Paradise Lost

by AngieJ
Paradise Lost
book 1
Harry
 Contents

Prologue – Red Dawn......................................................7

1. The Talented Dr. Granger..........................................23
2. Disappearing Acts......................................................63
3. Evergreen...................................................................99
4. What the Body Remembers.....................................201
5. The Girl From Ipanema............................................265
 Author: AngieJ
Author email: ebony@schnoogle.com
Keywords: Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley,
Weasley Family, Malfoy, Oxford, Brazil, Death Eater, Dark Arts
Spoilers: All The Books
Rating: R
Category: Suspense/Romance
Summary: Political upheaval and plagues and passion... oh
my! In the year 2012, the wizarding world faces the threat of
genocide amidst a time of turbulence and terrible prejudice towards
Muggles and their magical progeny. The only one who might be
able to erase this threat is the most famous Muggle-born witch of
all, Dr. Hermione Granger... that is, if she and her friends can figure
out this most diabolical of puzzles before she is erased.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations
created and owned by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including
but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made
and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Other
citations will be provided at the beginning or end of chapters,
where needed. This teacher and aspiring writer is ever so grateful
that Ms. Rowling has allowed us to enter Harry’s world through her
novels.
WARNING: This fic begins in August 2012, fourteen years
after the Hogwarts canon is scheduled to end. All of the characters
you recognize from the canon are now adults and will behave
accordingly. That this fic contains adult themes goes without
saying. There are several scenes planned for this fic that are
emphatically not suitable for young children or persons of any age
who are disturbed or offended by graphic violence or sexual
content.

Chapter Summary: Just setting the stage...

This prologue is dedicated to all of those who have joined us
in Paradise over the past eight months and encouraged me to write
this encore. I am more than happy to oblige, and am grateful for the
challenge of exploring a new genre of fiction writing with you...
and I really hope that you enjoy Paradise Lost.
 Prologue – Red Dawn

by AngieJ

“Behind every wizard of the eighth rank

were half a dozen seventh rank wizards
trying to bump him off, and senior
wizards had to develop an inquiring
attitude to, for example, scorpions in
their bed. An ancient proverb summed it
up: When a wizard is tired of looking
for broken glass in his dinner, he is
tired of life.”
– Terry Pratchett, The Light Fantastic

August 1, 2012. Daybreak, Cairo time.

A
El-Kharga, Egypt
t the precise moment that the first sliver of morning sun emerged
from beneath the eastern dunes, the golden doors of the Great Hall
flung open. The dramatic entrance to come was heralded by the
minor-key blare of trumpets, the beat of bass drums, and the tinkling of
reed flutes.
All of the witches and wizards present rose to their feet and cheered as
if with one voice. The sound caused the enchanted sand brick walls of the
imposing Temple of the Lost to vibrate and hum. Representatives in the
throng included sorcerers from every nation, people, and tribe on Earth.
Between them they spoke all languages and none at all.
Yet as different as they all looked, their attire did not vary much. They
were dressed up in a curious uniform that consisted of stiff crackling
scarlet robes that tended to run red rivulets down their limbs whenever the
skin the fabric came in contact with was warmed to a normal temperature.
Fortunately for both garments and wearers, all of the sorcerers present
had the equivalent of frozen nitrogen running through their veins. Breaking
into a sweat would have been a sign of marked weakness... and in the
Cabalistica, weakness was despised. So was warmth. So the red folds were
usually safe from bleeding.
Paradise Lost 1
Although the temperature of the desert morning outside was already
nearing one hundred degrees, there was no need for even a single Cooling
Charm inside the vast, cavernous structure where the 13 th Annual
Conference was being held. There was a gusty chill in the air that even the
ten standards flying high overhead recognized and paid homage to by
flapping incessantly.
But none of the witches or wizards below were looking upwards.
Their collective attentions were focused upon the open entrance, cheering,
using their enhanced sense of hearing to listen until they heard the pitter-
patter of footsteps...
When the first muzzled Chimaera came into sight with its rider, the
cheering turned into an eardrum-splitting roar that rose in pitch as each
new dignitary entered the hall... thirty-three in all.
The significance was intended to be ironic. There were thirty-three
conspirators involved in the devious Muggle plot to murder the wizard
statesman Gaius Julius Caesar. Or so every wizarding child learned in their
History of Magic courses at Durmstrang, the Academy, and even at
Hogwarts.
It was only fitting that there would be thirty-three involved in the
devious wizarding plot to subdue the Muggle world... and to expunge all
traces of their filthy useless blood from the magical population worldwide.
Thirty-three of the living dead, men and women whose hearts had turned,
not into stone, but into a stinking, rotten pulpy mass that festered within
their chests and pumped the poison of hate throughout their entire bodies...
men and women whose lips had sipped from the chalices of demons,
whose eyes had seen the forbidden, and whose lips had uttered the taboo.
The thirty-three of the exclusive group that the Cabalistica took its
name from were now the de facto heart and soul for organized Dark Arts
activity worldwide. Every registered member of the Cabalistica gave this
diabolical coven all the credit for its first rise in well over a decade...
The Cabal.
Even the Cabal itself was stratified. Selected from among the thirty-
three were the Seven Last Incarnations of the Dark One... four women and
three men. They were the last to enter, riding on Hebridean dragonlets
whose wings had been clipped and whose fire had been stolen away by
Dark Magic.
Li Ching for the Hei-Dao, First Incarnation of T’ien Ti.
Baba Tila for the Children of the Widow, Seventh Incarnation of Baba
Yaga.
Roger Apemendek for the Order of the Chalybian, Fifth Incarnation of

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 Prologue: Red Dawn
Grindelwald.
Sebastian Borgin for the Death Eaters, First Incarnation of Voldemort,
Dark Lord of Lords.
Zyanya Xochimilco for the Priesthood of the Flowery Death,
Seventeenth Incarnation of Huitzipochtli.
Sheetal Shetty for the Kali Mandir, Second Incarnation of Vlad, Count
Dracula.
Last to enter was the newly installed Grand Inquisitor of the Cabal,
also Worthy Matron of the Great Society and Third Orisha of Asili... Asha
Djeli Babatunde, Fifth Incarnation of Ibadiran.
Asha Babatunde was said to be the most wicked she-creature of
human origin to have walked the earth in nearly five hundred years. In the
three years since she had been appointed to the Cabal, Asha had been the
mastermind behind the assassination of ten wizarding heads of state,
including Britain’s Lucy Goosey in her office at the Ministry of Magic
branch office in Bath and Brazil’s Jorge Jobim while visiting relatives
outside of Salvador. Her wand was so filled with the lost souls of her
victims that it was said that if a Priori Incantatem was performed on it,
there would be enough virtual ghosts popping out of it to populate the
British wizarding town of Hogsmeade several times over.
It was rumored in these latter days that Asha had learned the secret of
cheating death by calling Voldemort up from the grave and into the midst
of a pentagram so powerful that he couldn’t help but be compelled to tell
her all she wanted to know about immortality. Others swore she’d spoken
with many other personages of note in this fashion, and on some occasions,
done more than speak. All of those who had gone before had finally,
finally succumbed to the inevitable... but if anyone could finally succeed in
discovering the secret to eternal life, most believed Asha could.
There were even rumors that she was the incarnation of Inanna.
Long before Nostradamus’ prophecies or any Muggle holy books had
ever been penned, so long ago that it was in the ancient time before any
books had been written, there was a dabbler in the magical arts by the
name of Semiramis who lived in the Fertile Crescent. Semiramis was one
of the first witches ever, if not the very first... after she became a full-
fledged witch, she took the name of Inanna for herself. Because of her
good works, the people of that long-ago time loved her and sainted her.
After her death she was worshipped above all other gods and goddesses in
the Sumerian pantheon. Even though her lovers were legion, the strength
of her Craft came from the fact that she was not subdued by any man.
In Egypt, she became the famed Isis, wife to Osiris, mother and wife

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Paradise Lost 1
to Horus.
In Greece she was Artemis of the Mysteries, goddess of the moon and
of the hunt. In Rome, she was Diana of Ephesus.
In Christendom of the Middle Ages, she inspired the cult of the
Madonna.
Wizards and witches, although not religious at all, kept the legend of
Inanna alive in their histories. Those who happened to be awake in their
respective training schools’ History of Magic courses always remembered
the following myth:
There are those who say that the Goddess is not dead. As the
immortal mother of magic she is alive in the veins of every witch and
wizard on the planet even to this very day. And there are those who
say that when her children are threatened unto death and they must
make their final stand, a new Inanna will walk the earth and become
the salvation of all that is magical, all that is mystical, all that is
enchanted.
It was quite obvious to everyone present that day that either Asha or
another of the Cabal’s women was indeed this Inanna who was to come.
For didn’t the relentless Muggle encroachment upon the wizarding world
in modern times threaten magic’s very existence? Wouldn’t the Goddess
come again as an avenging dark angel in the night, striking down all those
who dared to harm her children with the sword of her mouth?
Asha looked very much like that Dark Angel on this morning, riding
on a triple-headed dark green hoglike beast with fangs dripping over saliva
and steam coming out of its nostrils, a creature obviously spliced by Dark
Magic. Like the others, she was dressed in robes of scarlet with a deep
wine-purple tunic trimmed with cloth-of-gold draped over it. Her skin was
brown as polished mahogany, and masses of smooth dark hair curled about
her face like tendrils of cornsilk.
A closer look revealed that her eyes were like twin scarabs, glittering
meanly in a setting as white as Dieppe ivories and fringed with spiky
lashes. There was not a trace of warmth or compassion in those eyes.
They said she had no children. It was common knowledge that she
ruled over her husband, the British Minister of Magic, as if he were a pet
hamster of hers... even though she had not shown her face in the British
isles for over three years. It was also rumored long ago that her father was
of Muggle descent, although the talk stopped when those who were
responsible for spreading the gossip died very suddenly in their sleep. All
in the same night.
She was last to reach the platform. The beast lowered itself to
accommodate her, and several Cabalistica lay members scrambled to offer
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 Prologue: Red Dawn
their backs so that their beloved Grand Inquisitor would not have to place
her precious feet on the cold sand-stones that made up the floor of the
palace. Hoisted on the shoulders of these men, she ascended the stairs and
then walked the short distance to the ceremonial Inquisition Seat.
Once she sat, the applause stopped. Sebastian Borgin, who was
presiding, held up his hand, then brought it down in a swift chopping
motion. This halted the last blasts of fanfare... everyone took their seats.
Sebastian was a tall, lanky man with long, light brown hair that always
looked like it wanted a good washing. There was a perpetual lean and
hungry look in his watery blue red-rimmed eyes. He was a man of few
detrimental personal habits and even fewer weaknesses.
It was generally acknowledged that Sebastian was the strong arm of
the Cabal and of the Incarnated Seven... he was known to be utterly
ruthless in using murder and mayhem to get his point across to both the
hated Mudbloods and their infernal Muggle-loving allies. Like every other
Cabalistica member, he had no qualms about killing children... but unlike
most others, he enjoyed torture and was fast turning it into an art form that
he took erotic pleasure from. Sebastian Borgin was a sadist and a
backstabber, a murderer and a brutal rapist, a wizard who was utterly
warped and twisted according to every standard of normalcy and decency
that the mainsteam wizarding world held.
He was also the Cabalistica’s idea of a true Renaissance man.
“Brethren of the truth,” said Sebastian grandly, standing up to give the
occasion, “it is both a privilege and an honor to greet you most cordially on
this glorious day. Join me as we stand in the singing of our Anthem.”
All of the wizards and witches present stood gleefully again, clasping
their hands over their hearts and looking straight at the platform.
Compliance was checked by black-robed henchmen... the former
Dementors of Azkaban. Anyone who did not comply with any request
given from the dais would immediately be Kissed by these guards.
Non-compliance was rare, however. The Cabalistica delegations were
appointed by their home organizations especially for their fervor in
persecuting the Muggle-born and the Muggle-loving vermin who took up
for them.
So to a man, those present sang the lyrics to the Anthem three times
over with gusto, in perfect seventeen-part harmony, which everyone knows
was invented by wizards and witches anyway...
O Cabal, grand Cabal, we thank thee for the night
With strength of will we shall purge every deed of the light
We shall crush our enemies with the might of the dark

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Paradise Lost 1
Upon the brow of the pure we shall leave our mark
O Cabal! Grand Cabal, we pledge our lives to thee
Our wands, our all, and nothing less
And Cabal if we should ever fail to please thee
Then our failure should herald our death...
O Cabal, if we should ever fail to please thee
Then our failure shall herald our death!
Let it be...
Let it be...
Let it be!
The singing of the anthem was punctuated by another burst of
applause, perhaps the most frenzied of all. One young Indian witch became
so frenzied that she burst out into dancing in the aisles, then fell to the
ground in something that greatly resembled an epileptic seizure. The
nearest Dementor bent over her, and when it rose again, the supine form of
the young witch was absolutely still. A body cannot live without its soul,
and hers no longer resided there.
Of all present, only Asha and her strong arm did not sing. She sat
upon her throne and gazed at the spectacle with her usual mask-like gaze,
giving no clue to her innermost thoughts.
Sebastian watched her for a few moments when the singing first
began, then leaned over and said, “What next?” There was never any set
agenda for the Conferences if the Grand Inquisitor did not approve it... and
this time she had not.
“You may proceed as planned. Only do not take the vote on the
question of the Pigeon hunt...”
“What?!” snarled Sebastian. “Damn it, Asha, I am tired of this! She
would have been dead long before now if it hadn’t been for your
interference...”
“I did not interfere,” replied the Grand Inquisitor. “There is a vast
difference between interference and tabling the issue, which is my right as
head of the Cabal.”
“You have tabled the fucking issue for the past eight conventions...
almost two years! And the longer we wait, the stronger the Pigeon grows,
and the closer to the truth. Besides, the Accursed One...”
“The Accursed One knows nothing of her whereabouts,” Asha replied.
“Word has it that he has quite a few other things to be concerned with.
What with planning his wedding and putting out all the fires that we’ve
started in Britain, he is far too busy to spare a second’s thought on her...”
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 Prologue: Red Dawn
“Until she flies back over the ocean and back to them... back to him...
once she puts what she’s seen in the New World together with what is
happening there, it could be the doxy that bites a hole in our arses!”
Asha studied Sebastian’s rat-like face.
“Why would she ever go back? No, Sebastian, our informants say that
she will never live as a witch again. Despite my predecessor’s
shortcomings, when Hecate sat in this seat she orchestrated the downfall of
that infernal Covenant quite nicely. She may have failed in her final orders
to bring the Pigeon back to face our version of... shall I say, justice... but
Hecate and her team did quite nicely in all other points.”
“She would have done nicely if they were all dead,” snapped
Sebastian. “Damned snake couldn’t even dispose with the cheap talentless
Enthraller we used as the Trojan horse... instead, her own marionette ended
up turning on her and killing her daughter.”
“Good riddance,” said Asha with a wave of her hand. “That daughter
of Hecate’s was a nuisance anyway... exactly why I don’t have children
myself. If that girl had left well enough alone instead of disobeying orders
to go on a personal vendetta, we wouldn’t be having this conversation
now.”
“We wouldn’t be having this conversation now if you’d just let me
take the bloody vote!” said Sebastian, finishing his tirade up with a near-
silent scream.
But now the anthem was over, and Sebastian sat back up. It was time
to continue with the proceedings.
First, there was about an hour or so of bragging, during which the
silent spread of the Cabalistica’s mission all over the world over the past
three years was lauded.
“The mistake that our predecessors made in various regions of the
world,” said the Canadian Chalybian Roger Apemendek, “was in
announcing their presence with fanfare much like that which proceeded
their entrance. Recall, if you will, the proliferation of the Dark Mark over
Europe during the recent revolution. And yes, instituting such measures to
form a reign of terror is all well and good, in its place.
“But the esteemed Order of the Chalybian teaches that if you control
the thoughts of the wizard of witch, they become your slave. You will not
need to tell them to use the back door... they will go to it automatically. In
fact, if there is no back door, they will cut one for their benefit. The skillful
breaking of an individual mind is an art form only mastered by a few
Chalybian adepts... but dearly beloved brethren, you must all be
commended for following the directives of the Cabal to break the

