Snitch herself. Dennis dove every once in a while to rile up Starling and the crowd, but the Snitch was never spotted.

Lee and his colorful commentary kept me at the edge of my seat. I was reminded all over again why I’d had to tune him out back in Gryffindor days. After the first half hour, I could see Ron was bored with his given position and was falling back into his usual habit of looking for the Snitch. In fact, he was so absorbed that he let Rosa Andujar score the first goal. Using the Omnioculars, I could see Ron cursing up a storm as he got his head back where it belonged and dodged a Bludger.

Cho Chang was able to get the Quaffle and scored two goals within five minutes. By her second goal, the crowd's noises were much less exuberant... and most of their Omnioculars were pointed downward.

Standing up from my chair, I did the same, zooming, focusing, squinting, locking. No, it couldn't be... why would that particular ghost show up in the middle of an All-Star Match? To be sure, Nearly Headless Nick attended a few back in the years immediately following the war. Peeves always wanted to cross the pond as well, but McGonagall expressly forbade him.

Anya Parker, who had been a Gryffindor and in my year, had never cared for Quidditch. Seeing her ghost in the Manatee Stadium was an event that would occur in the midst of a bad bouillabaisse-induced nightmare... not in real life.

"Help me," I could see the ghost mouth as she staggered across the field. But was she a ghost? Although her skin was pale as your average specter, her ragged hair was quite brown. Perhaps it was a live witch, then. A live witch with a familiar face. So familiar, in fact, that if Anya Parker hadn’t been dead for years I would have sworn that it was her...

And then she froze into place. Eyes bulging. Jaw clenched. Arms clamped to her sides. Legs squared with her shoulders. Not moving a muscle. Barely breathing.

Sponge position.

I screamed. I wasn’t the only one. Several of the reporters and agents in the box had undergone a similar reaction. In the crowd below, hundreds upon hundreds were being kept under control by security guards. Mass hysteria was almost inevitable.

Trying with everything within me to stay calm, I shoved away Jeralyn’s hands and Lee’s look of utter fear as he tried to calm down the crowd via the broadcast system... and straightened up, panting.

"I’ve got to go down there!"

"That’s insane!" Jeralyn shouted. "What in Merlin’s name can you do for her, Angelina?"

"A mantle... someone..." I stammered.

"No one has a mantle within a fifty mile radius, I’m sure! It’ll be too late by then... and no one can touch her without it."

Without discussing the matter further any more about it, I Apparated out of the Press Box and onto the field. A group of Quidditch trainers and sports mediwizards were surrounding the strange sight. Most of them were gaping in horror.

As for me, I was in a surreal state. Either the woman being Sponged before my eyes was Anya Parker, who we’d given up for dead years before, or I really needed to lie down.

Hermione suddenly appeared next to me, followed by Harry. He had his wand in hand and was getting ready to cast, but she stopped him. Reaching into her purse, she extracted a gauge I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade. Although she and Neville had invented the device, I couldn’t help but wonder why she was still carrying one around after all this time. After all, a Sponge Detector wasn’t exactly lipstick.

"Libare!" she shouted. The metal tube, about the length of a pencil but twice as big around, began to glow with blue fire. With a press of her thumbnail, a shimmering cone of liquid light shot out of her hand... and instantly disappeared.

She then said the obvious.

"There’s no Sponge here."

"I thought as much," Harry said grimly. "I like to be proven right in our debates, but not necessarily in such a dramatic manner."

"Thanks in advance for not rubbing it in," she replied. "Especially considering the circumstances. Let’s get her to the nearest wizarding hospital... I’d like to have a look, and I know you would too."

The trainers and mediwizards rushed towards the young woman, but still hesitated to touch her. Hermione pushed them aside, and drew the girl to her in an embrace. She issued a high-pitched wail, then collapsed.

After sitting down on her knees and pulling Anya’s head up into her lap, Hermione began to rub her own fingertips with her thumbs, concentrating with closed eyes. Harry came to kneel on the other side of the witch, bending and saying something low as Hermione touched the area right behind the girl’s ears. As they did this, Anya began to jerk as if she was having a seizure, issuing a series of staccato wails as she did so. One of the mediwizards unfroze and began to protest.

"She’s all right," Hermione told the mediwizards. "The shaking is a good thing. I’d be more worried if we weren’t getting any response from her."

Two groups of stretcher-bearers came running over with their rods. Both teams had finally noticed something was going on... the ref called a time-out and the superstar players were zooming down towards the field. I was jostled out of the way by wave after wave of medical personnel, players, and my press colleagues.

Ron ran over to the edge of the crowd. For once, he wasn’t the center of attention on the green at that moment.

"Angelina, what on earth is going on? I knew something wasn’t right before the game... was that a Sponge?"

"No, no... whatever it was, Hermione disabled it and is seeing to the girl. Come with me... great wizards, you're not going to believe who it is." I continued through the startled and irritated crowd, not bothering to pardon myself.

The witch—who had to be Anya—was now sitting cross-legged on the green, head hanging down. Harry was holding her as still as he could, muttering into her brown hair, brow creased into a frown. Hermione had her wand out and was touching various key points on the woman’s body. Each time the tip glowed silvery green, Hermione frowned as well.

With superhuman strength, the woman wrenched herself free from both of them. She seemed ready to bolt, but only got a few feet before swooning again. The stretcher-bearers ran over to do their work... she fought them. When she lifted her face, Ron immediately knew.

"Where is George?" he muttered.

"In England, you know that."

"Then someone had better owl him and tell him before that damned rag you work for plasters this news all over its front page..."

"Done," Maureen said, coming up behind us. No traces of her earlier tears remained on her face. "Sent just now."

He glanced at his agent, shook his head incredulously. "You are simply amazing. How can you always think one step ahead of me? What would I do without you?"

"As long as you don’t sign with Bob Sugar, Dick Knight, or anyone else, you’ll never have to find out." She Disapparated again, apparently being completely unable to stand still during a game. Most agents were like that.

Someone must have told Hermione that her husband was there. She broke over her conversation with Harry and the medics, and came rushing over to where we stood.