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Paradise Lost 1
individual mind of the masses.” Applause. “The most commendable thing
in all of this is the fact that we have come so far in such a short time... and
yet, our increased worldwide influence has barely left a single mark.
“After the failure of the Beta Revolution,” Roger continued, referring
to the term Dark adepts used for the Second Voldemort War, “a bill was
introduced to the International Confederation of Wizards proposing that all
Muggle-born witches and wizards be required to wear some sort of badge
of identification. It was blasted to bits and never made it out of committee.
A subsequent AWP poll at the turn of the millennium by the Confeds
showed that seven-eighths of witches and wizards worldwide were against
restricting the issuance of the Muggle visa, the MagiCard, and registering
the Muggle-born along with their immediate families.
“After the Victoria Jenkins debacle of 2010, when evidence of the
wizarding world was actually published in what the Muggles deem one of
their legitimate publications – the Guardian, if such feral animals can
actually be said to produce anything at all that is legitimate – there ensued
a frenzied witch-hunt the like of which we have not seen in over four
hundred years. Attitudes changed overnight. Although Ms. Jenkins and her
publication’s carelessness were in direct violation of the 1692 International
Compact, no legal action was taken by either the Confederation or the
British Ministry of Magic.
“As you all know... the public was...” here Roger broke into a dry
laugh, “outraged.”
The entire Great Hall filled with diabolical laughter. As if on cue, a
chorus of “muwhahahahahas” bounced from the walls of the echoing
sandstone palace. Some even held their sides, but refrained from rolling
down the aisles with their mirth in light of what had happened to the
unfortunate Indian acolyte during the anthem.
Only the Dementors stood silently at attention.
Roger held up a hand for silence, and he was immediately obeyed.
“The post-revolution so-called ‘prosperity’ ended and the rise of those
Muggle-aping international businesses was halted... perhaps because of the
Jenkins debacle, perhaps not. At any rate, the fact that the two events
coincided could only benefit our cause immensely... and benefit it it did.
People blamed the bad times on the Mugglization of the wizarding world.
“Our ranks have swollen in all of our affiliate organizations. In many
countries that are ultra-sympathetic to our cause, such as Great Britain,
Brazil, South Africa, and India, more than two-thirds of the population are
thought to be sympathetic towards anti-Muggle causes. Rioting and
boycotting of Mudblood-owned businesses has begun, along with the

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 Prologue: Red Dawn
harassment and battering of the same and their defenders. The stage,
brethren, is being set quite nicely for what we will propose this autumn...
the Ultimate Solution.
“The Confederation will convene next month on the first of
September. It is then that we will propose this Ultimate Solution... and we
of the Cabal plan to ensure that our will shall prevail during the
international proceedings. At that time, we will unveil the details that the
Confeds will not know to you, our brethren.
“So continue to stoke the fires of discontent in your own home
villages and towns, knowing that misplaced ideals of liberty, equality, and
brotherhood do not fill an empty stomach or dispel fear. The so-called
‘good’ often fall by the wayside when there is a more convenient path to
follow. In this, the past Grand Inquisitor Hecate Quirke was correct when
she said ‘Only the wicked are righteous.’ It is within the nature of sorcery
to be self-serving and to pursue personal pleasure... we are not the crowd
of self-denial and foolish sacrifice, and thank Mephistopheles for it. We are
the wise ones who live in the moment and force all others to do the same.
We know that there is no good or evil, only power and those who wish to
pursue it. In this knowledge we have become godlike, and indeed, recent
centuries have proven that we and we alone are fit to rule our world!”
More enthusiastic applause... but it stopped the second that Sebastian
Borgin rose to his feet.
Roger’s mouth clenched shut at this breach of protocol. Asha’s
glittering scarab eyes were locked upon Sebastian’s treacherous form.
“Sebastian, what on earth is the meaning of this insubordination?”
Asha snapped in a voice that brooked no refusal.
Sebastian then did the unthinkable.
He turned his back on the Grand Inquisitor of the Cabalistica.
It was Pandemonium in more ways than one. The crowd screamed and
gnashed their teeth at the unthinkable insult. The Dementors seemed torn
between remaining in place as crowd control or rushing to the dais to
punish Sebastian for his sin.
And the red dye of the robes sent off an all-too familiar stench,
pungent and acrid in its intensity, as it liquefied and ran down the hands
and feet of the crowd.
Rivulets of blood.
Asha herself stood to control the frenzied crowd.
“Silence, you fools! Let my strong arm speak.”
It took a few moments, but soon there was silence. Once he had
everyone’s attention, albeit grudgingly, Sebastian Borgin began. His voice

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Paradise Lost 1
was grating and harsh, with phlegmy undertones.
“What Roger is carefully skirting is the fact that all of our efforts will
be vain if history repeats itself.”
Sebastian paced in front of the Inquisition seat, avoiding Asha’s
beetling gaze. Thousands of varicolored irises followed him back and
forth, back and forth as he walked.
“Fourteen years ago, it looked as if the Beta Revolution would be the
successful start of a new regime. But in one night, three children,” the last
was uttered in a high-pitched tone that was close to a screech, “three little
brats were able not just to kill the First Grand Inquisitor, that Dark Lord of
Lords, not just able to take prisoner the elite Lightning Guard, but they put
all of Tartarus in stasis... setting us back eleven years!” There was that
high-pitched tone again. “Names that we curse... names that we do not
speak... the Accursed One... the Weasel... and the Pigeon.” He punctuated
each code name with an eloquent spray of spittle, then discharged the
entire wad upon the dais at the end.
“Tartarus was in stasis until three springs ago, when our Gatekeeper in
Bermuda alerted us to stirrings from the depths of its portal... just before he
disappeared. The restoration of our base there, along with the harnessing of
its resources, is directly responsible for our rise as of late. Let us not put on
airs,” he glared at Roger, “that are groundless.
“It ought to nag each and every member here that the three brats
responsible for our setbacks of a decade and more were not put out of their
misery while they were weak and young, but were allowed to grow to
adulthood and to reach near-legendary status among the unenlightened.
Every one sworn to allegiance to this Cabal ought to hang their heads in
shame for allowing this grave misfortune to come to pass.”
His words dropped into momentary silence. In all that Great Hall,
there was not a single sound.
“Some of you may say that this doesn’t matter... that our plans are
coming to pass and all of our enemies’ might will not be able to withstand
the Ultimate Solution. After all, we have the vaccine and they do not.
“What none of you know... what has been withheld from you,” said
Sebastian with a very disrespectful look at Asha, “is the fact that the
meddling Pigeon has stumbled upon a rogue test case of the virus while in
her self-imposed exile... and in her usual tiresome fashion, she is asking
too many questions and sticking her nasty Muggle nose into affairs that
ought to be none of her concern.”
Sebastian pulled a half-smoked cigarette from his tattered red robes.
“The thing to do is not to wait until she finds the vaccine or even a

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 Prologue: Red Dawn
cure. She is living thousands of miles away from her Muggle family and
wizarding friends. Our informants report that she is living without magic...
she may not even have her wand. Let us not wait until our Ultimate
Solution is dismantled and ineffective. Let us strike now,” he crushed the
cigarette butt between his fingertips, then flattened it under his sandal,
“while she is isolated and opportunity is on our side!”
There was a pause, as if the gathered assembly was trying to decide
how to react to this. Then a single cheer came from the topmost bank of
seats... and spread downward like a wave, the sound splashing against the
edges of the dais.
But now Asha had come to stand, shooting a reproving glance at
Sebastian. This was even more shocking... for protocol demanded that the
Grand Inquisitor not stand during Cabal sabbats. However on that day,
protocol seemed to have been tossed out of the Great Hall’s gilt-shuttered
windows.
“Your fervor for the Dark is commendable as always, young
Sebastian,” said Asha. “However, you make the fatal mistake of the first
Grand Inquisitor, the esteemed Lord of Lords. You make the mistake of
obsession. The Dark Lord of Lords’ downfall was his fixation on the
Accursed One. Everyone knows that... his singleminded hatred of the boy
made him so myopic that he didn’t see his own demise coming!
“It is best not to allow our passions to overrule our good judgment.
Roger is right to commend all for that which has come to pass due to the
tireless efforts of all, and to inform the assembly of that which will shortly
take place after this. Let us not make the mistake of Voldemort... and do let
us continue to be grateful to the martyrdom of our esteemed past
Inquisitor, Lady Hecate Quirke, Fourth Incarnation of Ibadiran. To
continue to focus this Cabal’s efforts and energies on enemies of the past
would be counterproductive and could prove fatal...”
“What will prove fatal is if you continue to ignore this potential
Achilles’ heel...”
“Sebastian, that is enough!” The Grand Inquisitor’s staff of the Cabal,
with its glowing green orb, struck the sandstone of the dais sharply. “I have
spoken. Now, no more of this... the proceedings will continue as planned.”
And proceed they did. There were more laudatory speeches of state,
reports from the various affiliate organizations, and a few ceremonial hexes
said. By noon, it was time to take a break for the midday meal, which
would be served elsewhere in the Palace.
Not everyone attended this meal, however. There were a few items of
pressing business that had to be taken care of first.

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There was a room underneath the dais of the Great Hall that not many
knew about. Those who did made their excuses to their companions for
missing the afternoon meal, then made their way down the long corridors
and secret passageways that snaked deep underneath the Palace of the Lost
like an old man’s varicose veins. Pulling their blood-red hoods up to
obscure their faces they went... also donning eerie-looking masks that, like
all wizarding masks, molded to their faces and morphed their appearances.
A cat, a cow. A crocodile who liked to bare its sharp teeth.
A jackal. A lion. A black boar with a juicy conversation.
A goose. A hippopotamus. A ram with exceedingly sharp tips on his
curly horns.
One by one the animals of the makeshift pantheon reached a too-short,
oddly shaped door. Once arrived, they knocked out an arcane, staccato
rhythm and were immediately given entry.
The one who had called them to the secret meeting was already there.
His hood was up too, but the single candle that illuminated the room lit up
his features well enough to reveal his identity... Sebastian Borgin.
“Watchmen, what of the night?” asked he, as if it was not the middle
of the day.
“A rogue Inquisitor,” hissed the crocodile.
“A renegade Cabal,” squawked the goose.
“A Cabalistica which is being led astray,” meowed the cat.
“Yes,” said Sebastian slowly, stroking his clean-shaven chin as if
there were a beard there. The play of candlelight on his sunken eyes and
the skin pulled tight over his cheekbones as he leered made his face look
like a skull. “What is the verdict, then?”
“Death to the present incarnation of Ibadiran,” roared the lion, “whose
shoes the Grand Inquisitor is not worthy to fill.”
“Death to all the cowards who sit amongst the thirty-three of the
Cabal,” oinked the boar, “who will not stand with us.”
“Death to all those pledged to the Cabal,” baaed the ram, “who would
try to defend those who are too weak to live.”
Sebastian leered again. “Yes. It is pleasing to me, dear ones, that we
are agreed. Now we should take care to...”
“Who’s there?” said the jackal suddenly, sniffing and looking up.
All of the animals then went sniffing, probing, and peering into the
various dusty and cobwebby corners of the secret chamber. Finally the
hippopotamus exclaimed with excitement, smashing a wooden
sarcophagus with meaty, inhuman fists.
“Ay-ay-ay! Look what we have here, everyone!”

- 18 -
 Prologue: Red Dawn
Fiercely, the hippopotamus jerked up the little urchin by the scruff of
his neck. He was a small, scrawny boy of obvious Nilotic descent, around
nine or ten or so, with dark hair that would have had a nice sheen if it
wasn’t quite so dirty.
Sebastian recognized him immediately.
“Well. If it isn’t one of our Grand Inquisitor’s... pets.” He walked over
to the boy to ruffle his hair, even as the child squirmed away. “Hasn’t your
mistress taught you manners? Don’t you know it is a dreadful thing to
eavesdrop?” He shook his head and so did the hippopotamus.
The others guffawed, filling the stuffy air with their animal grunts.
Some salivated; in just a few short moments they would have the lunch
that they’d missed coming to this meeting. And what better repast was
there for these detestable demons than the tender, sweet flesh of children?
They were the kind of nightmarish creatures that even the very young
sensed the presence of, saying prayers, lighting nightlamps, and pulling
their covers up to their chins, utterly frightened of the dark.
And half a world away, a woman cried out in her sleep, clutching at
thin air.
Yet there was no fear in this little boy’s eyes. Instead there was
spunky defiance.
“It is an even more dreadful thing to murder!” he said. “You hide
behind the faces of the old gods, when all you are is imposters and
cowards! Bastet, Hathor, Sobek, Sekhmet, Geb, Seth, Khnum, and Thoth
indeed... I know exactly who you are! I’m not afraid of you, and I’m not
afraid to tell!”
The crocodile came forward to put a cold hand on the boy’s tattered
shoulder. “Son, I think you are too young to know the saying that dead
men tell no tales. Or dead boys, either...”
A half dozen pairs of hands reached for the boy... but he was too
quick. He danced out of the way nimbly, darting between their legs and to
the far end of the chamber. He inserted two small fingers between his lips
and blew out a piercing whistle.
“Sheba, Iman, Dawoud! Ebana, Musuri! Hadad, Tuya! Over here!”
Out of thin air, a group of seven oversized raptors with golden-tipped
plumes soared into the chamber. Chaos ensued as the animal-sorcerers
attempted to fend off their sharp claws and beaks.
Sebastian had endured enough. Drawing out his wand, he avoided the
commotion at the center of the room to search for the boy. “Here, boy...
come on out... if you do not prolong my search, I shall make your death
nice and quick. Pain-free...”

- 19 -
Paradise Lost 1
His last words ended with a gurgle as the boy pounced on him from
behind. With surprising strength, his little arms squeezed.
“Who are you?” demanded Sebastian.
“Not who you think I am. That is all you ever need know.” A white,
toothy grin flashed in his swarthy little face. “Oh, one more thing... my
mother sends her regards.”
“And...” said Sebastian, strangling, “exactly who would your mother
be?”
“Why, she’s Nephthys Abidijan, first Lady of the Order... who
commands you to leave her daughter in the Craft alone if you value your
life. You will not just have her to contend with if you do not.”
“Daughter... is... our Ibadiran?” grated out Sebastian, obviously
surprised that the waif was not one of Asha’s child retainers.
“No,” said the boy. “Her daughter in the Craft is our Inanna.”
The boy jumped off Sebastian just before he lost consciousness.
Summoning his pet birds, he shoved open the door. The raptors flew ahead
as the tiny boy flew down the narrow corridors, the pack from the bowels
of hell on his heels... there was a distinct white light shining around the
corner... but just before he reached it, he fell and stumbled... then jumped
up and leaped from the window’s ledge, golden raptors fluttering overhead,
curved talons grasping to clutch the hem of his linen robes...
“The name is Riki!” came his shout as his scrawny frame hurtled
toward the canyon below...
At that moment, six thousand miles away from El-Kharga, Hermione
Granger awoke from a troubled, fitful sleep with a frightened start.
And the light shineth in the darkness,
and the darkness comprehended it not.

- 20 -
 A/N: And here our story begins. Hope you enjoyed this
opening bit of Paradise Lost.
Sources: Peter Danielson’s excellent Children of the Lion
series is where the idea of using Egyptian gods and goddesses’
representations for the conspirators’ masks came from. (Situations,
choice of deities, and dialogue is all mine though.) If you want a
good, light read about the ancient Mediterranean world during
Biblical (Israel), New Kingdom (Egypt), and Hellenistic (Greek)
times, these seventeen novels have my highest recommendation...
try your local used bookstore or public library.
I also heard “Procession of the Sardar” in my head as I wrote
the beginning of this... it’s one of my Top 20 all-time favorite
classical songs. If you are familiar with it, or can get a recording,
I am sure you will agree that it fits this short piece like a glove. It’s
by Russian composer Mikhail Ippolitov-Ivanov, from his famous
Caucasian Sketches suite... if you’ve ever played in a decent high
school band or orchestra, chances are you’ve heard it before.
Finally, a major source for themes in Paradise Lost will be
various mythologies and comparative religion as well as heavy
emphasis on the Judeo-Christian tradition in the West in general
and in fantasy lit in particular. I’ve been wanting to explore how
philosophy, metaphysics, and religion work within JKR’s ever-so-
secular wizarding world, and I am coming up with some pleasant
surprises. For IMHO, a man or a woman who believes in absolutely
nothing is not fully alive... but there, I’m getting ahead of
myself. ;-)
There will be a Reviewer’s Section as of Chapter 2. Just like
in the good old days of the Site That Must Not Be Named all those
who review on the Schnoogle EZBoards will be duly
acknowledged. Paradise list reviewers will get their responses on
list, and e-mail reviewers privately.
Thanks for reading... as always, let me know what you think.
Paradise Lost 1

Summary: Political upheaval and plagues and passion... oh

my! In the year 2012, the wizarding world faces the threat of
genocide amidst a time of turbulence and terrible prejudice towards
Muggles and their magical progeny. The only one who might be
able to erase this threat is the most famous Muggle-born witch of
all, Dr. Hermione Granger... that is, if she and her friends can figure
out this most diabolical of puzzles before she is erased.
WARNING: This fic begins in August 2012, fourteen years
after the Hogwarts canon is scheduled to end. All of the characters
you recognize from the canon are now adults and will behave
accordingly. That this fic contains adult themes goes without
saying. There are several scenes planned for this fic that are
emphatically not suitable for young children or persons of any age
who are disturbed or offended by graphic violence or sexual
content.

Chapter Summary
Exactly three years after the close of Trouble in Paradise...
seventy-two hours in the life of Hermione Granger during the end
of her self-imposed exile to the Muggle world. We follow her at
work, on a date, and even into her thoughts... right before she
makes a decision of monumental proportions.
Dedicated to JKR’s wonderful character of Hermione Granger
herself... and to all Hermione fans worldwide. Also to Lori
Summers, who first made grown-up Hermione come alive in my
imagination. Without her work, neither this story nor this series
would be.

- 22 -
 1. The Talented Dr. Granger

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said

the girl. “Well, it’s not very good, is it?
I’ve tried a few simple spells and it’s all
worked for me. Nobody in my family’s
magic at all, it was ever such a surprise
when I got my letter, but I was ever so
pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very
best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve
heard – I’ve learnt all our set books off
by heart, of course, I just hope it will be
enough – I’m Hermione Granger, by the
way, who are you?
She said all this very fast.
– J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the
Philosopher’s Stone

August 1, 2012. 5:15 a.m. EST

H
Atlanta, Georgia – Buckhead.
ermione Granger sat bolt upright in bed. Her heart was pounding
at a frenetic rate and her teeth clattered. Underneath the covers
that she’d clutched with trembling fingers, her chest heaved with
her quickened breathing. She felt rather as if she’d just finished flying at a
fantastic 250 m.p.h... but there, she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about
flying anymore, was she?
Running a marathon, then.
As always, her ultrasensitive skin was the first to reorient itself to
surroundings beyond the realm of dreams and memory, to snap back into
reality. The cool blast from the vents just to the right of the king-sized bed
induced goosebumps to form on her sweat-moistened arms and chilled her
moist face... as did the remembrance of the nightmare she’d just awakened
from.
She rubbed the sleep from her brown eyes and looked about. The only
movement in the bedroom came from the magnolia tree, silhouetted by the
Paradise Lost 1
streetlight immediately outside of the window. Its limbs swayed lazily,
forming a dappled, shimmering shadow on the wall opposite. The only
sound was that of light snoring from the man sleeping next to her.
Glancing around the bedroom, she marveled at how well-ordered it
was – save for the masculine and feminine clothes strewn about the floor –
but that was not unusual for nights like these. It was also a very masculine
chamber, from the black satin sheets and animal-print comforter to the
slate grey painted walls with professional plaques nailed on them.
The contrast between the ordinariness of that room and the unusual,
sinister sight of what she’d just awakened from made her shiver again.
And then her pager went off.
“Oh, bugger,” she murmured, only pausing long enough for a
frustrated yawn before jumping off the bed in search of her purse. She
found it on a chair near the door, pulling the offending contraption out of it
while trying to shrug her bare arms into the dress shirt her boyfriend had
worn the night before.
Hermione pressed the button on her pager and peered at the glaring
digital display. It flashed the number to the Center for Disease Control,
where she had been employed as a leading virologist and Epidemiology
Intelligence Service (EIS) Officer in the Special Pathogens Branch for the
better part of the past three years. She loved her job, but not before six
o’clock in the morning.
The man in the bed sat up with a yawn, running his thick fingers
through salt-and-pepper hair. “Work, darlin’?”
His sleepy grin made her heart turn over in her chest. She loved seeing
him in the moment after he awakened... it made him appear much younger
than his fifty-three years. Few and far between were the times in which she
admitted it, but upon occasion the twenty-one years’ difference between
them did nag at her.
“Yes, you know the CDC has a gift for choosing the most inopportune
times to disturb...”
“They always do,” he said, not bothering to cover his yawn with a
hand. “Remember last fall, the first time we went on vacation together?”
“Don’t I ever,” laughed Hermione, coming over to sit on his side of
the bed. “Right in the thick of things, that damned pager kept going off.
Honestly, Jack, I was ready to throw it against a brick wall then. Even if it
meant losing my job.”
“Well, we certainly made up for lost time, didn’t we?” he said, leaning
forward to kiss her tenderly. When he sank back into the pillows, she was
smiling.

- 24 -
 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
“Let me phone in and see what the fire is this time... may I use yours,
or should I use my cell? It’s just downstairs...”
“Do you even need to ask? I know all about the CDC and their
incessant demands. After all, babe, I’ve been working at the beast about
seven times longer than you have.”
She grinned again before reaching over to his nightstand for the
cordless. That was another thing she loved about Jack. Where most men
were impatient when her ambition conflicted with their demands, he
understood her hectic, uncertain schedule because he was a doctor too.
And a very good one... as head of Bacteriology, he had a wealth of
knowledge about epidemic medicine. Hermione had learned worlds from
Jack. For he had begun three years ago not as her boyfriend, but as her
mentor at the CDC.
Not that Jack Calhoun had made any worse of a boyfriend during the
fourteen months since they’d gone from colleagues to a couple, either.
Quite the opposite indeed. He was everything that her previous loves were
not. Older. Settled. Her professional peer. American... the perfect Southern
gentleman.
And... he was a Muggle.
Her reflective grin faded when she had to redial three times over to get
the number right.
As her fingers stumbled over the memorized digits, a familiar tiny
voice plagued her. Three years this month, and you still aren’t used to
using a...
Don’t be ridiculous, she ordered it firmly. Of course I’m used to using
a telephone! It’s five in the morning and I’ve had a rough night.
Well, wouldn’t it be much quicker if that fireplace over there was
unblocked and you could just...
Shut it!
“Center for Disease Control, Duty Officer Norma Devine speaking,”
came the operator’s drawl, thick as cream and melodic as the blues.
“Good morning, Norma, this is Dr. Granger. I just received a page...”
“Yes, ma’am. There’s been an epidemic aid request. Just got the call
from the Illinois State Epidemiologist less than an hour ago... seems there’s
a problem in Chicago that sounds similar to the case we sent you out on in
Texas last month. Only this time it’s not an apartment, it’s a high rise
condominium on the Gold Coast. Seems that there’s something in the
ventilation system that’s making the residents sick... and they’re dropping
off like flies.”
Hermione took a pen and notepad out of the nightstand drawer that

- 25 -
Paradise Lost 1
Jack opened for her. She tried her best to scribble the address of the high
rise and the rapid-fire directions from the airport that Norma was giving
her.
“Have the local authorities secured the building? Have you instructed
them to evacuate the tenants on the floors determined safe via lift or
helicopter?”
“Yes, it’s under quarantine... according to the Illinois epidemiologist,
the tenants on the second and third floors are dropping like flies... two
fatalities so far... fifteen sick... the media has just gotten wind of it, and
ma’am, it already looks like it’s going to be a circus. Just in time for the
early morning news.”
“Bloody reporters... they’re like a pack of jackals,” said Hermione as
Jack handed her the brand-new reading glasses just before he got up and
headed for the shower. This way, her doctor’s scrawl would actually be
intelligible later. She’d been forced to start wearing corrective lenses for
reading, writing, and close work a short while ago. It was the first life
event that let her know she was now officially Over Thirty.
“Have you made my travel arrangements yet?”
“Delta Airlines Flight 1540 to Chicago O’Hare Airport leaves at 9:20
a.m. Hotel accommodations at the Drake... reservation is under your name.
Dorset may be in later if the situation gets out of hand.” Keith Dorset, a
loud and brash Texan, was Head of Virology at the CDC. “Any questions,
Dr. Granger?”
“Not at this time. As always, my cell phone and Blackberry are on...
please phone if there are any new developments.”
“Will do, ma’am... have a blessed day, and remind Dr. Calhoun that
he has a ten a.m. meeting with the Director.”
Hermione hung up, blushing a little at the knowledge that her and
Jack’s relationship was common knowledge at work. In that one sentence,
Norma Devine had revealed two distinct things about the American South.
First of all, people were nosy to a fault... there wasn’t the tendency to look
the other way that she’d grown accustomed to all her life.
Then, too, Atlanta was definitely the capital of the Bible Belt...
nominal belief in a Higher Power was taken for granted in many
professional circles, church membership was expected, and the Name was
invoked for the merest trifles.
Jack, wonderful as he was, was the quintessential Southerner. Born
and bred in small town South Carolina, he was a regular church attendee,
serving as a deacon in the Episcopalian parish whose services he dragged
her to whenever she couldn’t find a decent excuse not to go. Which

- 26 -
 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
annoyed Hermione to no end.
He also had this worrying habit of wanting to probe into the most
private corners of her soul.
“You’re a mystery to me, Hermione,” he’d told her one night after
they’d made love and he held her close to his heart. “You know all about
me and my past... my ex-wife, my children and their families, and you’ve
even met my mother. On the other hand, I know very little about you.”
“You know enough,” had been the reply she’d whispered into the
dark. “My past has very little to do with the person I am now.”
“All I know is that you’re English, you’re the brightest and best doctor
of your generation that I’ve ever met, and the prettiest slip of a girl I’ve
ever laid my eyes on. And... and sometimes I feel like your body’s here
with me, darlin’, but your mind is a million miles away.”
Not a million, she’d thought. Just four thousand. Oh, if only I could go
back in time and just...
Hermione quelled the rogue thought and decided not to tell him any of
what she was thinking. No one was better at masking their true feelings
than a mature witch-hyperempath.
Oh, yes. She’d heard Jack’s speech before, long ago and far away.
Issued from a different mouth that had once plied hers with tender kisses...
a mouth that had eventually given up on her and gone to seek comfort and
understanding elsewhere.
Hermione couldn’t help but regret that men seemed to want from her
what obviously was not in her nature to give. It was so much easier to give
her body than it was to give her heart and soul.
And who would want to share her dreams... not just the pleasant
daytime ones or her mental conjurings after dark, but also the night terrors
she was suffering on an increasing basis lately?
She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in grave danger.
Shaking off her blue mood, she stood up and headed towards the
bathroom. Jack was already in the shower. Not wanting to waste double
time waiting for him to finish and then telling him what was going on
before washing up herself, Hermione came to a quick decision. She could
tackle a couple of birds with one stone... and if she was lucky and they
were quick, perhaps three.
It wasn’t that she was being brazen. Goodness only knew when she’d
have the chance to see Jack next... she could be in Chicago for days or
weeks, depending on how long the case lasted.
If nothing else, Hermione Granger was practical.
The dress shirt fluttered to the floor as the shower door opened.

- 27 -
Paradise Lost 1

Same day, 11:55 a.m. Central Time

Downtown Chicago.
Half a day later, Hermione coasted the rented Oldsmobile Alero down
Lake Shore Drive, trying to clear her mind for the task ahead. She’d found
the local Top 40 station on the dial and was singing along to a new bluesy-
folksy hit by Ska Princess, a new twentysomething artist who was better
known for her distinct alternative rock-fusion sound. As she neared her
destination, adrenaline coursed through her veins. She not only loved the
work she did for the CDC, she thrived on it.
As she drove, Hermione thought about the last case she’d been sent
on. That time, it wasn’t a high rise... it was a subdivision near Lubbock,
Texas. Hermione had spent three awful weeks watching children die at a
fantastic rate.
Indeed, the strange thing about the Texas case was that the victims
had all been young children under the age of twelve... and not all of the
children in the subdivision had become ill. Although Hermione had seen
some strange infections that targeted the very young, this one was unique.
The children’s blood, urine, faeces, and saliva sample all appeared to be
healthy. There were no signs of any abnormalities.
The young victims, once infected with whatever it was, went down
fast. The illness followed a definite pattern. The first sign of infection that
Hermione recorded in her anecdotal VoicePrint records had been in most
cases “Mommy, I’m thirsty.” After being given copious amounts of liquid,
the child still complained of thirst. This usually was followed by a bout of
nausea. Then the little one would complain about severe headache, nausea,
or both... and was in most cases sent to bed.
Yet this was the beginning. Within the first twelve hours after the
onset of symptoms, each child’s body temperature climbed to a fantastic
105 degrees or more... and they began to display all the symptoms of
heatstroke. Their skin became dry, hot, and red. Their urine grew dark and
painful in passing. Both breathing and pulse became rapid yet shallow.
Then there were the terrible seizures... and the panic and anguish of
parents and other loved ones... just before the onset of unconsciousness and
death.
It had been the most frustrating experience of Hermione’s medical
career. All she and the other medical personnel could do was quarantine
the entire subdivision and engage in futile attempts to lower their patients’
body temperature.

- 28 -
 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
Nothing had worked. Nothing at all.
Then as suddenly as the scourge had begun, it just stopped. For three
weeks after the last death, Hermione remained, sitting in the little
makeshift graveyard that had once been the subdivision’s playground,
reading and re-reading her notes, looking for something – anything that
would give her a clue about what was happening.
Hermione stayed in Texas until the quarantine had been lifted. It
wasn’t necessary; she’d taken all the necessary precautions and most of the
other infectious disease experts left the second it was apparent that there
were no new cases. But she had formed a bond with these people and
couldn’t bear to leave them without the answer to their collective
question...
Why?
In the end, however, Hermione had to leave without providing them
any answers. All she could do was apologize and feel as if the anger and
frustration that was directed at her and her colleagues – ”you doctors don’t
know anything!” – was justified.
Perhaps she didn’t know much, but the day before she left for Atlanta
a very big clue fell into her lap.
While treating one of the doomed patients the week before, she’d
noticed a very beautiful ball of green crystal sitting on the little girl’s
dresser. It was perfectly round and grooved, with the appearance of an
ornamental golf ball of some sort. The mother of the girl noticed Hermione
admiring it with pleasure – ”all the kids in the subdivision got it at our
Christmas party... Missy likes the music” – and attempted to wind it up.
It didn’t work – and Missy seemed glad. Despite her agony, thirst, and
exhaustion, the little girl had looked horrified at her mother’s suggestion.
Hermione had thought no more about it.
That is, she didn’t think about it until she was dining one evening at
the home of one of the few families who didn’t celebrate Christmas “deep
in the heart of Texas”. This orthodox Jewish family had lost a young son,
Levi, who at eleven and a half had been one of the first and oldest of the
victims.
Unlike some of the other families who blamed her for not doing
enough, the Holsteins seemed to embrace her as a cathartic agent. The fact
that her maternal grandmother, like Mrs. Holstein’s mother, had been a
Jewish immigrant to England from Russia before the Second World War
was another reason for their fast bonding. Grandmother Helena had died
when Hermione was a very little girl, and all Hermione could remember
about her was her soft hands that made everything – scraped knees,