The first thing she did was to kiss Ron with pleading, wide eyes. Which in wife-speak means "Darling, I’m about to tell you something that you’re not going to like."

Ron knew this. "What is it, love?"

"Harry and I are going to take Anya to the hospital. Not only does she need regular medical attention, she may need medimagical care."

"But Angelina just told me she wasn’t Sponged..."

"That’s just the thing. She wasn’t from what we can tell. But she is displaying all the symptoms of having just been in one. Her aura looks like Swiss cheese, Ron."

Her husband’s brows drew together in a frown. "You don’t mean to say... all that bunk Harry’s been talking about a Sponge-like virus surfacing... is true? Hermione, you do realize that you’ve just exposed yourself to it, then?"

"Of course I have not," Hermione scoffed. "We don’t know that it’s transmittable, we don’t know that the magic acts like a virus, we don’t even know that the phenomenon exists for sure yet! In my opinion, the Sponge virus exists in theory only. You know Harry’s bound to see a demon or a Death Eater behind every bush. I’m leaning towards a less dramatic explanation..."

"Yeah, well I’m leaning towards you letting these mediwizards do their jobs, sitting down, and enjoying the rest of the game."

"Out of the question..."

"Hermione, why do you act as if you’re the only medical professional around? Most of those mediwizards have been treating patients longer than you’ve been alive!"

"Most of those mediwizards don’t have firsthand knowledge of this issue! You know that some veteran meds didn’t even want to touch Sponge victims at first, for fear that it was catching! They had the same reaction just now! The world hasn’t forgotten the horror of the war, and neither have those meds. She’d still be locked into place if Harry and I hadn’t helped her..."

"Sure, then. Why don’t you let Harry go and then we’ll join him later?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "Harry is not in medicine. He thinks he sees the big picture, but he wouldn’t recognize any of the signs. Anya needs care now, not when Dennis Creevey decides to catch the Snitch and put us all out of our misery..."

Maureen reappeared, a cool blonde witch by her side. The witch was looking over at Anya, concern etched all over her face.

My sister-in-law seemed glad to see her. "Susan! I had no idea you’d be here."

"Come now, Hermione, All-Star games aren’t just for the rich and famous. Great to see you here in my stomping grounds. Thought you’d never come to Florida."

The new witch was introduced quickly as Dr. Susan Borowski, a Paracelsus classmate of Hermione’s. Like Hermione, her magimedical forte was pathology, although like most mediwitches she was not exclusively specialized. Hermione updated her colleague quickly on what had just occurred.

"That is strange... yes, I agree. She needs care immediately. Tell you what. I’m all set up at a nice little out-of-the-way hospital in Hialeah. Everything you’ve owled me over about the Project is in my office over there. Why don’t I have her taken over there, and then you come after the game?"

"Spanking good idea, Sue," Ron said, nodding.

The slight smile faded from Hermione’s face.

"I know you want to see your husband play, hon," her colleague said. "I got my tickets from one of those pesky pharmaceutical reps... it won’t break my heart to leave. You know that I’m quite capable of keeping things afloat until you can make it over. Even if that’s not until sometime tomorrow."

Cho ran over with Harry.

"Ron, the time-out’s over! We need to get back in the air. Come on!"

"Anya’s being transported to a hospital somewhere in Miami," Harry told Ron and Hermione quickly. "I’m sure George will be here the second he’s notified... though I don’t know how he’ll handle it..."

Susan bolted in the direction of the sick woman and the stretcher-bearers. "I’ll let them know to take her to Batista instead," she called over her shoulder.

"Well?" Ron asked his wife, who seemed to be frozen to the spot. "Are you staying?"

"Honestly, Ron, how can you ask me that? After all we fought for together... all the pain and suffering we’ve seen? I can’t be so selfish. If it’s in my power to make something better, I have to do it."

"Hermione, you just heard Susan. She says she’s more than capable of handling the situation. Don’t get me wrong, I care about Anya too, and even more for George’s sake. If you were the only one here with that kind of expertise... but you’re not. Trying to do everything and be everywhere was what got you ill in the first place!"

"Ron, I just..."

"Stay."

"If I stayed now, I wouldn’t enjoy the game anyway. My body would be here, but my thoughts would be with that woman. We both knew her... she was a Gryffindor, and George... she was special to him, once. Doesn’t she deserve her life back?"

His forehead rested against hers. "Not three weeks ago you were bedridden because you thought you could do it all. You are my wife, Hermione. I want you here. I need you here. We’ll both go see about Anya after the game, be with George, and..."

"Fred will come with him," I said. "I’m sure of that. After all, she worked for him too. There’s really no need for either of you to get there before the morning."

Harry nodded. "Well, if something develops overnight, we can always owl..."

Ron glared at his best friend, then turned to his wife.

"Hermione, I am asking you... no, I am begging you... to stay here."

Hermione stood on tiptoe to give her husband one final kiss. "And I am telling you that I cannot. I love you, but I’ll have to see you either in the hotel or back at home. We’ll be sure to let you know what’s what as soon as we can. Have a great game."

She and Harry Disapparated. Ron stood there, almost as if he couldn’t believe she was gone. Maureen tapped his shoulder. He turned to face her.

"Do you want to go with her?" she asked. "You’re under no contractual obligation to finish this match."

He shrugged. "What is it that you’re always saying? ‘Quidditch is life... the rest is just stuff we do to fill in the time between matches.’ Just as my wife has a responsibility to her patients, I’m obligated to my fans..."

"Oh, sod your fans, Ron!" I interrupted. "Your fans are not your wife, the love of your life! Hermione is..."

"Yeah, well, Quidditch is a whole heck of a lot easier to deal with than my wife sometimes." He took his broom away from Mo, then looked at both of us. "Love shouldn’t have to be such hard work."

As Mo and I returned to the press box, I hoped that this incident wouldn’t fracture Ron and Hermione’s fragile truce. But now I had other things on my mind. When the dead come back to life, and Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are tossing about terms that hadn’t been heard in over ten years, it has a way of putting life back into perspective.