- 29 -
Paradise Lost 1
crushed hopes, and childlike fears – all right.
Hermione, who was still recovering from the untimely loss of her own
mother two and a half years before, found that her heart had been hungry
for a friend like Devorah Holstein. Mrs. Holstein thrilled in sharing
everything with Hermione, another daughter of secular humanists who
were Anglican in name only. Welcoming the opportunity to learn more
about her grandmother’s heritage and customs, Hermione had boarded with
the Holsteins during most of her stay in Texas.
The Holsteins had a little playful ginger cat that reminded Hermione
of her long-lost Crookshanks, though as feline looks went Autumn was
considerably more attractive. Now, Hermione loved cats, and this cat loved
Hermione. Autumn loved the serious British doctor so much, in fact, that
she wasn’t content to sit calmly on her perch on Hermione’s lap as she
enjoyed her grilled salmon.
The kitty ran off with it.
Mrs. Holstein was absolutely horrified. Hermione only laughed, said
Autumn could have her piece, and went off to retrieve the little cat.
She found Autumn behind a chair that covered one of the vents in the
living room. The poor piece of fish, covered with lint and half-gnawed,
was discarded. She was scratching desperately at the vent as if there was
something she wanted to get at.
“Trying to get my attention, were you?” laughed Hermione. “Did you
lose your toy? A ball of yarn, perhaps?”
Hermione bent down to see what held the little kitten’s fascination.
It was the same green crystal ball that had been in Missy’s room... and
in the homes of so many of the other children in the house.
She’d found a casual excuse to get a screwdriver – ”It seems that
Autumn has lost her toy... may I retrieve it?” As they dined, the family
never knew that Hermione had donned a face mask and gloves, and plastic-
bagged the crystal to be sent to the CDC for testing.
The lab work had turned up absolutely nothing. Hermione had even
got clearance to run virological tests herself, and asked Jack to check for
bacteriological agents.
Nothing.
Driving along on that bright and warm August afternoon, Hermione
wondered what awaited her here in Chicago. She was sure she could face
anything after that sad six weeks in Texas.

~~~
- 30 -
 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
The area surrounding the Navy Pier Luxury Condominiums was
completely blocked off by orange zebra barriers and barrels and a bright
yellow Police Line – Do Not Cross tape. There was a significant crowd of
gawkers and evacuated residents, along with the media hounds of course.
As she drove past, Hermione could see that most of the press people were
still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed while chattering amongst themselves,
even though she was sure that many of them had been staking out the place
since the middle of the night.
Hermione pulled into the valet lane of a nearby corporate executive
apartment structure, pressed a twenty into the hand of the kid who was
parking cars, and made her way towards the chaotic scene.
Past experience had taught her that the press was to be avoided at all
costs in situations like these. Not only did they invariably not know what
the hell was going on, her carelessness had landed her in a couple of front
page news stories in the past... and made her the target of Dorset’s wrath.
Sometimes even his blatant sexual innuendos, which were even more
contemptible to her.
Try as she might to put it all out of her mind, Hermione couldn’t help
but compare the atmosphere at the CDC with the relative gender equality
or camaraderie that had existed at her own little clinic and at the MMRI.
The difference between wizarding medicine and its Muggle counterpart
was profound... she’d always known it from her work with the hospitals in
London, but when her Muggle colleagues were at their most annoying, she
knew that soon she’d be working with Blaise, Ernie, Neville, and Simon
again...
Stop the nonsense, Hermione, and focus. Focus on the task at hand.
Above the high-rise, the chopping of police and media helicopters
filled the air. National Guardsmen were flying Quinnambulators around the
building. These were rocket-like low flying aircraft which were designed
early in the previous decade to evacuate residents on the top floors of high
rises in disaster situations.
Without even getting close enough to assess the situation, all
Hermione’s instincts as a physician told her that the tenants had either
suffered from asphyxiation when the building’s ventilation system had
been sealed off or were having anxiety attacks from the news of the
epidemic that had shown up on their front doorsteps.
A doctor with grizzled dark auburn hair and horn-rimmed glasses that
immediately reminded her of the ones that Perc... anyhow, the
distinguished-looking man was giving an interview to one of the local
news stations.

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“We are on top of the situation,” said the man in an overconfident tone
that bordered on arrogance. “There is no need to evacuate residents in
neighboring buildings or to quarantine those we have already evacuated
from the Navy Pier Condominiums. Even on the affected floors, the virus
seems only to be affecting a certain proportion of those who are being
quarantined... the rest seem to be immune.”
“Could you give us further information about how the residents inside
are faring?”
“We have no further updates at this time. Rest assured that we’ll keep
the public informed. We at the Illinois State Department of Health and
Human Services are very interested in protecting the public of this great
city... and an informed public is a healthy public.” Cameras flashed as he
showed off his perfect teeth in a grin that seemed incredibly wolfish. In her
head, Hermione snidely estimated the cost of all the orthodontic surgery
and whiteners that most likely had got his pearly whites that way.
“And you heard it here first,” said the reporter. “From Dr. Ralph Fox,
head epidemiologist for the great state of Illinois. Reporting live for WGN
Chicago, channel 9 news at noon, I’m Deena Kanneganti... back to you,
Ryan and Catherine.”
Dr. Ralph Fox looked away from the reporter and caught Hermione
staring at him, not bothering overmuch to hide her smirk as she sized him
up. Ignoring the clamor of the other reporters who were attempting to get
his attention with an upraised hand and a curt “no more interviews at this
time”, he walked over to her.
“And just what newspaper are you from, little lady?” he asked,
smiling rakishly down at her. Hermione was furious. She wasn’t a tiny
woman, but she supposed that a respectable five feet seven inches in heels
would seem small in the piggy eyes of such a ridiculously hulking,
overweight man. Hermione wondered for the thousandth time... what on
earth did they feed these Americans?
So she glared instead, holding up the identification badge that was
clipped to the lapel of her blazer.
“I’m not from any newspaper at all. I’m Dr. Hermione Granger... you
rang the CDC this morning for an EIS officer, didn’t you?”
“And they sent you.” The corners of Ralph Fox’s thin lips tugged
upwards yet again. “Doctor Granger. How... cute.”
“Yes, they sent me, why wouldn’t they?” Hermione said, annoyed that
the man obviously thought it was hilarious that she was a doctor. After all,
she was employed by the most prestigious pathological research agency in
the world and he was stuck monitoring flu shot statistics. That was a

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
statement in itself. “Who do I go to for my briefing? I’d like to get started
right away...”
“You aren’t American, are you?” he asked, still with that stupid smile
on his face. “You sound foreign... British, I’d say from that sexy accent.
Are you?”
Hermione continued to glare.
“I’ll take that as a yes. You know, I love you Englishwomen... you’re
so proper and refined on the surface, but between the sheets...” He made a
meowing noise, then winked as if he’d just made the greatest joke in the
world.
Now Hermione was torn between the urge to walk away and assess
the situation herself and the urge to laugh in his face. Or slap it, since he
probably wouldn’t appreciate a subtle reprimand. She had learned early on
that in the New World, nuances based on quiet wit were often missed. So
when in Rome...
“Do you greet every female EIS officer that responds to aid calls this
way? Listen, I can’t help the fact that your prick is likely microscopic and
you have quite a few psychological issues arising from this, but you have a
real life-and-death crisis on your hands in that building. If you really want
to phone me after this situation is contained, ask me later so I can refuse,
all right? Meanwhile, let’s get to work.”
He balked, smile fading.
Half an hour later, Hermione was sitting next to an obviously still-
offended Fox in one of the police helicopters that would take them to an
airlock. From there they could access the building and treat patients
deemed too ill to evacuate.
Across from them were the Navy Pier’s manager and a city health
officer. She was wearing a protective sterile suit made of durable plastic
over her blouse and slacks, and had traded in her high heels for a
comfortable pair of trainers. The hood and mask would be donned once she
was inside of the building. It made one look a bit like an astronaut and a
whole lot like an unfortunate worker in a nuclear power plant.
Despite all the plastic and the warm summer day, Hermione had
grown extremely cool beneath her suiting.
For the symptoms that the health officials were describing to her
sounded exactly like the Texas cases. Inexplicable heat stroke. Only in this
case, the victims were either very young... or extremely elderly.
“So the preliminary blood and urine samples have all appeared
healthy, have they?” asked Hermione, using her VoicePrint recorder as
always. With discs the size of a quarter, it was the latest in Muggle

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technology.
“Yes,” replied the designated health official, Natalie Danielson. “To
be sure, the Cook County lab is still running tests – ” she paused and spoke
with unexpected emphasis, “and we’ll keep running tests until we find out
what is making these people sick. There has to be some abnormality that
the technicians have not picked upon yet.”
Hermione didn’t comment on that. Instead she asked, “What’s the
mortality rate in the affected areas?”
“Four dead, fifteen ill, thirty-one healthy as of eight a.m. this
morning,” replied Ms. Danielson.
She switched off the mini recorder. “I’d like to have a look at the ill
patients straightaway. Perhaps a visit to the morgue will be in order as
well... you have instructed the staff to take the necessary precautions,
haven’t you?”
“I do run a tight ship, Dr. Granger,” said Fox dryly. “I’ve been doing
this job since before you were in diapers.”
Hermione looked at Fox as if he were a bacterial slime mold.
“I wouldn’t admit that to too many people if I were you, sir,” she said,
infuriating him.
Natalie Danielson covered her grin with a hand.
“If ground zero for the virus is indeed somewhere on the third floor,”
Hermione continued, “after I look at the patients I may want to explore that
ventilation system a bit.” She turned to the building’s executive manager,
Robert Lacy. “Is there an easier way down the central air shaft than going
through the roof?”
Lacy regarded Hermione warily. “Ma’am, the ventilation was already
sealed off by our contractors. What would it benefit you to check it?”
“Well, I’m not sure that I will need to. It all depends on what I find
when we look at those who have succumbed to this mystery illness.”
Hermione was going to say that she had a hunch about something, but
didn’t want to say what she suspected. She shivered, remembering the
Holstein’s peaceful home... a little ginger cat... and an eerie green glow, its
sinister yet soft light shining from a circle she could see but not touch. “Is
the entire ventilation system sealed?”
“All except for a shaft that runs parallel to the elevators. No one can
get to that, though... not unless you were to take the entire elevator out.”
“Is that shaft vacuum-sealed?” She caught Fox’s eye and decided to
change the subject. “So, you were saying about that index case,
Natalie... ?”
After all, these people were familiar with viral and bacterial infectious

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
diseases.
They knew nothing of magiparticular ones.

Hermione
“Just relax, darling... shh...” murmured Hermione softly through the
mouthpiece of her hood. Her latex gloved hand caressed the child’s sweaty
forehead while the quarantined nurse went for the basin.
The atmosphere inside the children’s bedroom of the luxury flat was
stifling and close. A dizzying array of medical equipment had been brought
in for the use of the local doctors and medical researchers who were
swathed in white plastic. They dispensed painkillers, drew blood and
collected urine samples, touching the patients only reluctantly, as if they
were lepers.
Upon entering this, the third apartment that she and Fox had visited

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Paradise Lost 1
since being transported to the third floor via an airlocked freight entrance
and back staircase, Hermione had ordered aside the two researchers who
had been probing and prodding the little girl as if she was a laboratory
animal, making her cry out in horror.
After taking the girl’s temperature, Hermione asked one of the nurses
to prepare a medicated sponge bath. Hopefully the cool water along with
the vapor from the oil of eucalyptus she’d prescribed would lower the fever
and clear the lungs of the tiny girl, who was squirming and whimpering
with all the strength she could muster. She could tell from Fox’s
patronizing look that he was one of those silly doctors who was not overly
fond of herbal and other natural remedies. Hermione wondered how many
pharmaceutical companies his office was in bed with...
Her protective gear was obviously frightening to the child, which
wasn’t helping matters at all. There was only one thing to do, and
Hermione did it without hesitation. She removed the bulky headgear.
Underneath it, her bushy hair was secured by a hospital net and her nose
and mouth were covered with a face mask. But at least she looked that
much less like a monster or an alien.
“See? I’m just a grown-up lady,” said Hermione, still stroking the
child’s forehead. “A grown-up lady who wants desperately for you to get
better...”
The child, weak as she was, smiled.
Fox, who was caring for the girl’s older brother in a twin bed a few
feet away, frowned.
Hermione was too focused upon her patient to notice Fox’s
displeasure. She wished that she could remove the glove and use her hand
to probe. One touch could give her so much information... and while she’d
forbidden herself magic on these foreign shores, her hyperempathic
abilities had nothing to do with the fact that she was a witch in hiding. She
used touch freely when dealing with non-infectious patients.
For she was a healer down to her fingertips.
Hermione had long ago become proficient at removing small benign
tumors and clearing plaque from blood vessels with fingers and palms
alone, probing and then through strength of will persuading the impurities
and foreign substances to dissolve into harmless waste that the body could
easily dispose of through the bloodstream. When she was seventeen this
had taken all of her energy; at twenty-five it had required serious
concentration.
Sometime after her thirtieth birthday, it had become second nature.
She’d thought about opening a clinic in the Atlanta area, but after a

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
talk with John had decided against it. Healing by touch smacked too much
of “New Age heresy” in the eyes of many Atlantans. Also, her reputation
at the CDC – already on shaky ground because of her age, her gender, and
the number of old men who for some strange reason seemed to resent her
presence amongst them – would definitely be compromised.
Yet what could be more healing than a touch?
But with an ocean between her and her wand, there was no way she
could...
Well... why couldn’t she?
She stopped herself before she could use one hand to remove the
glove on the other. She knew she couldn’t because if she did, Fox would
immediately put her under quarantine and report her to the CDC.
If only she could rid herself of the latex, or... or... feel through it...
Pressing her lips together with determination, Hermione increased the
pressure of her fingers on the girl’s head ever so slightly. Still she could
perceive nothing but the latex barrier.
Mind over matter, dear one, she heard a very familiar, very sweet
voice say. It was that of a woman she had recently been pretending to
herself that she’d never known. You can penetrate any barrier if you try
hard enough, for nothing is truly solid. Every single substance in the
universe has some space in between its parts... all you have to do is
navigate those spaces...
Concentrating harder, Hermione closed her eyes momentarily. When
she re-opened them, she felt her bare fingertips against the girl’s skin.
The sensory image was so strong that her eyes immediately flew to
Fox. He was adjusting the IV of the girl’s brother and paying no attention
to her. She looked back down at the girl, then at her hand, which was still
gloved.
Yet she was now touching the child’s forehead without barriers. She
would be able to probe. This she did quickly, heightening her senses with
the merest of thoughts, plunging into the girl’s bloodstream to feel for
anything wrong...
The only problem was that there was absolutely no evidence of a
problem. At all. Everything that Hermione perceived was normal save the
girl’s body temperature. Hermione could perceive no increased white
blood cell activity, a sure sign of viral or bacterial infection.
The back of her neck prickled.
But in order for her to be affected by a magiparticular infection, she
would have to be a...
The little girl’s eyes widened and flew up to hers. Mutual recognition

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Paradise Lost 1
flickered between them, and Hermione drew back her hand as if she had
been bitten.
Relax, Hermione! Even if she is a witch, she won’t be able to tell who
you are. Remember, you’re under Fidelius.
Hermione bent down over the girl and gave her forehead one last pat,
drawing out some of the pain. Reeling, she drew back from the bed.
Knowing she would have to check that air shaft after all.
She had a hunch that she just couldn’t shake... and Hermione Granger
was never one to walk calmly away from a mystery.

~~~
It wasn’t as if she could exactly take a helicopter to the roof,
Hermione realized almost immediately. There would be too many
explanations needed... and she didn’t relish the thought of ending up in
Dorset’s office the second she set foot back in Georgia. Or the second he
showed up here if she and Fox couldn’t contain the situation.
Hermione replaced her hood, trying to diffuse the pain she’d taken
from the girl out of her own head and throughout her body. This way, she
could more easily absorb it... a headache would be too much of a
distraction for the task ahead.
As she slipped out of the apartment, murmuring something about
heading for her car to “get some of my notes”, Hermione took care that
Fox didn’t see her leave. Once in the hallway, she rounded the corner
where the apartments they’d been using as a makeshift infirmary were
situated... and was confronted with a patrol unit in protective garb.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but no one is allowed out here,” said one of
them, voice somewhat muffled by his own hood.
She held up her badge and introduced herself. “I know that you have
your orders, but Dr. Fox needs something desperately in another bag that’s
in my car. Our radio system is down and we can’t contact the escort that
brought us to the apartment through the airlock.”
The officer looked sympathetic. “Well, that’s quite all right...
Clawson, why don’t you radio downstairs for a man to come and pick up
the young lady here?”
In spite of herself, the corners of Hermione’s lips twitched. She was
most likely a full decade older than this stripling. “No, no! That’s not
necessary... isn’t the lift working?”
“Lift? What the... oh, you mean the elevator. Yes, ma’am. It is. But as

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
the building is under quarantine, we can’t let you go down to the first floor
in it. Especially not dressed like that.”
“Well, what about the stairs?”
“That’s not possible, either. The only way off this floor is back the
way you came. Now, do you want the copter or not?”
Hermione sighed, then shrugged and did an about face. Thinking fast
as she walked along the corridor.
If you could just Apparate...
No, no! she told the little voice, frustrated that it was getting more and
more persistent lately. The second I use magic, the American DoM will
know that there’s an unregistered witch in the vicinity and will send
Investigators. Even if I can obscure myself, the incident will be reported
and someone... someone will know it’s me.
Hermione, really! As mismanaged as the American Department of
Magic is, they wouldn’t know if Voldemort was resurrected and went on a
killing spree until half the country’s wizarding folk were dead. Surely they
won’t notice one little flicker on the map? Especially so close to Lake
Michigan... they’ll most likely shrug it off as meractivity. You won’t be
bothered... and even if they do show up at your doorstep, who’s to say it’ll
make the wizarding dailies?
And just how am I supposed to Apparate without a wand?
What sort of question is that for the talented Dr. Granger? How many
times have you done wandless magic before?
It’s been a while. I’m completely out of practice... and besides, how
could I Apparate without a wand when I have no idea of a path-stream or
what my destination point looks like?
Stop the nonsense. You know very well that you know how to perform
blind Apparation. After all, you were all still at Hogwarts when Harry
figured out how to...
She muted that little obnoxious voice immediately. There was no way
in the world she was going to use magic or even think about using it now.
Or even worse, think about him.
Perhaps she had no control over her dreams, but while fully awake
Hermione intended to control her mind.
Besides, she told herself, using magic all the time and in every
situation was a cop-out (one of Jack’s favorite words). Muggles couldn’t
resort to special powers whenever they found themselves in a bind. They
had to work things out as best they could. And really, wizards and witches
were very selfish with their abilities. She remembered being taught as a
young witch that their kind were “best left alone.”

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Paradise Lost 1
Easier said than done... especially when her parents were both
Muggles.
Her parents... her mother.
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and fought back the tears
that were stinging her eyes.
Focus, Hermione! Focus on the task at hand. You can’t live in the
past.
Very true. She had to figure out a way to get past these guards...
Then she smacked her forehead. It was all so very obvious! She
chastised herself for not thinking of it before.
Less than a half hour later, Hermione stepped back outside of the
apartment looking considerably different. As she rounded the corner, she
took care to make her gait decidedly unfeminine.
This time, only one of the security upstarts was there. And he treated
her very differently.
“Afternoon, Fran. How’s it going?”
Keeping her head down and letting her gloved fingertips brush the
badge she’d pinned on her plastic suit, Hermione nodded.
“Great. Can’t wait to get out of this dump,” she said, making her best
attempt at imitating the officer who’d been monitoring the inside of the
apartment. It was not very difficult for her to imitate middle American or
Southern accents anymore... in fact, she sometimes wondered how British
she would sound if she ever returned to England. Which was purely a
rhetorical question, since she never would.
“I’m telling you, I swear, if I get sick, the union’s gonna hear about
it.” The itinerant officer shook his head. “You sound hoarse. Is it really a
den of death in there?”
She nodded. “Those damned doctors don’t know what they’re doing.”
“I thought they were supposed to be sending some expert up from
Atlanta.”
“They did,” said Hermione with a derisive laugh. “Didn’t you see that
English chick in the hallway a minute ago? That was their idea of backup.”
The patrol officer laughed too. “You’re not kidding. She was more
concerned with snooping around where she had no business than
doctoring. What the hell were they thinking?”
Hermione bit her lip so hard that she drew blood. “Search me. Listen,
I just got orders from downstairs to lock up the lift... I mean, the elevator.
I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, okay?” She held her breath. Hermione,
you’ve been in America all this time – when have you heard them call it a
lift? Elevator... think elevator!

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
To her anxious eyes, the officer looked as if he suspected something.
“Sure... you got the key?”
She patted the sides of her plastic pants, going cold all over. “Oh,
damn! I...”
With a grin that showcased disgustingly yellow teeth, the duty officer
held out his keyring.
Hermione couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow underneath all her
swathing of plastic. “Are you sure you want to...” She trailed off, realizing
she was slipping back into her regular voice. “I mean, you sure you wanna
do that? I’d hate to drop ‘em down the shaft or something.”
“C’mon, Fran, just take ‘em. Just remember you owe me big... you’re
treating me to breakfast before the week is out.”
“One coffee and doughnut coming up,” said Hermione, clapping him
on the back as hard as she could. “Thanks, man. Like you said, I owe you
one.”
Hermione hurried down the hall and around a corner to the bank of
elevators, exhaling. She wondered when Fran, a female officer of about her
size and height, would realize that she’d made off with her badge and
reflective vest.
What Hermione had done was not magic. It was a trick she’d picked
up long ago from Ron, who’d picked it up from his mentor Drakkar. It
wouldn’t work with anyone whose will and powers of concentration
equaled or surpassed one’s own, but Hermione didn’t have much problem
in that department. Besides, she had her heightened sense of touch to help
her.
All she’d had to do was to touch Fran’s wrist and ask an offhand
question. Hermione was a fast learner and always had been... if she could
touch and sense beyond the latex, she could penetrate the thick plastic and
cloth.
“I’ve never seen one of those...” she’d indicated Fran’s badge, “up
close. Fancy letting me have a look?”
“Why, certainly!” Fran had removed the badge, seeming flattered.
Hermione had wanted her to feel that way. In fact, Hermione wanted her to
forget the entire incident. Which, with another insistent touch, she did.
As she pressed the elevator call button, Hermione had to shake off
feelings of guilt. A lot of Drakkar’s teachings had bordered on Dark
Magic... and surely the power of suggestion was much like Muggle
hypnotism or the powerful Imperius Curse in the world she’d come of age
in. Yet Drakkar himself was a twenty-sixth generation Chalybian, and
Sirius trusted him. And indeed, without the knowledge that Drakkar had

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imparted she wouldn’t have survived Tartarus and Voldemort would have
never been defeated...
WHY can’t I stop thinking about it... about them? she thought wearily.
I thought time healed all wounds. Why can’t I just forget?
Or if that is impossible, why can’t I find some sort of peace? It’s been
a while... three years... surely I can’t still be angry about everything that
happened back then. Or irritated by it.
Or... sad.
Yes, that’s it. There’s nothing for me back there anymore. This is my
home now.
The elevator doors opened. Refusing to succumb to self-pity,
Hermione hopped onto it just as there was a commotion around the corner.
“She took my clothes and his keys!” That was the real Fran. Uh-oh.
“Dr. Granger?” came Fox’s voice. “Come here and explain yourself!”
Bloody hell! There was no time for idle musings. She whipped off her
protective plastic glove and pressed the Door Close button.
There was the sound of rushing footsteps. An alarm was sounded.
Damn. When there was an inch of space between the two doors, she saw
Fox and Fran rounding the corner... Fran’s nightstick was extended, as she
planned to jam the doors open... Hermione jabbed at the Close button
frantically... the nightstick struck chrome as the doors finally closed.
She fixed her eyes on the floor indicator. 4... 5... 6...
Right, Hermione. What a way to get yourself arrested. Damn. And
perhaps fired... no telling what sort of ultimatum Dorset’s going to give if
I want to save my job... damn it! I don’t want to cause conflict between him
and Jack. Even if Dorset is a pig, they’re really good friends.
7... 8... 9...
Seems like I have a penchant for stirring up trouble between blokes,
don’t I?
Hermione almost pinched herself. She was doing it again... letting her
thinking circle back to the same old thing time after time. Well, she
wouldn’t give in to it... she had enough to worry about at the moment.
10... 11... 12...
13... halt.
After a few moments’ wait, Hermione realized that the elevator was
not going to open. Obviously someone from maintenance or the cops had
shut it down and were most likely coming to get her.
She didn’t plan on being around whenever that happened.
Once she’d finished shedding her protective garb, Hermione looked
up. The shaft in this elevator was completely covered by fluorescent lights,

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
and the lights were covered by steel grating. She had nothing to pry with
but the duty officer’s keys. She was also too short to reach the ceiling even
standing on tiptoe with upraised arms... and she had never been much good
at vertical jumping.
But the keyring could be used to some purpose.
Again, she heard Neftis’ soft voice...
The universe and everything in it is made of particles and atoms, my
child. We who are in tune with inner space can use our knowledge of the
smallest things to persuade, to manipulate, to mold...
She’d not been half so good with her telekinetic training. But this
wasn’t true telekinesis. Neither was it magic. It was an issue of mind over
matter... a psychic talent that some Muggles had. She was actually
touching the keys. All she had to do was to somehow give the keys a
magnetic charge...
Friction.
Hermione rubbed the keys between her palms. Shutting her eyes tight
and making cold metal her world... knowing that the spaces that Neftis had
taught her about were constantly shifting, in flux, negatively charged
electrons bouncing off each other... and her fingers became the positive
charge that charmed them all into obeying her will...
Soon the keys formed a magnetic chain, one link to the other,
stretching upwards towards the grating. Holding her breath, Hermione took
one step back.
The chain of keys held.
She picked it up. It still held.
She threw the chain over the grating, and taking both ends in her
hands, yanked. And the keys stretched out... spaces appeared between each
key... but the makeshift chain jerked taut and offered resistance. Hermione
had to drop it for a moment in order to shake the tension out of her arms.
After a few more tries, she’d done little more than bend the grating. When
the elevator alarm began to sound, she knew that her number was up and
she had better get out of there... by any means necessary!
The second she lost her concentration, the chain of keys clattered to
the floor uselessly. Hermione whipped Fran’s badge off her chest. One
pointed corner would suffice as a makeshift screwdriver.
She had to magnetize the keys again in order to climb up high enough
to access the grating. Once she did, however, it was a simple matter to
begin unscrewing the bolts. Hermione was pleased to see that the screws
were not tight... the first fell to the carpet.
There was a blunt bang at the door.

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Hermione worked faster. The second screw came out just as easily...
but in her haste she hadn’t thought to unscrew the opposing corner... so
grating, chain of keys, and Hermione came tumbling down. She not only
banged her head on the side of the elevator when this happened, the sharp
corner of the grating sliced through her blouse to open up a gash just below
her collarbone. It was a superficial cut, she knew, despite the throbbing
pain and modest gush of blood it provided. With her hyperempath’s
tendencies to amplify sensation, her natural instinct was to swoon...
... but as a witch-hyperempath, even one who was running away from
her magical side, her self-control was unsurpassed.
Stop that, she ordered her body. I do not have time for it.
And as she scrambled up to the top of the grating, the blood flow
dwindled to a mere trickle. The wound began to clot as if of its own
volition, without any physical pressure.
There was another blunt chop at the door, so Hermione was relieved
to see that the opening to the shaft was not screwed on, merely latched. She
released the latch and this time was careful to avoid it when it swung down
upon her.
With one great heave, Hermione leaped – and her hands fastened onto
the hatch opening. It took a bit more effort to push herself up into the
elevator shaft. Jack had been right – when they first met she’d been
dreadfully out of shape. Two years of personal training at the Gold’s Gym
near his home in Alpharetta had worked wonders, but she still was not
about to win Ms. Olympia any time soon.
Yet this latest last action heroine routine was proving to be hard. This
has got to be easier in movies than it actually is in real life, she thought,
panting and making sure to avoid the many wires that were snaking about
the top of the elevator shaft. She looked about her. Save for a coppery glint
coming from what looked to be vents, the only real light came from a
indeterminate source above. How had she thought she was going to
navigate the ventilation system without a flashlight?
She peered down into the elevator shaft. Atop the pile of loose keys
rested the keyring’s penlight that she’d ignored earlier in her quest to get to
the top. Perhaps she could shimmy back down there quickly and grab it...
The plan never fully materialized. For then the elevator doors
opened... and Hermione silently drew back to listen.
“Where is she?” demanded a harsh male voice. One that was neither
Fox’s nor the duty officer’s nor even Dorset’s. The accent wasn’t
American, yet it wasn’t British or Australian or South African or any other
that Hermione recognized. And yet... and yet the man spoke English as if it

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
was his native tongue.
“Look up there,” said another man, again unfamiliar. With the same
strange inflection. “I don’t get it. How’d she get up there? It’s a good eight
and a half quirks up! Those walls are smooth as silicon glass... impossible.
A woman in this day and age?”
Hermione bit her lip, wondering if there was a Chauvinist Pride
meeting somewhere in the vicinity. Never had she faced and overheard so
much gender-related negativity within such a short time span.
“Dr. Granger isn’t your typical early twenty-first century woman,
Seal. She possesses abilities that most people of this time can only dream
of... abilities that we take for granted, but abilities that are hidden from the
rest of this world.”
“That why we consider her dangerous?”
“That is precisely why. She must be stopped... stopped for her own
good... and for all of our sakes...”
How had they found her? She was under Fidelius... that should have
kept her hidden from anyone in the wizarding world! Hermione knew
better than to peer back into the shaft and become visible to them. But she
wanted to see what these men looked like. The badge was still clutched in
her hand. Perhaps if she used the underside of it...
“How hard a task will stopping her be?”
“It will not be easy. She’s a formidable opponent. Even without her
knowing as much as we do about herself, it won’t be an easy task to
subdue her. Then, too, she has powerful protectors... one in particular,
especially.”
“Not when one of our own’s got him busy,” guffawed the man called
Seal.
Hermione could now see the features of the other man, who seemed to
be Seal’s superior, through the mirrorlike underside of the badge. And
indeed, even from the skewed reflection she could tell that the man was a
superior specimen in every way.
He seemed to be around her age, give or take a few years, and he was
simply gorgeous. Clean skin, darkened by the sun to a golden bronze...
sleek hair that was black as a raven’s, covered with a Western bandanna,
and pulled back into a ponytail with a strip of black leather... well-muscled
frame filling out the ink-black tank top, jeans, and cowboy boots he wore.
A black raven was tattooed on his right forearm, and as he turned
Hermione could see its twin.
Her reaction to the sight shocked her. She swallowed, wet her lips,
then had to swallow again.

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Paradise Lost 1
Down, girl, she ordered herself. The man obviously means you harm...
and you were never partial to beefcake anyway. Stay focused.
“Lenore will pay for her treachery,” promised the bronzed Narcissus.
“If she had not been distracted from her mission, we would have infiltrated
the group by now. As it is, we’ve arrived to find ourselves two years
behind schedule because of her...” He looked up. “Well, well, well. I think
we have an audience, Seal. Why don’t we go up and greet our little
eavesdropper?”
There was nowhere to go. Within two blinks of the eye, her pursuers
were on top of the elevator with her... but how? The one called Seal was
just as big and burly as the Narcissus, but his mane was brown as her own
and he had whisker-like facial hair that reminded her of the marine
mammal that was his namesake. Before she could react or move, Seal had
grabbed her upper arms and thrust her forward to meet the Narcissus’ wide
grin.
“Dr. Granger,” said the bronzed Narcissus. “At last we meet.” His
pale grey eyes formed a marked contrast to the deeply tanned face.
Hers spat fire. “And you would be... ?”
“You can call me Heath,” he said, still grinning. “And that one’s
called Seal.”
“You’re just going to kill me. Why should I call you anything at all?”
Even as she squirmed, he reached out a finger. Slowly, he traced a line
across her throat with its blunt, clipped nail. The touch was both sinister
and sensual and she hated him for it.
“Who said anything about killing?” he said, inhaling slowly.
“I don’t scare easily,” Hermione said through clenched teeth. But the
sweat on her brow and the fact that she’d clamped her teeth together to
stop them from clattering gave the lie to that notion.

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger

Heath didn’t seem to notice her consternation. “So all the stories, all
the legends are true, Seal,” he muttered to himself, staring at her. “What, is
he loco? Man like him doesn’t deserve a girl like her... if it were me
I would never have let her out of my sight.”
It was all Seal could do to hold Hermione back. What had they done
with Jack? “It wouldn’t have ever been you, you bastard, and if you don’t
let me go I promise that you won’t have any sight at all!”
“Ready to gouge my eyes out, eh?” laughed Heath. “If I don’t have

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Paradise Lost 1
any eyes, how will I be able to show you what you’ve been searching for?”
Heath reached behind his back. With one smooth motion he cupped
his hands together. When he spread them out again, in the center of them
was a glow of green orb that was twice the size of a golf ball, but with the
same general appearance.
It was still active, that much Hermione knew. When she’d lunged for
it, Seal had pulled her back and clasped a face mask over her nose and lips.
Yet if they were who she thought they were, they were risking infection by
being near it...
“Not so fast, doc,” said Heath, features appearing even more sinister
in the flickering green light. “What you don’t know could definitely hurt
you.”
Hermione gasped. “How did you find... who are you?”
As Seal laughed in her ear, Heath sighed as if with great patience.
“We’ve already told you who we are. Now it’s time for you to know
who and what you are...”
“Whatever do you mean? I know perfectly well who I...”
There was a commotion in the compartment below. Suddenly, the
door to the elevator shaft snapped shut. Seal let Hermione go and raced
towards it to see who had them trapped.
Hermione took advantage of the opportunity to rush Heath. Surprised
by her slight weight, she succeeded in knocking the wind out of him. He
fell backwards on the car, bringing her down with him.
“As you can see, doc,” Heath said breathlessly, grey eyes
smouldering, “the orb seems to have disappeared. Maybe I have it hidden
somewhere on my person. Maybe not. I regret that we don’t have the time
or the privacy for you to conduct a full strip search...”
Hermione screeched in anger and slapped him soundly. Before she
could draw the offending hand back, he had her wrist trapped in a vise-like
grip.
“Some other time, then,” said Heath, rubbing his cheek as he stood up.
“Seal, can you see who’s down there?”
“No one. It’s empty,” his companion replied. “What next? What do
we do with her?”
“We stick to the plan. Let’s see... there’s always a safety ladder in
these things... and so there is,” Heath said, indicating the rusty one bolted
to the side of the shaft.
“Shall I carry her?”
“Not on your life. Toss me the rope, I’ll tie her up and then... ow!”
Heath yelped when Hermione’s teeth sank into Heath’s confining hand.

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
“You’ll do no such thing!” she said, spitting the metallic taste of blood
out of her mouth and into his face. Getting a running start, she jumped off
the elevator... and cleared the five foot gap between the back of it and the
wall of the shaft where the ladder was. Once she had her bearings, she
began to scramble upwards towards the light.
“What are you waiting for?” growled Heath. Whatever strange powers
he might have possessed, he didn’t have Hermione’s ability to heal almost
instantly. He was busy applying pressure to the minor vein she’d severed
with the ferocity of her bite. “Get her... and get her now!”
Hermione’s arms throbbed dully as she scampered up the ladder, not
daring to test the limits of her endurance for fear that she tire and fall off
before reaching the top. She could still taste Heath on her tongue, too...
salty clean sunwarmed skin... the warm forbidden gush of blood... the
resistance of solid muscle...
What she didn’t understand was why she was so darn attracted to him
in spite of herself. He definitely wasn’t her type... she liked men who were
a lot less brawny... who didn’t appear to have been chiseled out of a
boulder of dark topaz. Yet there was something familiar about him...
something eerily familiar...
The two men had obviously meant to kidnap her, she thought as she
climbed. Perhaps they’d been watching her as long ago as the Texas case...
for how else would they have know she was looking for that strange green
orb here in Chicago, too?
She took a second to look below her. Sure enough, there was Seal,
about seventy-five feet below her, climbing faster than she could manage.
Heath was still on top of the elevator. He’d wrapped his bandanna around
the wound she’d created in his hand, and was staring up at her.
Hermione was no fool. She knew what that gaze meant... could feel
the heat of it even despite the distance that separated them.
Well, that just means I have to climb faster than the prat below me,
doesn’t it? I’ve been in worse scrapes before... perhaps my luck will hold...
Perhaps Hermione was counting on her luck to hold, but her feet sure
didn’t. She lost her footing... the rusted iron bar she’d been counting on as
a rest gave way and fell, hitting Seal between the eyes.
From where she now dangled, the rusted iron cutting into her palms as
her aching arms bore her full weight, she could see Seal fall backwards like
a dead weight. Then – unbelievably – Heath reached out into the gap and
caught his partner, hauling the unconscious man back onto the top of the
elevator.
“Doc, don’t move,” demanded Heath roughly. “I’m coming up there

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Paradise Lost 1
to get you.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Hermione shouted back.
But of course he paid her no attention. Leaving his companion out
cold on the top of the elevator, Heath lunged forward and leapt onto the
ladder.
Ever afterwards, Hermione swore it took him three minutes to reach
her. She flattered herself... Heath scrambled up that ladder as if he were
half cat... a leopard... a panther. It took him all of ninety seconds, one for
each rung that separated them.
At the moment when she knew her arms could take no more, she felt
one of Heath’s arms wrap about her waist. Looking down her nose at him,
Hermione could see that the hand of the other gripped the railing and his
boots rested on the closest intact ladder rung.
“Let go, doc,” he said calmly.
“Why don’t you take your own advice? I was doing fine without
you...” But her tired arms ignored her resolve and dropped down to his
shoulders.
Heath visibly swallowed a lump in his throat before he issued his next
demand.
“Slide down and put your arms around my neck, and then swing
your... your legs around my waist so I can carry you down.”
“Would that make it easier for you to abduct me? Tell you what, I’ve
got a better idea. Why don’t you prop me up so that I can reach the rung
above the one I was standing on originally, and I’ll be on my way?”
“Not an option.”
“Well, I suppose you want another injury, then...” Her right foot
darted out to kick him in the shin, but somehow – how? – he anticipated
the movement, stopping it with his hand. With one tug, she did slide down
into the position he wanted.
Hermione saw everything through a red haze of fury as Heath climbed
down with her. Willing her body not to react to him, she fumed. She
wished she had her wand... she’d hex him from here to kingdom come. As
it was, none of the latent magic she was trying to resort to was working.
Happened when one was as out of practice as she was. She might be in
better physical shape than she was at the time of her last abduction, but
four of her would-be Cabalistica captors had suffered third-degree burns
wherever they touched her...
Then it dawned upon her. She knew exactly how to get out of this
predicament. All she’d have to do was transfer the fatigue of her arms into
his own...