All of a sudden, All-Star Quidditch Matches and domestic squabbles seemed not only trivial, but inconsequential to me.

 

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

"There was a splendor of spears, a splendor of spears!"

An expectant hush fell over the Weasley living room, expanded ever so nicely to accommodate the guests with comfort. Griphook the goblin looked about the gathering, a pleased leer spread over his gnarled features. Witches and witches, goblins and ghosts all were in thrall of the Gringotts board member... and legendary storyteller.

"There was an old man from our birthlands that always began his battle tales thus," Griphook continued. "We listeners were captivated on the instant, and we remained engrossed. Though it might have been the most minor battle of our Great Rebellion against humankind, perhaps even a very trivial tale, hardly worth the telling.

"But he had a knack for blurting at once the most compelling highlight of a narrative, and then weaving backward and forward from it. Unlike him, I can but begin at the beginning and move onward through time. I can only recount this tale as it was told to me. What I now state and affirm did indeed occur. I only narrate what happened. Without invention and without falsehood. I kiss the earth... or as you humans say, I swear to this."

It was the cocktail hour of Bill’s promotion celebration. For once, no children were present. A near neighbor and dear friend of Arthur’s, Jim Ferer, graciously volunteered to watch the children along with his two daughters, Rachel and Mary. This way, the adults would have the chance to enjoy themselves for the evening without a plethora of little ones underfoot.

Although everyone in that room was over the Ministry legal age of seventeen (or in the some of the goblins’ cases, more than ten times that), Griphook commanded the attention of all. For in truth, one never really outgrows the thrill felt at the telling of a tale.

The rapport between the master goblin storyteller and his listeners was now an unbreakable bond. The words rolled forth easily. It was a new story, an old story; it was all stories in one, perhaps. A tale of hunger and loss, of joy and pain, of love sought and love and won again. Indeed, the materials of story weaving are the same in every age. Births, deaths, loves, heroic deeds and epic quests, anguish, scandals--these are the only interesting things in the world.

It began in translated Gobbledygook the same way all tales in any terrestrial language begin.

"Once upon a time..."

As Griphook wove his story threads together, we all laughed and gasped as if on cue. When he arrived at the saddest part, some of us cried. I couldn’t help but think of my own life, and the lives of those around me. If Draco’s account was true, we’d already been the actors in one story that had taken the Muggle world by storm. That Rowling woman had provided millions of non-magical peoples a window into our lives. She’d sold them on the fantasy that magic was real, existing parallel to their own world, so close that if they only reached out they could touch it...

What a shame. Like all storytellers, she’d failed to include the fine print. The flip side of paradise.

There was a good reason why most sellers of dreams ended their tales at "happily ever after". To go beyond that was to unmask the fairy tale, to give your audience a behind-the-scenes view that shatters the illusion forever.

Griphook’s tale was only interrupted once, by the arrival of the gargoyles. Gargoyles provide additional security (as if Gringotts needed any more of that) for most Gringotts branches worldwide. The chief of security, a hulk named Goliath, came with two companions. The first was his elderly second-in-command, Hudson, who seemed to be a dear friend. The other was a human woman dressed in Muggle clothing. From the way Goliath was hovering over her, I gathered she was more than a friend. Something about the woman’s demeanor reminded me of Mo, and something about her looks reminded me of my own daughter.

I was surprised when Harry jumped up and greeted the small party warmly. He and Goliath talked all the way from the front door until they reached the waiting gathering. Sounded like gibberish--the only word that I caught which made sense was "Avalon". Why the gargoyle and Harry were so enthusiastic about that mysterious island was beyond me. Perhaps Avalon was a code name for something else.

The huge creature had to bend his head to get into the doorway, and once he was in, his head brushed the ceiling. Harry returned to his own seat next to his date for the evening... my boss, Cassandra Claire.

"We’re glad you were able to make it," Bill, the man of the hour, called. Mo nodded beside him with a smile. I supposed she was the other party implied in the "we".

Goliath grunted. "Had to wait until sundown. But the wind was just right, and the flying was good. I know most of you have met Hudson before, but allow me to introduce my friend Elisa Maza."

"Is she a Muggle?" tactless Penelope asked.

"I don’t know what a Muggle is," Elisa said, "but I am a cop. NYPD, if you want specifics. Goliath tells me how skittish your bunch gets when people like me crash the party. Let me assure you that whatever happens here, I’ve seen worse."

"It’s not a question of degree," Percy told her. "It’s a question of..."

"I know where you’re about to go, so I’ll spare you the trouble. I date a guy who turns into stone from sunup to sundown every day, so..."

Everyone laughed. Somehow, the room expanded itself again to accommodate the additional guests. Goliath, knowing that his bulk would crush any furniture he sat on, chose a spot on the floor. Hudson did the same. Elisa refused the chair that Percy offered her, and elected to use Goliath instead.

Once the newcomers were settled, Griphook ended his tale with a finale so intense that I was sure he was painting pictures in the air with his words. Literally--I saw the valiant sorcerer prince defeat the chief of the goblin rebels, confining them to his realm, and becoming the first High King of the Goblins.

"And so, the goblin races have lived side-by-side with the human for thousands of years. When the Faerie Age ended, we cast our lot with you magic folk and chose to become the financiers of your world. But tradition dictates that our rulers and overlords are human. Thus it has been with our High Kings for centuries. Thus the board of directors at Gringotts has decided to honor Master Weasley... he is the best human curse-breaker and banker we’ve had the honor of employing in eight hundred years.

"The memory of the great Wormwood is not forgotten, however. If you should ever venture to the ancient goblin lands beyond the western sea, on some moonlit night you may see him. He will not see you, however... he only has eyes for his lady love. You will see them at a crossroads always, sitting on a slab of stone, whispering words of eternal fidelity, of faith and hope. You see, Wormwood and Dahlia may not have lived happily. But their love for one another will endure ever after.

"So long as men can breathe and eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."

Elisa Maza was the first to speak after the tale was done.