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
And then there was a great screech from below... and the elevator
began to rise steadily.
“Great wizards!” Hermione cried, not realizing that it was an
expression she hadn’t used in a long time and quite possibly shouldn’t have
used then.
Heath didn’t say a word. Instead he doubled his rate of climb.
Hermione wondered if he wasn’t a Cabalistica operative after all... if he
was magical... if he was even human at all. Even so, they both knew they
wouldn’t be able to outpace the elevator.
“Got to... got to grab Seal...” panted Heath into her ear, stating the
impossible.
But Seal had come to, perhaps invigorated by the elevator’s
movement. He stood up shakily, took a millisecond to assess the situation,
then stood on the edge of the elevator and leaped on to the ladder,
flattening himself and disappearing from sight as the elevator continued to
rise.
Then it was almost upon them, and Hermione found herself
sandwiched between the ladder and Heath. When the elevator finally,
miraculously whooshed past them, she looked down and saw Seal climbing
up like a spider.
Hermione sighed her relief. “What a close call.”
Heath shook his head and placed her hands on one of the rungs. “It’s
not over. Climb up as fast as you can.” He backed down a few rungs, and
almost placed a boot on Seal’s skull. “How’s your head?”
“I’ve suffered worse,” replied Seal.
“Yeah, everyone on the team knows Seal takes a lickin’ and keeps on
tickin’... but that was in water, not on land. You had me worried for a
moment back there, old friend.”
All the while they continued to climb. Hermione supposed that they
were about twenty-five feet away from the top of the building. She could
see that the light was coming from some sort of a glass door just above the
ladder. She hoped that it was unlocked... that she could somehow get
through it and shut it before Heath and Seal made it out.
She had no idea how she was going to get off the roof.
Just then, there was a fantastic heave... and the elevator above them
began to lurch and sway.
“Get behind the ladder!” shouted Heath. Hermione did so, crawling
into the approximately two feet of clearance between the wall of the shaft
and the ladder. She had no idea how the men below her were going to
make it... all she could do was hold on.

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Paradise Lost 1
For the elevator plummeted in a zigzagging path... Hermione felt a
searing pain in her fingers and cried out... and immediately below her,
Heath roared.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” She felt something nudge her
backside, then a hand on her shin. “Let’s go!”
Every muscle in Hermione’s body ached. There was no longer any
skin on her knuckles, and she was far too fatigued to will them to stop
bleeding. It didn’t matter. She kept climbing. The pressure of Heath’s hand
on her shin let her know that he was still there, and she assumed Seal was
as well.
Twenty feet... fifteen feet... perhaps now only twelve more...
Hermione could see that their target was indeed a door. A circular one,
with a window...
There was a huge boom below them. Out of the corner of her eye, she
saw a flash of fire. The ladder trembled. Smoke began to rise...
“Keep climbing!” demanded Heath. Hermione immediately
understood. If the fire didn’t get them, the smoke would.
Ten feet... seven... four... it took mere seconds for Hermione to reach
the trap door. It was locked.
“Oh, no you don’t!” she exclaimed. Ignoring her bleeding knuckles,
she began to tug at the handle. On the third tug, she jerked it off.
“Allow me,” said Heath, climbing up to sandwich Hermione again.
Reaching up, he gave the trapdoor one big heave... and burst through the
hinges. Then, seeing Hermione’s wide eyes and general shock, he pushed
her up into the light... and brought her face to face with a waiting police
helicopter.
Three officers immediately surrounded her. Glocks were pointed in
her direction. Oh my goodness, she thought with childlike horror. I’m being
arrested... I’m being arrested...
“Dr. Granger, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain
silent...”
“Wait just one minute!” she exclaimed, forfeiting that right almost
immediately. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I was the one wronged here...
I was being abducted! Those two men...”
One of the other officers’ mouths twitched. Hermione immediately
recognized her as Fran.
“Dr. Granger,” she said, not bothering to mask the nastiness in her
voice. “What two men? What are you talking about?”
Hermione’s head whipped around.
Heath and Seal were nowhere to be seen.

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger

August 3 – 2 p.m. EST

Center for Disease Control, Atlanta
The walls of Dorset’s offices were papered in beige. This was in direct
contrast to most of the rest of the Centers, which were painted the
industrial dull green color of toothpaste. Hermione would have liked to
have had such an office one day instead of the seeming ex-janitor’s closet
she’d occupied ever since she had completed the intensive EIS training
course at the top of her class two and a half years before.
Unfortunately, it seemed as if she did not stand even the slightest
chance of being promoted any time in the near future. As she watched
Dorset pace, running cruelly long fingers through his shock of blond hair,
she wondered if she had a future at the CDC at all.
Finally Dorset stopped behind his desk. Turned to face her. Spoke.
“I suppose you think that I am going to fire you,” he said quietly.
Hermione didn’t say a word. In the past twenty-four hours, she’d been
taken into Chicago police custody, spent the night in a very seedy jail cell,
and been hauled into court at first light. She had escaped charges, but had
been “escorted” over state lines by mutual consent of law enforcement and
Fox’s office. She’d had to fly from Indianapolis. Saving her job, up until
now, had been the least of her concerns.
She wondered why she had not been arraigned properly... in all
fairness, she should have been charged and bound over for trial. She was
almost certain funds had been exchanged under the table to secure her
release. Hermione had little confidence in the Muggle legal system’s
ability to dispense justice (or any other one for that matter), but she had
had no idea that it was that corrupt.
Hermione had seen the Chicago Tribune headlines the next day. The
structural damage to the Navy Pier condominiums from the elevator
explosion and fire had been substantial. The infected patients had been
evacuated with only seconds to spare. Even so, two health care workers,
three firefighters, and a police officer had to be treated for injuries, smoke
inhalation, and burns.
Her name was not mentioned anywhere in the article. According to
authorities, the fire appeared to be an unfortunate accident.
As for the epidemic that had threatened the complex, the article stated
that there were no known survivors. Those who had been evacuated from
the building under careful quarantine had died before arriving at the
hospital. Cause of illness: unknown. Source of illness: unknown. Illinois

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Paradise Lost 1
State Epidemiologist Ralph Fox was quoted as saying “Despite our
regrettable losses, we believe that the so-called ‘X’ factor virus was
successfully contained.”
Codswallop, thought Hermione as she perused the paper on her way
back to Atlanta.
Dorset was speaking again.
“I’m not going to fire you, if that’s what you’ve been preparing
yourself to hear. Your work is too good and you are far too valuable to the
Center.”
He paused then, as if he wanted Hermione to give some sort of verbal
acknowledgement of his graciousness. When he saw none was
forthcoming, he looked irritated, but continued.
“What I am going to do is offer you some much-needed vacation time.
After your... ordeal in Chicago the other day, you more than deserve the
rest.”
Hermione shook her head. “I appreciate your concern, Dr. Dorset. But
I must be honest with you. I am convinced that the outbreak in Texas last
month is directly related to the one in Chicago. I am also convinced they
are not over. So to tell you the truth, I’d like to keep working. I could do
some research and also be available should another call be placed to the
EIS...”
Dorset stared at her.
“Do you realize how much trouble you could have potentially caused
back there in Chicago? Dr. Granger, it isn’t like you to be so reckless and
impulsive. Cal always says that you are the most levelheaded physician of
your age and generation he’s ever met, and he is right. That Columbo stunt
you pulled at the Navy Pier was completely out of character for you.”
Ah. Obviously you don’t know me very well, Dorset, do you? I’ve
helped fight Death in many of his guises, and not always with my
stethoscope and a syringe. And Death is, was, and always has been my
greatest enemy. That’s so much a part of me that I can’t imagine doing
anything else...
“I’m beginning to think that the Special Pathogens may not be the best
department for you. And due to your close personal relationship with the
head of Bacteriology,” Dorset coughed and Hermione noticed a glint in his
eye, “that may not be the best spot for you either.”
“I suppose you’re stripping me of my EIS duties, then?”
“Effective immediately,” said Dorset. “I am transferring you to the
Hospital Infectious Disease Program.”
Hermione bit her lip hard. HID? She would drown in paperwork!

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
With a pang, she remembered her feelings of superiority towards Fox for
having to monitor vaccinations. Now she would spend the rest of her
career reading and signing off on hospital infection reports...
“What do I have to do to keep my job?” said Hermione coolly. “I’m
prepared to negotiate.”
Dorset’s mouth curved into what he obviously thought was a sexy
smile. At that moment, Hermione had to try very hard not to hate all men.
“Despite what you may think, Dr. Granger, I would never dangle the
prospect of your old job over your head in exchange for something that
might get us both in trouble. I am your direct supervisor and I have known
the man whom you happen to be dating longer than you’ve been alive. As
tempting as your proposition is, I regret to inform you that I must refuse.”
Hermione stood up so abruptly that the chair she had been sitting in
crashed to the floor.
“Really! Is sex the only chip you men think a woman has to bargain
with? I had no intentions of proposing that! My God, the very thought of it
– of it with you – is enough to make me ill.” She took advantage of
Dorset’s subsequent sputtering to continue. “Rather, I was going to ask for
a probationary period. If I can’t track down the source of this epidemic
within ninety days, then go ahead and transfer me to the HID. If I can...
and I will... I think I will have proven my worth to the EIS and therefore
would like to retain my officer status...” here Hermione took a deep breath,
something she’d forgot to do in the midst of her tirade, “... sir.”
Dorset closed the space between them so quickly that Hermione had
little time to react. His hands gripped her forearms painfully. Again,
Hermione was taken off guard... instead of stinging or burning him to
make him let her go, tears welled up in her eyes.
“The most dangerous thing in the world is a bitch who thinks she’s too
smart for her own good,” snarled Dorset. “Listen to me, Doctor Granger,
and listen well. You may have gone to Oxford. You may have an IQ that’s
off the charts. You may even have your British air of condescension down
to a science.” He shook her violently and her eyes widened. “But when all
is said and done, you are less than me because I am a man and you are
nothing more than a mere woman. No matter what position you aspire to
rise to here, the only position that you belong in is prone.”
His lips clamped down upon hers then, painfully. Hermione couldn’t
believe his nerve. She assumed that his “tough guy” speech was meant to
arouse her. It was an easy matter to knee him in the groin and push him to
crash into the desk.
“Don’t bother filing the transfer paperwork,” she spat in his direction.

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Paradise Lost 1
“I’m out of here.”
But she wondered to herself, as she walked out of Dorset’s office, if
she’d won the battle but lost the war.

August 4 – 9 p.m. EST

Downtown Atlanta.
“Now that I’ve performed some of my own favorites and hit songs, I’d
like to do a tribute to some of the jazz greats of the past. This one’s for
Louis Armstrong... for my mother... and for all of you.”
Cassandra Wilson smiled at the applause that her announcement
generated. Without further introduction, the band struck up a standard tune
and the Grammy-award winning jazz diva began to sing “What A
Wonderful World” with her characteristic flair.
Hermione smiled at Jack and began to snap her fingers. They were
enjoying a concert at the brand-new Palladium Dinner Theatre. Jack had
been looking forward to this for ages. She wasn’t as much into jazz as Jack
was, but she rather liked some of the older songs...
*
*
Hogwarts wasn’t safe the Christmas of the Scourge. Everyone knew it.
So for the first year since they’d all begun Hogwarts, they’d all crowded
into the already crowded Burrow for Christmas Eve.
It seemed as if almost everyone who would be there for the holidays in
subsequent postwar years was there. Bill came up with his fiancée Fleur,
whose chimelike laughter rang out very often in spite of herself. Charlie
had along his new girlfriend Liz, who was a ruddy-faced, likeable blonde
from their school days. Newlyweds Percy and Penelope, who were
expecting their first child, were frowning at the antics of Fred and George.
Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell had come up for the day, and were doing
a lot of giggling and whispering.
But the rest... she and Ron and Harry and Ginny... were still young.
Younger, she now knew, than fifteen had any right to be. They’d spent most
of the morning using Hedwig and Pigwidgeon to decorate the Burrow...
and most of the afternoon chasing Pigwidgeon around the backyard when
he seemed determined to display to the world a pair of Ron’s tighty-whities
that he’d nabbed. Hermione hadn’t been able to properly join in the
chase... she’d laughed herself sick at the sight of Ron’s underwear flapping
in the breeze.
“You wouldn’t be so thrilled if it’d been your drawers,” complained

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
Ron just before they all answered Molly’s call to come in for tea. Then,
tentatively, almost shyly, he allowed his hand to smooth a few snowflakes
out of her hair.
She blushed. She and Ron weren’t even really dating back then...
hadn’t even kissed yet. Nevertheless, there was a lot of tension between the
two of them that neither of them understood. Harry and Ginny may have
understood it better than they had, because after the holidays were over
they gave them a wide berth. The logical thing would have been for Harry
to spend more time with Ginny... it would have made everything easier. But
he didn’t. He just went off by himself. Where he went during these times,
Hermione could never get out of him...
“Come up here,” called Ron to Harry, pulling Hermione up by one
hand, the other using his wand to retrieve the stairs that led up to the attic.
“There’s something I want to show you.”
They all scrambled up the stairs, laughing like idiots in the way that
kids do for no apparent reason. Other than the fact that they were going to
do something that would get them in loads of trouble before all was said
and done.
The attic was cluttered and shrouded in old moth-gnawed sheets and
delightfully dusty in the way that all proper attics are. Ginny sneezed, then
grinned.
“Sarah!” she said, pulling an dirty old rag doll from a pile. “I’ve not
seen you in ages! I didn’t know you were up here!”
“I’ve missed you, friend,” replied the wan-faced doll. As half the yarn
of her mouth was missing, the Sarah-doll sounded rather like an old lady
before she affixed her dentures for the day.
They all found treasures there... for Ron, there was Bill’s first
broomstick, and for Hermione a pile of books that Molly had used during
her Auror course training.
And Harry... well, all he found was a stack of records. Hermione
noticed him staring at one dusty cover as if in a trance. Within seconds,
she was by his side.
“Ron,” she called over her shoulder, as she began to thumb through
the box that Harry had just been in, “whatever are your parents doing with
Muggle records?”
“Well, my father works in Muggle Relations, doesn’t he?”
“Not that kind of record,” replied Hermione impatiently. “Record
records. As in albums. As in music.”
For Harry was staring at the LP he’d just removed from the jacket.
Gershwin. Not even a 33 ½ or a 45. It was a 78 RPM.