"I do believe your last two lines belong to Shakespeare." Most of us sent blank stares her way. "Shakespeare? As in William? Famous poet and playwright? The one who came from this country? No one’s ever heard of him?"

Griphook smiled at her.

"My dear girl... where do you think Muggles like Shakespeare got lines like that from?"

Ginny poked her head in to say that dinner would be served in a little under half an hour. She smiled warmly at Simon, who was grinning in appreciation of the gathering in general and of his flame-haired love interest in particular. Everyone got a chance to mix and mingle as Charlie mixed up exotic drinks at the bar. Liz walked around with the trays of glasses her husband topped off, balancing them on her head as a joke.

Sirius Black came over to where Fred and I were standing, with a rosy-cheeked brunette on his arm. Unlike most of his conquests, she seemed only a few years younger than he.

He greeted us. "This is my girlfriend, Carole Stanford."

Fred raised a red eyebrow. "Can this dog be housebroken? Can you teach an old dog new tricks?" he asked Carole.

"Don’t be cocky. I think I’m going to keep this one. I’m getting old... time for me to lay down my sword and shield." Sirius kissed Carole, who dimpled again. "Carole, this is Fred, one of the infamous Weasley twins, and his wife Angelina. Perfectly normal-looking couple on the surface, but beneath their facade lies utter lunacy. Beware."

Carole ignored them to shake both of our hands. "Wonderful to meet you both. Sirius always speaks highly of this family." She looked around. "Where’s your brother? I’m an identical twin myself... I’d love to see if the resemblance is as striking as Sirius says."

"Oh, it’s not as profound as it used to be," I told her. "Thank goodness for that. I need to be able to tell which of them I’m supposed to go home with."

Fred laughed, then sobered up. "George won’t be by until later. He’s at the hospital."

"Still with Anya?" Sirius asked.

"Of course. Hermione has her undergoing an experimental treatment that may take months to run its course. I’ve shifted much of his 3W responsibility elsewhere so he can be with her. After all, she doesn’t have anyone else, does she?"

"Must be an awful lot on your plate. I love your products," Carole said.

"Thanks. Yes, it’s a lot, but he’s my brother and my best friend. A few years back, he had to do the same for me." He put his arm around my shoulders. "One good turn deserves another, don’t you think?"

"Indeed it does," Bill said, coming over with Mo and introducing her to Sirius and Carole. He’d been introducing her around all evening, and she seemed a bit embarrassed by all the attention.

Ron and Hermione came rushing over before Mo could reply to Sirius and Carole’s greetings.

"Maureen," Hermione said, eyes gleaming, "Ron was just telling me that you have quite the singing voice! He says you know all these folk songs, you play the guitar, you..."

Mo sent her a tight smile back. "Would you mind if I killed your husband for letting that slip? You wouldn’t miss him too terribly, would you?"

Ron grinned at his agent. "We’ll discuss my impending murder after we hear you sing, Mo. Bill, did you know any of this about her?"

Bill shook his head slowly, staring into her dark hair. "There’s a whole lot about this woman I still don’t know. She’s an enigma to me."

"Mystery, thy name is woman," Sirius quipped. "I remember the times when my own mother sang the old Scottish ballads. She was quite a chess player as well, Maureen."

"I’m sure she had a much better voice than I do."

"And I’m sure that’s nonsense," Bill said, turning her to face him. "It would give me the greatest pleasure to hear you sing."

Fred murmured in my ear, "Yeah, Bill, of course that’s the greatest pleasure she could..." I nudged him in the ribs, giving him a disapproving look. "Right, Angel. You know you’re going to pay for the husband abuse later."

Soon, everyone’s attention was on Mo and Bill. She agreed to sing only if he would accompany her. Before she began, she told of her unique heritage.

"Music is a part of me. It runs in my blood. My father was Welsh and Romm. As he was orphaned as a small child, he never knew his parents... Ludlam is the name of the family who raised him," she said. "My mother was Irish, and her brothers taught her all the songs of the Old Country."

Was? Were they dead?

She sang three songs. The first two offering showed off her full, rich vocal range. The first was a battle song far older than the era of the goblin rebellions. It was the type of anthem that fired wizards’ blood... and the lovely woman in the magenta robes was the perfect visual for it.

The second was a playful, flippant gypsy romp that had everyone laughing. It was completely off-color, risqué, and outrageous. Ginny and Molly came out from the kitchen to enjoy the last of it, as did Penelope, who was helping them in the dining room.

"Give us ten more minutes," Molly said. "Maureen dear, another one." Then she and Penelope left, but Ginny sat down next to Simon to enjoy the concert.

So Mo leaned over from the stool she was sitting on, and whispered yet another key and tempo into Bill’s ear. He struck up the cords of a plaintive Irish ballad, accompanying her, watching her intently.

Her voice was soft and gentle. She seemed to be singing to herself. As the poignant lyrics fell from her lips, my eyes stung.

I wonder what is keeping my true love tonight?

I wonder what is keeping him out of my sight?

For little he knows the pain I endure

For he would not stay from me this night I am sure...

O love, are you coming my cause to advance?

Or love, are you waiting for a far better chance?

Or have you a sweetheart laid by you in store?

Or are you coming for to tell me you love me no more?

The front door opened and closed. Measured, urgent footsteps came down the hall, advancing toward the enlarged living room and the gathering.

Green grass it grows bonny, spring water runs clear,

I’m weary and lonesome when I think of my dear!

You were my first and fond true love, but it’s lately I knew

That the fonder I loved you, the...

Mo trailed off. Bill stopped in mid-chord, striking a wrong string on the way. More than three dozen heads whipped in the direction of the doorway.

It was Draco Malfoy.

Most of the three dozen heads now turned to watch Ginny. She had gone completely white. Her lips were set in a straight line. Next to her, Simon Branford looked ready to bolt, but her hand on his shoulder stayed him. Hermione and I both had to keep our respective husbands from jumping up and becoming instant bouncers.

Ginny spoke first.

"What are you doing here, Draco? You certainly weren’t invited!"

"I know. I have something to say."

"I don’t have anything to say to you!"

"Likewise," he said, the slightest hint of amusement in his voice. "I came to speak with your father instead. Mr. Weasley, a word, sir?"

They disappeared into the kitchen. By the time Penelope came out seconds later, Bill’s guitar was back in its case and everyone was talking. Ginny’s arms were folded as she stared into space. Simon was saying something to her, but I’m sure she didn’t hear a word. Those who were in the dark were quickly filled in with unauthorized versions of the neverending Draco-Ginny story that ranged from the hilarious to the outrageous.

"Maybe he’s come to redeem himself. Think he’s asking Dad for his blessing?" Charlie sat, coming to sit near us.

"For what?" Ron asked testily. "Wouldn’t enter the prat’s head to do something as polite as that. He’s probably trying to sell Dad some Malfosoft product."

"In the middle of a party?" Liz asked skeptically.

"Why not? This is Malfoy we’re talking about. Hope Dad turns him down as usual... he likes the Muggle versions much better."

We didn’t have long to wait. Molly and Arthur re-emerged within five minutes. Draco followed a few blinks later. He only had eyes for Ginny.

Everyone held their breath as he walked over to where she sat. Simon moved over in utter defeat.

Draco sat down in the vacated space.

"Good evening, Virginia."

She folded her arms. "Draco."

He reached inside his cloak and extracted a dozen long-stemmed roses, which seemed to be made of Muggle money, fifty-pound notes to be exact. They were wrapped in a cone of tissue paper. Each one was singing a different message in an operatic manner: "I miss you." "I love you." "I need you." "I want you." In this case, I suppose you really could say it with flowers.

We all thought it was a cute gesture. Ginny didn’t.

"If you think something that cheesy is going to make me fall back into your arms again, you are sadly mistaken, Draco."

"That’s right, Gin," Ron said. "Let the prat know you aren’t for sale... ouch!" For Hermione had poked him in the ribs.

"Now, Weasley, if I’ve learned anything since the war, it’s that anything can be sold." He turned back to Ginny. "Everything has its price. But what do you do when you find something that’s priceless? Not only rare, but one of a kind? Something you must have in order to go on living?"

She closed her eyes. "You obtain it by any means necessary. Or you die."

"This is more for me than for you, vixen. You have no incentive to love me. In fact, you’re probably better off without me. You more than anyone else in the world knows what I am, what I come from, what I’m made of. There’s nothing I can do to change our past together. There’s no guarantee that the future will be any different. Which is why you left me, right?"

"Yes."

"Not enough return on the investment. Yes, yes... I taught you that, and I taught you well. But what else do I always say about investments?"

Her eyes were still closed. "Take the time to look beneath the surface of the company, whether wizarding or Muggle. Do a little digging, for you never know what you might find. The company that appears the most stable isn’t always your surest bet. On the other hand, the venture that looks the most hopeless could actually be a..."

"Diamond in the rough," they both said together.

"Have you really looked beneath the surface, Gin? Take your roses, for instance. You haven’t taken a second glance at them since I gave them to you. Why don’t you do that now?"

Looking down at her lap, she picked back up the bouquet, which was now humming. Examined with a frown. Turned it upside down. With mounting frustration, she tossed the flowers back onto her lap and ripped away the wrapping paper...

"Oh!"

Draco picked up the ring she’d exposed, a half-smile playing about his lips. Every woman in the room’s mouth dropped open at the size of the sapphire. Including Ginny’s, even as he slid that rock on her left ring finger.

"Well, don’t die of shock, Virginia. What do you think? Taking into account the risks, in spite of everything I’ve ever taught you, will you be my wife? To be sure, one never can tell about these things in advance, but I think we might be pleasantly surprised by the returns..."

The poor singing flowers flipped over onto Simon’s lap as she pounced on Draco, kissing, crying, trying to speak but failing utterly because she just couldn’t seem to stop kissing him. Or he couldn’t stop kissing her. Or neither of them could stop kissing the other.

That was a moment for the history books. Every Weasley brother went over to shake Draco’s hand. As they did, they all welcomed him to the family and threatened him with bodily harm if he ever made their baby sister unhappy again. Ron got the disapproving snarl wiped off his face beforehand by an enthusiastic kiss from his wife, and gave Draco a grudging handshake as well.

Meanwhile, Ginny was showing off her ring to the women. It was exquisite, as befitted the fiancee of the richest man in our world. But understated. The stone was indeed a sapphire. Oval, cabochon cut, set in a platinum band. She removed it and pointed to the inside... inside of the band, if you looked very carefully, you could see a scrolling inscription. I saw their names, the date and time when he asked her, and a scrolling sonnet before she placed the ring on her finger again.

"Poor thing’s going to have to do finger curls on a daily basis to hold the damn thing up without strain," Cassandra laughed. "And of course, I say that with no malice whatsoever."

"What’s the sapphire for?" Elisa asked. "Don’t you know that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, sweetie?"

"Oh, it’s my favorite stone," Ginny said, smiling. "Draco knows that blue is my favorite color. I love sapphires as much as he favors emeralds... I just knew that my stone was going to be green, and I’d have to turn him down."

Draco came up behind her in time to hear this last remark. "Turn me down? Perhaps we should stop the celebration. After all, you never did give me a definite answer."

"Yes, I did," she said, shifting around in his arms. I suppose you were too busy snogging me to hear it. So I’ll repeat myself for your benefit..."

Of course, she didn’t get the chance. Because he kissed her again.

"This is getting redundant," Mo called out with a grin, raising her wine glass. "Cute, though. You can’t deny the cute factor there. Here’s to life, love, wealth, happiness... and lots of little pink-haired children!"

We all drank to their health, despite Draco and Ginny’s vehement insistence that parenthood was anathema, and there was no way they were going to impose brats of their own on society.

"Thank the stars for that," Ron said. "One Malfoy is all we can handle."

As if Griphook’s story, Mo and Bill’s songs, and Draco’s proposal wasn’t enough, no sooner had we put down our glasses than every single goblin in the room stood up and bowed low. Even the two gargoyles bent their heads in deference. The last and most honored guests had finally arrived... the two that no one had really expected to come.