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Paradise Lost 1
“Harry, what’s wrong with you?” asked Ron, now as concerned as
Hermione was. Even Ginny was frowning now.
“My aunt and uncle,” he began. “My mother..” Harry seemed to be
struggling for the right words. “Sirius told me that my mother inherited a
collection of Muggle records from my Evans grandparents, along with
Aunt Petunia. Together they added to the collection over the years. He says
that my mum loved music... she played the piano, my aunt played the
violin, and they both sang. My aunt took them all when my parents married
– said they wouldn’t have use for them, Sirius said – according to him my
mum was quite upset about it. So during the summers, when they all leave
the house I sneak into the lounge and I... I play them.”
“Wonder how Mum and Dad got all these,” said Ron thoughtfully, by
way of changing the subject. It wasn’t that he was being insensitive; he
wanted to switch topics because Harry’s occasional black-and-blue moods
always made him worry about his best friend. And Ron Weasley hated
worrying... it always made him think he was acting like Percy or his
mother to do so.
“We do have Muggle relatives, remember?” said Ginny. “We just
don’t talk much to them. Because, after all, we can’t... there’s the
Compact, and then what do we have in common with them, really?”
“I’m Muggle-born, Ginny,” pointed out Hermione patiently. “And
I still want to maintain a relationship with my parents after I grow up.
I hope to have a lot in common with them, even if I am a witch. I love them
even if they don’t know anything about magic.” She then grinned at Harry.
“You know, I’ve played the piano since I was six. Still take lessons during
the summers, although I’m getting quite rusty.”
“Really?” asked Harry, interested. “How come you never told us
that?”
“It’s never come up, has it? And I don’t tell you everything.”
Harry sent a half-smile in her direction. “Be nice to hear you play one
day...”
Ron took the album out of Harry’s hands. “How do these things
work?” He tossed it across the room, and the ghoul emerged from behind
a Chinese room divider to catch it before it shattered on the wooden floor.
“I didn’t hear any music.”
“Of course not, silly. You have to play them on a phonograph,”
explained Hermione. “But I don’t suppose that a turntable would work in
here anyway. Too much magic around...”
“You don’t need a record player if you have magic,” said Harry.
“I have a few albums in my trunk – it’s not stealing, they were my mum’s

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
too and I have a right to them – and I had to figure out a way to play them
on Hogwarts grounds. So I did.”
“Oh, how exciting!” said Hermione. “I’d love to know how that
charm works.”
Ginny was leafing through the crate with the albums. “I’m going to
ask Dad how he got all these. Which of the old songs do you like best,
Harry? Maybe we have a copy of it...”
“Bloke named John Lennon,” said Harry without hesitation. “Got
anything by him? Or Joni Mitchell? How about Jimi Hendrix?”
Hermione joined Ginny. “None of this stuff looks that recent, Harry...
all these records seem really ancient. At least fifty years old...”
“Oh, okay. How about Louis Armstrong, then?”
“Got it,” said Ginny the second Hermione’s fingers touched the
album. Before Hermione could say anything, she was handing the album to
Harry.
He removed the record from its jacket, setting that cover aside.
Borrowing Ron’s wand (his was in Ron’s room), he tossed the vinyl disc
into the air and then uttered a charm – Vox Domini! – that set it to
spinning.
The effect was immediate. Hermione marveled to hear the
characteristic faint scratching sound that heralded the start of any old
record. And then the music began.
I see trees of green
Red roses too
I see them bloom
For me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world...
I see skies of blue
And clouds of white
The bright, blessed day
The dark, sacred night
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world...
“Nice,” said Ginny, smiling at Harry. “Very nice. I’ve never heard
this song before. Have you, Hermione?”
“Yes, I have. It’s actually quite familiar in the Muggle world. Many
artists have covered it over the years... my parents like it.”
“Is the Muggle world really that wonderful, then?” asked Ron. “Be
nice to have nothing to worry about but blue skies and red roses, eh?”

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Paradise Lost 1
“Sometimes it is, Ron,” said Hermione. “After all, the Muggles don’t
have to worry about Voldemort taking over things, do they? They don’t
even know he exists!”
“The Muggle world has its own problems,” replied Harry, looking at
Hermione. “Sometimes the Muggles are better at pretending otherwise,
that’s all.”
*
*
“Hermione? Are you all right?”
It was Jack, sounding concerned. Hermione blinked twice, then
glanced in his direction.
“Fine, fine. The concert is great, isn’t it?”
His hand covered hers. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“Finish your wine,” he whispered in her ear.
Hermione returned her attentions to her glass with a sigh underneath
her breath. She had never been much for alcohol of any sort, drinking
mainly only when social pressure dictated it. Jack always liked his wine,
though, and claimed that a glass or two made her more uninhibited.
Hermione thought it made her more sleepy, but...
She sipped her Chianti slowly. It was her favorite wine, hands down.
She knew the French were considered masters of the vineyard, but had
always preferred Italian vintage. Draco Malfoy used to tell her this was
because she didn’t know any better... but there, why was she thinking
about Malfoy? How ridiculous of her.
And then she saw the glint at the bottom of the half-full glass as she
tilted it towards her lips.
She dipped her fingers into the deep burgundy glass and pulled out a
ring. A lovely diamond-and-platinum confection that eerily reminded her
of the one she’d worn for nearly a decade. The stones stayed put, however.
“So what do you say, darlin’?” asked Jack.
But Hermione was at a loss for words. This was certainly an
unexpected turn of events. What could she say?
“I love you, darlin’. I want you in my life forever. You’re pretty and
you’re smart and I want to make this official.”
Now, Hermione knew what was expected of her at this point. She
should have broken into a grin, burst into tears, or laughed with delight.
She did neither of these things.
She dropped the ring on the table... and left it there.
“Jack, you’re a kind man. But I haven’t been completely honest with
you. I think that you’re proposing to me under false pretenses.”

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger
“Oh, I know you haven’t come clean. I know all about Dorset moving
you out of the EIS, darlin’... and to be quite honest, I don’t blame him.
I understand that you wanted to solve the case and determine the source of
the disease, but you could have been hurt... and the last thing I want is to
see my girl hurt, you know that, don’t you?”
Hermione ignored the last statement. Neither did she set the record
straight. After all, she was the one who’d resigned.
“It isn’t just that. Jack... I’ve never told you much about my life before
I came to the CDC, have I?”
“Well, I know a fair amount, I think. I know that you grew up near
Oxford, have two dentist parents who taught at the university as well, and
are well traveled. I know that you went to Oxford yourself after boarding
school, finishing in an unprecedented amount of time, and then practiced at
St. Ormond’s for several years before coming here. Is there anything else
I need to know?”
Hermione laughed to herself. Then she sobered.
“Yes, there is... especially if you’re this serious about things. Jack,
before I came to the States I was in sort of a bind... you see, I came here
because I had to.”
“That was obvious, Hermione. You seemed very much like you were
running away from something when you came here. Part of the appeal, you
know... you’re not only pretty and smart, but you seemed so sad... still do
at times. Makes a man want to do just about anything to make you happy.”
He seemed so wistful and boyish as he said this that all Hermione
wanted to do was hug him. She’d never been the focus of such devotion in
her life, had she?
“You have made me happy, Jack. Believe me, you have. And in
return, all I did was hide a great portion of myself away from you. I want
that to change, Jack. I want to tell you everything.”

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Paradise Lost 1

A/N: When next we meet, Hermione reveals all to Jack, then

returns to England for a long-overdue holiday. She has no intention
of alerting the wizarding world to her presence, and has a handy-
dandy little charm as insurance against her past coming back to
haunt her. But as she soon learns, magic has quite a strange way of
making itself known... and so do old friends, old wounds... and old
loves.
Thanks to Prologue/Chapter 1 beta readers: Heidi AKA HP
Online Fandom CEO <g>, my good buddy and future London
roomie Michelle <knock on wood>, and Pippin AKA Fanfic
Scouring Agent, C.Y.A. Division. Know that your labor is not in
vain. I love you guys.
Thanks also to Barb Purdom, whose reviewing code (with a
few alterations) I lifted for this fanfiction. Hope this helps readers
who are still getting acclimated to the post-ff.net Harry Potter fanfic
world.
And thanks to all of you for your support, whether via e-mail,
IM, FictionAlley Schnoogle review, or HP_Paradise Yahoogroup
post. I promise not to make you wait this long for the next
installment.
Finally, this entire novel-length fanfiction is dedicated to all
those lost in the attack on America this September 11 – and their
family, friends, co-workers, and countrymen. Over 80 nations of the
world lost their own in a span of ninety minutes during this crime
against humanity. I cannot push rubble around in Lower
Manhattan... I cannot fight for my country... but I humbly ask that
God let the words of my pen and the meditations of my heart stand
as a memorial and a testament to life.
Please remember to be a responsible reader and write a
review. Use the author’s email address at the top of this file or one
of the following options:

Thanks and love always – Eb.

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 1. The Talented Dr. Granger

qqqq

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 2. Disappearing Acts

“You’re alone all the time –

Does it ever puzzle you?
Have you asked why
You seem to fall in love
And out again?
Do you ever really love?
Or just pretend?
Why fool yourself?
Don’t be afraid to help yourself!
It’s never too late...”
– The Stylistics (1971)

A small mauve wine stain was now on the white cloth tablecloth
where Hermione had dropped the engagement ring. Jack Calhoun
studied that stain for a long moment, and she watched him.
Meanwhile, the audience at the Palladium Dinner Theatre clapped heartily,
oblivious to the small-scale drama unfolding in their very midst.
He looked up at her with cool, slate grey eyes. Because hers were
relatively nondescript, Hermione always noticed eyes... it had been the first
feature of his that had attracted her.
She couldn’t read the expression in them just now. That was
surprising. Jack was usually an open book. What she couldn’t discern with
a glance, she could usually learn with a touch.
Yet this was a different matter entirely. Hermione had no idea how
Jack would take what she was going to tell him.
“I’m not sure how or where to begin,” Hermione confessed.
Jack smiled, but Hermione could tell it was forced. Although she
might not have been able to put a finger on Jack’s mood at the moment,
she knew that her ambiguous response to his proposal had not been
anticipated.
“Well, just start at the beginning, darlin’, continue on, and when you
come to the end, stop.”
She took a deep breath. “Right, that’s fair enough.” Chewing her
tongue, she weighed the two major revelations and made her choice. “Jack,
I’ve been married before.”
“I see.”
 2. Disappearing Acts
“It ended badly. Very badly. You see, it was a high profile marriage
and...”
“Ah,” said Jack, seeming to understand. “Would this be someone of
international standing, or just locally famous? Who was it?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve never heard of him.”
Jack shook his head slowly. “When I met you, Hermione, I was newly
divorced after nearly twenty-five years of marriage. You knew that. Why
would you be afraid to tell me that you’d gone through the same thing?”
Hermione sighed again. “But it wasn’t the same thing, Jack. I’ve
talked to you and I’ve met Tara. Your marriage failed because you found
out you’d grown apart and no longer had anything in common. You parted
amicably and you’re great friends. How I wish... well, things weren’t
exactly like that for me.”
“Ah, I see. Was there another woman?”
“Yes, there was.” Hermione bit her lip, but was unable to leave off the
other crucial aspect of the situation. “To be fair to him, there was another
man involved, too.”
Jack raised both eyebrows. “You mean... you mean to tell me that... he
was a homosexual?”
“That’d be bisexual, Jack, and no, he’s not. The other man was his
best friend... and you know, it’s taken me a long time to realize this, but in
retrospect I was just as much at fault for my marriage ending as my ex-
husband was.”
“Don’t tell me you slept with the guy’s best friend,” said Jack,
obviously horrified. “I don’t believe it! I’ve never seen that side of you...
you don’t have a vengeful bone in your body.”
Hermione swallowed. “Well, he was my best friend too. We all grew
up together... went to the same boarding school, even. We were extremely
close and went through a lot together.” She shook her head. “We were too
close. It caused problems.”
“Tit for tat usually does.”
“I know that now. We couldn’t seem to keep our best friend out of our
marriage... in fact, we always used him as our buffer and our mediator. For
years I thought it worked. And then all of a sudden it didn’t anymore.”
Jack forced a smile. “Again, I’ll ask you to start from the beginning.
And then we’ll take it from there.”
So Hermione plunged into her story, full steam ahead. With as much
truthfulness as she dared without revealing the most essential part of her.
For how could she tell the story of her life without mentioning how her
world changed when she got the letter from Hogwarts and the visit from

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Paradise Lost 1
McGonagall? Or without telling how little she knew of what was in store
for her when she first read the name “Harry Potter” in a heavy
magihistorical tome?
How could she talk about how she met her ex-husband and their best
friend without talking of all the unique things that made Hogwarts the
premier European wizarding school? Or being rescued from mountain
trolls and returning the favor by getting her rescuers out of the Devil’s
Snare? Of losing a good few weeks of her life because of a basilisk’s stare,
and being restored by a screaming humanoid plant? Of Boggarts, icy
Dementors, and Hippogriff rides? Of Summoning Spells and Sleekeasy
and harsh, tentative kisses from one of the foremost players of a sport that
she couldn’t even begin to explain to Jack?
She couldn’t tell Jack about the mystical Covenant or the silly
Prophecies of the End or the MMRI or the Scourge or May Day 1998 or
countless Remembrance Days and cozy Christmases at the Burrow... and
all the many hours of lounging around her Chelsea home, usually reading a
book, sometimes curled up in her husband’s arms... of sitting next to their
fire, and seeing Harry’s head appear amidst the flames... saying he’d be
over the next day... bringing stories from his travels with Sirius... news on
exotic foreign broomsticks for Ron... a book for her... and all would be
right with the world.
She couldn’t tell Jack about...
Anything.
I’ve been living in a dream world, haven’t I? I’ve been so unfair to
Jack... even if he is a Muggle and there is the Compact to consider, he has
a right to know...
“Let me see if I understand,” Jack was saying. “You all grew up and
went to this boarding school, and remained close even after graduation...”
“We don’t graduate from secondary schooling in England,” Hermione
corrected. “We just leave.”
“Okay, okay. You began to date your ex-husband right before all of
you left school, but before you married, you and the best friend had some
sort of a fling that you never bothered to tell your husband about. Am I on
the right track so far?”
He makes it all sound so sleazy, thought Hermione even as she
nodded.
“Then after you married, you were busy with your residency and then
your practice, and he didn’t understand that... so he turned to this other
woman, his co-worker. Things happened and a child was conceived. Am
I still on track?”

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 2. Disappearing Acts
“Yes, you are.”
“You found out. You got mad... end of marriage. End of story. Okay,
I got all that. What I don’t understand still is two things. Why did you
leave afterwards? And – I repeat – why didn’t you tell me in the
beginning? It explains so much about you.”
Hermione swallowed. “Well, in our world... I mean, back home my
ex-husband, along with me and my best friend are... well, we’re all sort of
famous. Everyone knows about us. So the divorce was made very public
and so was the child. People were furious with my ex-husband and sided
with me. I found all the attention embarrassing. I didn’t want public
sympathy. I wanted to be left alone.”
“Where was the best friend during all of this? When things got bad
between the two of you?”
“Right there with us, trying to help us work things out. And then...
well, it never became public knowledge, but then something that should
have remained private and in the past was revealed to a group of our
closest friends.”
“Your past fling with him?”
“Yes.” Hermione hesitated, then plunged forward. “Also the fact that
he was in love with me – and had been for a very long time.”
It was now Jack’s turn to swallow – indeed, he picked up his wine
glass and drained it dry.
Once he finished, he set it down and looked deep into her eyes.
“Was the feeling mutual, Hermione?”
She thought about this for a while before she spoke again.
“People assume that very close platonic friendships ought to turn into
relationships. And it is true that sometimes the foundation of a lifelong
male-female friendship can be an initial attraction...”
“It was that way for me when it came to you,” said Jack with a smile.
In spite of herself, she blushed. “Mind if I have some names?” said Jack.
“It’d be easier following you that way.”
“Oh, might as well. Don’t see what it would hurt. All right then, my
ex-husband’s name is Ronald, Ron for short. Our best friend’s name is
Harry. Just plain Harry in his case.” She tried to remember the last time
she’d said their names aloud – or anyone else’s in the wizarding world for
that matter – and failed. It was a strange experience.
“Ron and Harry. Typical British guy names,” Jack laughed. “Now I’m
trying to run through all my mental British celebrity lists and place them
with last names... go on. Best friend wouldn’t happen to be the Prince,
would it?”