"The High Goblin King," Bill whispered loudly to Mo as he bowed as well. "Also happens to be my boss."

But when I looked at the figure who’d just entered the gathering, all I saw was a dark-haired woman of regal bearing and starry eyes. She was wearing diamond-dusted robes of pale lavender. Her demeanor seemed kind and gentle, yet her face spoke of a keen intelligence and a quick wit.

"Your Majesty," Bill said gallantly.

Her voice was sweet, yet commanding at the same time. "William. How good it is to see you again. You may rise."

"Why is the king a woman? Why don’t they call her the queen?" I whispered to Fred. "Isn’t she their queen?"

"Of course she is, you see them bowing, don’t you?" He grinned at the look I gave him. "He wasn’t talking about her, Angel, he’s talking about the owl."

"What owl?"

At that moment, the living room window burst open. A snowy white owl who could have been brother to Harry’s Hedwig flew in, clutching a crystal globe in his talons. When the royal woman took the crystal from his talons, it became a scepter of some kind. The owl began to flutter wildly... lengthening dramatically, feathers becoming robes, beak becoming a nose, wings turning into powerful arms and talons transforming into legs...

Soon the owl had disappeared. In its place, stood a man whose presence filled the room.

"That owl," Fred murmured with satisfaction.

"Jareth, High King of the Goblins, Master of the Labyrinth, Chairman of the Board of Directors, Gringotts International," Griphook announced. "Also Sarah, the Goblin High Queen, Champion of the Labyrinth, sister of the Royal Heir Tobias, Consort of the High King."

"Welcome, sire," Bill said. "You and the queen honor us."

The King was even taller than my tallest brother-in-law. His platinum blond hair cascaded from the crown of his head in long spikes. His eyes were fierce and magnetic. His attire was as fine as his wife’s, having chosen a similarly diamond-encrusted doublet and hose... men in tights usually caused me to raise my eyebrows, but most men wished they could cut such a fine figure in close-fitting pants. Everything about him spoke of power and influence.

When he raised his hand, the goblins rose.

"The honor is all ours. Griphook here tells us that your people enjoy a good celebration. Word even reached our ears that years ago in Egypt some of your former comrades wrote to your mother, begging her to send you another box of sweets." He looked around. "It seems as if we’ve missed all the excitement."

Elisa, who as an American Muggle was not a subject of any kingdom, was the only one who had no qualms about speaking to the royal personages.

"Stick around, your kingliness. I’ve been more entertained in the two hours I’ve been here than I have for years. This family seems to specialize in excitement." Then sneaking a wicked glance at her gargoyle boyfriend, she turned to Sarah. "Has anyone ever told you that your man looks exactly like David Bowie?"

Draco, Hermione, Harry, Mo, and a few others laughed... I suppose she was referring to some Muggle or the other. Before anyone else could react or say anything, Molly rushed in with a welcome announcement.

"Dinner is served!"

 

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

 

The Goblin King and Queen departed soon after dinner was over, after praising Molly’s cooking to the highest heaven and making so many insinuations about Bill and Mo that both turned red as beets. After waiting a few more moments out of politeness, Draco and Ginny left too.

"Really, Fred, don’t be crude!" Ginny said when my husband remarked on their anxiety to Disapparate. "Draco’s just going to make sure I get home all right."

"Oh, so that’s what it’s called now?" said Hermione, raising an eyebrow and setting us all to laughing.

"What can I say, Granger? I’m a gentleman..."

"Honestly, Malfoy, don’t try too hard. Just get the girl out of here before her brothers have second thoughts about letting you live."

So Draco and Ginny left. After dessert was served, more took their leave, including all of the goblins save Griphook. That old goblin struck up another tale right there at the dining room table. Some listened. Charlie and Liz opened back up the bar, and the rest of us went to play games and chat.

Ron challenged Hermione to a game of chess, and they headed to the kitchen. We all looked at each other knowingly. It had been a mating ritual of sorts of theirs since Hogwarts... knowing them, they’d be headed home soon as well.

A large crowd of us ended up playing Exploding Snap for Sickles. We had a blast. Harry and Cassandra, Bill and Mo, Percy, Fred and I, Simon, Elisa and the gargoyles were all playing tournament-style, being interrupted at regular intervals by the cards going off like grenades in our hands or land mines on the tables set up in the living room.

It didn’t take long for Mo to have most of our money. She’d challenged Harry, Cassandra, Bill, Elisa, and Goliath to empty their pockets in a winner-take-all series. Then she proceeded to trounce them.

Cassandra shook her head as she watched Mo scoop the silver, bronze, and gold into her bag. "If I didn’t run the risk of being termed a sore loser, I’d say there was something funny about that deck."

Mo chortled. "Cassandra, I’m a three-time wizarding chess champ. Surely some of my game playing skills from that would carry over to Exploding Snap."

"Yeah, and Ron’s a three-time chess champ as well," Harry pointed out. "Doesn’t stop him from being a great dunderhead at this game."

Elisa was shuffling the deck this time. "If these were regular cards, I could help you get to the bottom of this, but I’ve never seen these before in my life."

"We know, my Elisa," Goliath replied. "You are clearly a novice at this... you’ve lost me seventeen Sickles of this strange wizard money..."

"Tell you what, babe. Why don’t you," she whispered something in his ear, "and then I," she whispered something else, "and then we’ll consider the debt paid. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"

Goliath nearly knocked over the table in an effort to get up. Drinks and cards and chips went everywhere.

"All right, big guy?" Harry asked, as he and Bill roared, Mo and Cassandra chuckled, and Elisa sent a fired-up glance her boyfriend’s way.

The giant gargoyle mirrored her gaze. "I am fine, Harry Potter. It is just that the night grows long, and we have a long journey ahead of us..."

"You’re still talking, babe," Elisa teased him. "Dawn’s only seven hours away, and I’d really like my invoice stamped ‘paid in full’ before I have to go to work."

What sounded like a growl issued from his throat. "It has been our pleasure, Bill, Harry Potter, ladies. Hudson!"

After they left, Mo tapped me on my shoulder. I had grown a bit tired and was watching the games on the side.

"I’m going to head to the kitchen to get some towels... my wand is in my cloak upstairs, and Harry, Cass, and Bill are so drunk they couldn’t cast a decent clean-up spell if they tried. Come with me?"

When we got to the kitchen, it was deserted save for Ron and Hermione. They were bending over a chess set that had been set up on the table—Ron’s were the light pieces and Hermione’s were dark. They had just broken off a kiss, and Hermione’s queen was yelling at her in a funny accent. The set was imported, then, and old. We both listened as we retrieved several tea-towels and dish-cloths.

"Look, doll, I refuse to fight for you if you insist on sleeping with the enemy!"

"In fact, I do sleep with him," Hermione told her, amused. "Why don’t you take either that pawn or that knight of his for me?"

"Great Jehoshaphat! Don’t you see that rook of his?" She cupped her small hands to her tiny mouth and yelled to her king. "‘Ey, sweet stuff! Do you hear this broad? She wants that rook to kill me! I can see him coming from two moves away!"

The king shook his head. "I see it. The dame can’t be trusted, babycakes... I say move at your own risk. That space behind my pawn is a sure winner."

Ron leaned over the board to nip at his wife’s ear. "Who are you going to listen to? The chessmen or your own instincts?"

"Let’s see, then. When I listen to my own instincts, you trounce me shamefully. When I listen to the chess pieces, you still trounce me shamefully. I don’t know... what do you think?"

"I think you should let me sit down for a minute, Hermione," Mo said before I could stop her, "and get you out of that tight spot. Ron’s trying to lure you into a trap."

I shook my head at her. Obviously she didn’t understand the Ron-Hermione mating ritual at all. The point was that Hermione was supposed to lose... and enjoy every minute of it.

She paid no attention to me, though. And Hermione brightened at her suggestion.

"That’s right, I forgot we had two chess champs under this very roof! Who’s the reigning one, you or her? I can’t remember who won last year for the life of me..."

"Neither of us," Ron said, staring at Mo blankly. "We didn’t make it to the tournament last year. Scheduling conflicts... Quidditch... business." He sat back on the stool. "You know, Mo, you really don’t have to do this. Hermione is used to losing to me."

"Well, she ought to get used to winning. With a mind like hers, I’m surprised she doesn’t have more chess sense. I’ll bet you’ve kept her in the dark all these years purposely." She moved closer to the board and studied it for a few moments. Hermione looked up at her gratefully. Ron still had that blank stare on his face. "Hmm. Like I said, a trap... and an obvious one. Not only can you get out of this easily, you can take at least five of his pieces..."

"Five?" Ron scoffed. "How you do think that’s possible?"

"Not only possible, but simple. You’re so busy distracting your wife that you forgot to C.Y.A." She smacked him on the rear end with the dish towel... the kitchen stool gave her easy access. "Told you."

Hermione threw back her head and laughed.

Ron glared at his rogue agent.

"All right, Mo, if you’re so sharp, tell me this. How many moves can you reverse the game in?"

"Seven."

"Seven?"

"Come on, Ronald, are you a man or are you a parrot? I said seven moves, and no matter where you go she’ll eat up five of your pieces. You were careless, and now you have to pay the price." She pulled up a stool. "Here, Hermione, I’ll tell you what to do."

Hermione stood up and offered her own stool. "No, I’d rather watch. In all these years, I’ve never seen my husband lose a game of chess... even the most important one we ever played, with Harry, back at age eleven." She grinned at Ron. "By all means, this should be fascinating. Ange, come have a look."

So Mo sat down in Hermione’s place. I sat across from Hermione’s new seat, so that we both had a side view of the board. The easy smile was wiped off Ron’s face. It was replaced by an expression that I’d never seen him wear before. The closest approximation to it was the strange expression he’d given Harry on New Year’s at the Snitch. It was pensive. Serious. Challenging.

Mo’s full lips were set in a line. Dark brown eyes locked with blue.

"King, go to QB8. Castle while you’re at it."

The king murmured her appreciation at having a general who gave orders that made sense, then did just that.

Ron’s eyes darkened. Neither he nor Mo broke their stare.

"King’s knight--why don’t you go on over and snatch up the pawn my opponent’s queen just left unprotected?"

The knight galloped over and did so. The little pawn screamed, and so did the queen.

"Bastard!" the tiny queen screeched. "That was my youngest baby, my own pawn... you’ll pay for this, you creep!"

"Yes, he will." Mo was clucking her tongue and shaking her head. "You know, Ronald, I knew you’d do that. You did the same thing in the tournament back in 2005. And now history is going to repeat itself... queen’s bishop, that white knight is yours. Get him."

The knight did so as Ron stammered. Mo dropped the unconscious piece into Hermione’s hand.

"One," she said.

Hermione howled and pecked Ron’s cheek. "Your move, dear. Chop, chop... time is money."

"Time’s worth more than money when it comes to chess," Ron growled back.

"Oh, stop that pouting," Maureen ordered. "This game is still yours. When it comes down to it, you’re a much better player than I am. Your problem is that you let your emotions get the better of you. I don’t. Straighten up and play."

He did. From the little I knew of chess, I gathered he was trying to set up a vicious offense. Mo clucked her tongue again and took his king’s rook.

"Two," she said, handing the piece to Hermione.

In the next five moves, Mo did indeed reverse the tide of the game. She took three more of Ron’s pieces, none of them a pawn. Each one she dropped into Hermione’s opened hand.

Her last move sent the belligerent queen jumping up and down and pumping her fist into the air... just before she knocked the other knight off his horse.

"CHECK!" the queen screamed, stamping her foot.

Mo picked up the dizzy white knight and handed it to the gloating Hermione. "Five."

Ron’s lips were curling. "You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?"

"I always enjoy winning, Ron. Don’t take it so personally." She turned back to Hermione. "You’re anywhere between one to four moves from checkmate, depending on how much of a death fight your husband puts up. Just remember, you’ve got him cornered. From here on out, it’s mind over matter."

"Actually, I’m having fun watching you play, Maureen," Hermione said. "Finish up for me, will you?"

She did. It took Ron exactly four more moves to dig his grave in that game. When Mo won, the dark pieces threw a huge celebration.

"Shut it," Ron growled at them, setting his still-recovering pieces back up. "New game. Equal terms."

Mo glanced over at Hermione. "Want to watch? I’d love to teach you how to do this yourself. You too, Ange. Chess is such a wizard-dominated game, and many witches are intimidated by it. But as with everything, women bring their own unique flair to matters of war."

Hermione nodded. "And as they say, all’s fair in love and war," she said.

Perhaps fair, but not always explainable. For something strange happened after the first ten moves of that chess match.

Ron and Mo utterly forgot we were sitting there.

It was like watching the chess championships, but was much more exciting. Instead of stony, charged silence, after a while they began to talk to each other. Ron would deliver a cutting remark and Mo would reply with her own matter-of-fact wit. With each move, Ron became more and more intense... Mo became more and more cool.

By the fifteenth move, he was a fireball. She, on the other hand, would have been better named Icicle.

"You know, there are words for witches like you," Ron growled as she took one of his pawns.

Mo scoffed, instructing another pawn to advance. "And I’m sure I’ve heard them all before from far better wizards. Your move."

"Smug, aren’t we? I can’t wait to wipe that," he set down a pawn heavily on the eighth square and she transfigured into another queen instantly, "smirk off your face."

"You talk a good game, Ron. Too bad you’re not playing a good game... check," she said, capturing the newly made queen with a knight. "There. I’ve got you on the run. Again."

Hermione’s eyes met mine. Without a word to the chess players, she rose. I followed her.

"Remind me to have a chat with you one of these days," she murmured as we headed towards the kitchen door. "Let’s make it soon. There’s something I’ve been meaning to share with you for a long time."

Before we could exit, Harry burst into the kitchen, followed by Sirius, Bill, and a wizard I’d never seen before. All were sober and wide-eyed. As Ron and Mo stood up from the chess table, Sirius, Bill, and the stranger rushed over to where they stood. Hermione stopped her best friend before he could follow.

"What is it, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"Ludlam Agency business," he said quickly. "Nothing for you to worry about."

"All right, that explains why Luke Lawless is here. But why are you and Sirius..."

"Because of our Ministry connections in Investigations. Brian Riordan’s making trouble." He paused. "His goons found something in Maureen’s files, or more likely, planted it. They claim she owes the Ministry almost a million Galleons in back taxes. Unless Maureen’s lawyer can do some fast talking, she and several of her clients are going to wind up in court."

I closed my eyes. Diane the Diamond Dinosaur was going to get a piece of my mind.

"Harry, what is going on? I’ve been kept in the dark about this whole situation for months, and it’s becoming more frightening by the week. Who is out to get Ron? Who is trying to hurt everyone around him? And why won’t he talk to me about it?"

Harry sighed. Glancing over at Sirius, who waved him off, he put his hands on Hermione’s shoulders.

"Come into the dining room and I’ll tell you what I can."

They walked out. I started to follow and find my own husband... it was getting late, and it was getting strange. I was more than ready to call it a night.

But something... I never afterward knew what... told me to turn around. Perhaps it was the same instinct that made me far too nosy for my own good, that helped me step into Katie’s shoes at the Prophet with little effort, that aided in my earning five Quill and Scroll awards for sports and investigative reporting in a little over a decade.

Whatever it was, I was grateful ever afterwards. When I looked back, it was at that point that the mystery that had begun months before started to unravel for me... and unravel fast.

For Mo was now crying. Not the quiet tears I saw falling from her eyes in the press box the weekend before. No, her chest heaved with great sobs, and her shudders shook her whole body. That would have been strange enough. Mo didn’t seem the type to bawl over a court challenge. Not after the way I saw her play chess that night.

One of my brothers-in-law was holding her... but it wasn’t Bill. To be sure, Bill was patting her head, rubbing her back, and passing on the handkerchief Luke Lawless handed him. After a while, he embraced them both, but didn’t prefer Maureen to his brother.

That’s right, Ron was holding her. Eyes shut tight. Lips buried in her hair as he murmured soothing words. It was definitely a hug you’d give a close friend in those moments of tragedy... and I’d gathered that between Quidditch and chess they’d become good friends. Nothing so strange about that.

What was strange was that Ron was crying too. With the exception of his wedding day, I’d never seen him cry. And back then, those had been tears of emotion, triumph and joy. These quiet tears seemed to issue forth from pure anguish. And anger. When his eyes opened, they were positively murderous.

A prickling on my spine let me know someone was watching me. I looked up... it was Sirius. He came over to where I stood.

"You have a knack of turning up at the most opportune moments, don’t you, madam?" he said under his breath.

"One of my many talents."

"This isn’t your concern, Angelina."

"Perhaps not, but I am concerned."

He studied my face intently. "This is a much bigger can of worms than you think. Some of us can’t avoid being involved. You, my dear, have a choice in the matter."

"Trouble doesn’t scare me. After all, I’m a Sponge survivor. Surely nothing could be worse than the forty-five seconds I endured of that."

"Surely," he sighed. "you have enough to worry about with your own little family..."

"There’s nothing little about this family. What happens to Ron, Hermione, and everyone else involved in whatever’s going on will affect us all. Some families are not like that... mine certainly isn’t half as cohesive. The Weasleys are. So yes, I do want to get to the bottom of this!"

Sirius opened the kitchen door for me.

"All in good time, Angelina. Soon everything will make sense. I’m not much for Divination, but all the signs point to the lid being blown off this entire situation very shortly. And when it does, that New Year’s headline will seem to have been a virtual Cheering Charm. My advice is to stay oblivious while you can. Some of us don’t have that choice."

With those words, he ushered me out of the kitchen. But not before I heard Mo’s infuriated words.

"Find that Orla Quirke witch... and find her now."

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