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Paradise Lost 1
Hermione chortled a little, in spite of herself. “No indeed! I said it was
a celebrity matter, not a royal affair!”
“Just checking.”
“Right. In the beginning, and for many years thereafter, neither of
them saw me in a romantic light. We were all just friends... how I wish it
could have stayed like that forever! Our differences caused the friendship
to work, and it was all very balanced by the time we became teenagers.
During early adolescence, I was the odd one out because I was the lone
girl, but by third year at Hog... I mean, by our third year in secondary
I never felt that Harry and Ron were closer to each other than they were to
me.
“Before we all became friends, when I was a little girl just starting at
the school, I had this silly crush on Harry. He was famous even as a little
kid, and to be quite honest I think I was just as starstruck as some of the
sillier girls I professed to hate. Once I got to know him, however, the crush
subsided quickly. He was such a regular kid... but troubled. Ron was easier
to get to know – with Ron what you saw was what you got. But you could
never really know everything about Harry.”
Jack groaned. “Oh, I see where this is going. Tall, dark, and
mysterious guys always get more skirts chasing after them than they
deserve.”
Hermione laughed and shook her head. “Oh, that didn’t come until
later. When we were little, Harry was a short, skinny kid who wasn’t all
that mysterious. The height came later, and so did the inscrutable manner.
But he does have dark hair, I’ll give you that...
“Anyway, so we grew up, and were relatively untroubled by all the
precocious hormonal angst that Mug... I mean, American teens seem to be
terribly cursed with. Although somewhere deep down in the back of my
mind, I felt that if somehow in the future I ended up with either of them, it
would be him...”
“This Harry guy?”
“Yes. Harry.”
Jack quoted, “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these
– ’It might have been.’ Are you sure that sentiment is all past tense,
darlin’?”
“Thanks ever so much for the nod to Whittier,” she said, the corner of
her lip twitching. “Anyhow, we were relatively untroubled until we were
around fourteen, when Ron began to develop this crush on me. Oh, it was
so awkward at first! Your crush ought to be someone you can admire from
afar, like Harry’s first one... he was all dreamy-eyed about this older girl

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 2. Disappearing Acts
who didn’t even know he existed. But I ate three meals a day with Ron,
I had classes with Ron, and I spent all my free time with Ron. So
eventually...”
“He ended up being your first boyfriend.”
“Right. It all happened so fast. I can talk about my whole life with
Ron in terms of ‘before I knew it’. Before I knew it, I was good friends
with him. Before I knew it, I saw much more of him in the average day
than I did of Harry. Before I knew it, I was his girlfriend... then fiancée...
then wife. It all seemed so very natural... before I knew it.”
“How did this Harry guy feel about the two of you being together?”
“Well, on the surface he always seemed to be thrilled about things.
But somewhere deep down I knew something wasn’t right... I could tell
that he wasn’t exactly jumping up and down about it. But I thought Harry
didn’t care one way or the other about Ron and me until...”
“Until you ended up in his bed,” Jack reiterated, shaking his head.
“Darlin’, you ought to know enough about men to know that was
unacceptable.”
“It takes two,” replied Hermione coldly. “And Ron cheated on me
three times. The last and worst after we were married.”
“Have you ever asked yourself why?”
Her voice was still cold. “There is never an acceptable reason for
cheating, Jack. Except of course that the cheater is a horrible scab who
doesn’t deserve happiness.”
“Oh, come now, Hermione! Neither of us are psychologists, but we
are both health professionals. Listen to yourself... don’t you think that your
ex-husband knew you were in love with your best friend?”
“I was not in love with...” She trailed off and sighed. “Like I said,
Jack, I just don’t know.”
“Yes, you do know. From what you’re telling me, Ronald obviously
felt that no matter what he said or did, he just would never measure up to
Harry.”
“Right, just take his side, then! You don’t even know the man!”
“No, but I see the look in your eyes when you talk about him, and the
way you say his name... you’re very critical of Ronald, and yet you seem to
be much less harsh in the way that you view this Harry character. I feel
sorry for your ex-husband in a way.”
Despite his harsh words, Hermione remained calm and firm. “Jack,
Ron hurt me maliciously and intentionally. Surely you’re not saying that
your sympathies lie with him...” She raised her wine glass to her lips.
“That’s exactly what I am saying. As you spoke, I put myself in

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Paradise Lost 1
Ronald’s shoes. Tara, as you know, was my high school sweetheart and the
first girl I ever loved. She only met Brad years after our divorce.” Bradley,
Hermione knew, was Tara’s husband of four years. She and Jack had gone
out on several outings with the other couple. “I tried to imagine what I’d
do and how I’d feel if I found out she’d slept with, say, Keith Dorset. Or if
you had, for that matter.”
Hermione nearly choked.
“You keep saying you don’t know how you feel, when I’ve never
known you not to at least pretend to be an authority on any and every
subject under the sun. I think you’re trying to avoid the issue.”
“Do you?” she replied flatly, staring at him. “And why exactly would
I do that, Jack?”
“Because you don’t want to admit that you dated me under false
pretenses.”
Hermione let out a deep breath. “Jack, I love...”
“Don’t,” he commanded. “Don’t make things worse by lying even
more than you already have.”
She went cold. “Jack, I’ve told you everything about my past
relationships. How dare you accuse me of lying? I didn’t volunteer the
information up front because it is irrelevant to what is between us.”
“Is it really, Hermione? Then why are you still trying to change the
topic?”
“Exactly which topic are you referring to? There have been several.”
Frustrated, Jack threw his napkin down on the table in a gesture that
was so Ron-like that it made her wince. Yet her reflexes were still in tune
to the motion... she grabbed his wrist just before he used it and the other to
push away from their table.
“Jack, please don’t leave. Please.”
Jack stared at her, then blew out a short, tense breath. “When
I proposed to you, I fully expected a simple ‘yes’, not to feel like a priest in
the confessional. You do know that, don’t you darlin’?”
She nodded, feeling the tears begin to sting her eyes. He looked so
crushed that she felt rather like a murderer.
“Don’t cry. There’s nothing to cry about. I shouldn’t have thrown
your past into your face... I just envy both of those men, that’s all. One
called you his wife for a time and the other stole your heart. I hope
someday to repeat both feats... but it doesn’t have to be today.”
Hermione dabbed at her eyes with a cloth napkin. “Really?”
Jack grinned, a trifle sadly. “Darlin’, I’m not a young man, but I’m a
darned persistent one. And I’d be willing to wait forever, if I know in the

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 2. Disappearing Acts
end you’ll be my bride and my love.”
Their hands met. Their fingers intertwined.
“I do care a great deal for you, Jack. Thank you for your patience... for
your strength... for your love. And I promise you that someday soon I’ll be
able to...”
Don’t make things worse by lying even more than you already have.
Just beyond their clasped hands, gooseflesh prickled Hermione’s arm.
Certainly the words were Jack’s, spoken by him just a few minutes
before... and yet the voice was very different.
The voice was her own.
“Don’t make things worse by lying even more than you already have,
Harry!” She was breathless from all the running and crying she’d just
done. “How can I trust you when you don’t think enough of me to allow me
to make up my own mind?”
There was the sweet pressure of palms curving over her shoulders,
then the all-encompassing sensation of arms around her waist. Then a
whisper against her ear: “I didn’t know how to tell you. But we have to do
this, you understand?”
One quick shove backwards and the pressure was gone.
“Don’t ever touch me again.”
Even as she tried to grasp the sense-bite, to hold it fast, to find out
more about the gaping holes of her past, it all slipped out of her hands
much as water flows through sifted sand. Just like always.
“Darlin’? Are you all right?”
Hastily, Hermione attempted to freeze her Grindylow-like thoughts
and pack them away for further perusal.
“Jack, before we go on any further, marriage or not... there’s
something else I need to tell you. Not about relationships, either. It’s about
me.”
The corner of Jack’s lips twitched. “I know.”
“You know?” She was infinitely pleased. This made things so much
easier. “How did you...”
“I don’t know what it is, but there is definitely something going on.
I can feel it when I touch you, even when I’m around you... are you ill?”
“Ill?”
“Doctors are notoriously hardheaded when it comes to seeing to their
own health.”
Not this doctor, she thought ruefully, rubbing her knuckles. Despite
the trauma she’d suffered only a few short days before, the skin was now
as smooth and unscarred as the morning she’d left for Chicago. She gave

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Paradise Lost 1
new meaning to the old Scriptural aphorism – Hermione Granger was a
physician who could heal herself.
“I’m perfectly well, Jack. Now please, if you would just...”
“What is it, then? Are you pregnant?”
“Jack!” Her voice was stern. Her tone was firm. “I most certainly am
not!”
A shrug. “You are still of childbearing age, Hermione. It’s certainly
not outside of the realm of possibility.”
It’s outside of that realm for me, she thought, recalling her own
disastrous effort to conceive a few years back. After her unborn child had
died and her marriage had ended, she’d taken a personal vow of sorts. The
charm to sterilize only varied from the Contraceptive Charm in a few
spots.
“Anything’s possible, Jack, but it is neither probable nor true. I am not
pregnant. Please, allow me to speak.”
He folded his hands.
“Well... you know that there are certain people with unexplained
psychic abilities, right? What do you think of that? We’ve never discussed
it.” Because I’ve deliberately steered clear of all that, Hermione thought.
“I’m just wondering what you think.”
“I think that there is a logical scientific explanation behind all
observable phenomena, whether we have the ability in the present to
discern it or not,” he replied dryly. “What are you trying to say, that you
see ghosts?”
“Yes, I have. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” This is it! she
thought, experiencing the eerie prickle of déjà vu. For hadn’t she bared her
soul before and risked all? “Jack, I’m a witch.”
Jack didn’t move a muscle. His poker face didn’t change, either.
“So you’re a Wiccan? Figures. I always wondered why a good English
girl always squirmed her way through the most Anglican services that
these shores have to offer. Also explains why you buy into that
homeopathic mumbo-jumbo... so what, do you read Tarot cards? Collect
crystals? Prance around naked on Midsummer’s Eve?”
“No, no. I don’t practice Wicca. I’m a witch.”
Jack seemed skeptical. “Isn’t it the same thing?”
“No. Wicca is a religion, a belief system. It’s something that you can
choose. Actual witchcraft – our shorthand for feminine magical ability,
I suppose – is as much a part of me as the color of my eyes, my height or
my gender. I didn’t have a choice in the matter... it’s genetic. I was born a
witch, Jack.”

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It took a moment for Jack to absorb this information. Hermione could
tell that he was in denial. She’d seen that same bewildered look on her
father’s face... over twenty years before, when Minerva McGonagall had
shown up on the doorstep of their orderly Headington home and delivered
the letter that changed her life forever.
Hermione bit her lower lip as she waited for a response. It was her one
nervous habit, one that had cost her a fortune in snapebalm before she’d
perfected her patented anti-chafing charm during her first year at
Paracelsus.
Jack coughed, cleared his throat, and said:
“Darlin’, I think you had better go and talk to someone. You’re
coming undone... and I’d hate to see someone as young as you sabotage
their career over something as silly as this.”
Hermione sighed. “It’s pretty unbelievable, I know. I’ve spent the past
two decades of my life engaged in this insane attempt to rationalize the
irrational... to find the source of what makes us different from everyone
else on the planet.”
“Us?” Jack uttered a dry, disbelieving laugh. “So you’re not the only
one with the power, huh?”
She felt a little prickle of fear. John was a Muggle... John didn’t yet
have a MagiCard. In the pre-Grindelwald War days, anyone who revealed
information about the wizarding world to an unauthorized Muggle risked a
mandatory overnight stay in Azkaban. Centuries before, during the height
of the persecutions, any violation of the International Compact on
Wizarding Secrecy was considered high treason... punishable by death.
“No, I’m not. There’s a whole world of us, Jack. We live on the edge
of humanity, most of us preferring to avoid non-magical people and places
where we attract attention to ourselves.”
“And you?”
“I was born to parents without magic. I’m a bit different from most...
always have been.” She closed her eyes.
“Which is why you’re here now, right? Caught between the two?” She
nodded. “No wonder I couldn’t place your ex-husband and Harry... are
they witches, too?”
She nodded, then shook her head. “Well, the proper term for them is
wizard... witch is the female designation, and wizard is used for males. But
the powers we have are the same. Binding and hexing, charms and potions,
transfiguration and flight... things like that.”
“So what, you just woke up one day and had these powers? Or were
you making your toys fly before you could walk?” Jack had a smirk on his

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face that Hermione really didn’t like. Instead of commenting on his
mocking attitude, she merely answered his question.
“We are born with our abilities, but we have to be trained to use them
most effectively.”
“Where?”
“There are special schools for this purpose. The one that Ron, Harry,
and I attended in the United Kingdom is one. There are similar institutions
the world over.”
Jack let out a deep breath.
“Hermione, you know that I have the highest respect for you. Not just
as the woman in my life, but as a doctor and as an intelligent human being.
And now here you are, asking me to believe the unbelievable.”
She nodded slowly.
“I’m a scientist. A skeptic by nature. So are you, by your own
admission. I don’t think I can buy what you’re telling me without proof...
where’s the evidence that you’re a witch?”
“Evidence?”
“Sure. Why don’t you do a magic trick or something? Let’s see what
you’ve got.” The corners of his lips trembled. Surely he wasn’t going to
laugh at her?
“Oh, bugger,” she muttered. Her wand was four thousand miles away.
She didn’t want to alert the Department of Magic... any magic done by an
unregistered witch or wizard would be detected and certainly followed up.
Thwarting the DoM had been the easy part. Other than her stunt in
Chicago, she hadn’t done any real magic in nearly three years. And magic,
like any other ability, improved with practice and worsened without it. The
average adult witch or wizard never had to worry about getting worse,
though... for the average adult witch or wizard spent the majority of their
time in the wizarding world and had to use magic all the time. Of course,
she’d never been average...
“What sort of a trick did you have in mind? I confess I am drawing a
blank here and would welcome suggestions.”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know... why don’t you pull a rabbit out of a
hat?”
Her glare spoke volumes. “And just where do you suppose I ought to
get a hat from? Did you bring one?”
“Can’t you people just... oh, conjure up something like that?” He
snapped his fingers, and as the band played on, it was barely noticeable.
“We can’t always spontaneously generate things, Jack. The laws of
nature still impose some limits on us... and before you ask me to place

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someone in a box and attempt to saw them in half...”
“I’m trying to play along, darlin’... all right, let’s try this. Why don’t
you make something disappear?”
“A disappearing act... all right.” Her eyes darted about the table.
Nothing remained other than the ring, the tablecloth, napkin rings, and the
almost-empty wine glass he was holding.
Two blinks and a muttered word later, Jack’s hand and shirtsleeve was
sopping wet. With wine.
The glass was in Hermione’s hand, a few droplets of the Chianti
clinging to the outside of it.
“What... how’d you do that?”
“I Summoned it.”
“How?”
“I just concentrated on it and willed it into my hand. Quite simple,
actually.”
“But you didn’t make it disappear. I am well enough read on psychic
phenomena to know that a growing number of people have telekinetic
abilities that scientific theories explain... doesn’t mean they qualify as the
next tick on the evolutionary scale any more than Einstein, Beethoven, or
Michael Jordan did.”
“So you don’t believe me?”
“Belief doesn’t enter into this, Hermione. It’s clear that you are not
well... again, I’m worried about you, darlin’. This sabbatical will do you a
world of good, and we will get you all the professional help you need...”
His eyes widened with horror. His head dived under the long
tablecloth. So did hers.
When they both surfaced, she was wearing her signature smug
expression and he was redfaced and sputtering.
“Looks like I’m not the only one who needs help,” she said.
“Hermione, if you don’t give me back my pants and my... my...”
“Your drawers?” She was holding back laughter.
Jack was furious. “Why, you little...”
“Well, you said you wanted something to disappear. I was simply
attempting to oblige.” She winked. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.
After all, what was that you told me when we first became a couple? ‘I
needed a double-X sized waist just to fit my wedding tackle in?’ I’ve never
known you to miss an opportunity to show off.”
“Hermione!”
She stood up. “It’s over, Jack. Good-bye.”
Her last glimpse of him that evening revealed a man in distress,

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squirming uncomfortably in his chair in an attempt to get maximum
coverage from a fine linen tablecloth.

A day or so later... perhaps.

Sometime after midnight, but before dawn EST.
Druid Hills neighborhood – Atlanta.
Hermione spent the duration of the next day much as she had the day
before – at home in the Druid Hills neighborhood of Atlanta. It was the
first place she’d ever lived that she could call completely her own. She’d
gone from her parents’ home to Hogwarts, then moved back home in the
years between finishing school and her marriage to Ron. Never once had
she dreamed of living alone until she actually experienced it.
She loved every bit of her home, from the vine-covered latticework to
the rose garden and vegetable plot in the back to the weeping willow in
front. She liked the freedom of cooking when she liked, clearing away only
when she was ready, and wearing pajamas all day Sunday and eating
breakfast in the middle of the night and letting herself drip dry after a
shower while reading the New York Times Magazine or the Atlanta
Journal-Constitution and eating an apple.
Although she could have very well afforded a housekeeper, Hermione
cherished her privacy and solitude more than convenience. Oddly, she
found doing things without the benefit of magic satisfying. There were so
many moments that she treasured during those years in Georgia... tramping
about her yard in overalls and gardening gloves, trowel in hand... the biting
scent of Pine-Sol in a squeaky clean kitchen... even the warm pleasure of
kneading dough for crust, something that no self-respecting witch would
ever consider wasting valuable time doing.
She discovered that one doesn’t need a partner to dance when no one
is watching. Nor does one need an audience to sing or hum and whistle or
chat or scream.
It was in that house that Hermione learned how to laugh again.
Jack had long wanted her to move in with him... he lived in a better
neighborhood and had a much larger house. He said he wanted hers to be
the last face he saw as he fell asleep at night and the first he saw when he
woke up in the morning. But Hermione remained firm... she was enjoying
the single life too much to trade it for a road she’d traveled before.
As much as she loved her home, she didn’t get much pleasure out of it
that weekend. She had too much on her mind. Most of Saturday before her
date with Jack had been spent in her bedroom... using her new Spider (the
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voice-activated Web application console that had replaced PCs a half
decade before) to search the classifieds.
On Sunday, she didn’t bother to get dressed or answer the phone or
have any meaningful human contact at all. She weeded her garden. She
made a prawn-and-lettuce salad in the morning that served as both lunch
and dinner. She blasted her new Ska Princess MP3 on the console and
rearranged her sock drawer and spice cabinet.
But mostly, she sat down and stared into space.
That night, Hermione’s sleep was troubled. Yet upon awakening she
could not recall her dreams.
During the night, a long shadow fell over her. Unseen, gnarled fingers
touched her cheek. An invisible, heated gaze lingered upon her sleeping
form with such unholy longing that she shivered in her slumber, pulling the
covers around her more securely.
As she pulled, the dark shadow covered her hand almost completely.
It then seemed to hesitate, and for a moment hovered only inches away
from her face... close enough to snatch her breath away.
And a single ghastly fingernail traced a slashing line just above her
throat.
Then it touched her brow, whispered “Soon, majesty... my time will
come... soon...” and pulled regretfully away, baring fangs of smoke as it
went.
Long before the first pastel ribbons of morning touched the city, all
traces of the unsought shadow were gone.

The morning after, 7:45 a.m. EST.

Druid Hills neighborhood – Atlanta.
Hermione had decided to make it a point to go in to the CDC much
later that morning. There was no point in going in on time. All she planned
to do was finish the paperwork for the Chicago case and clean out her desk
anyway.
Instead of turning on the morning news as she usually did on
Mondays, she decided to run a bath. She was sure that the full import of
the breakup with Jack would hit her sooner rather than later, and she
wanted to be submerged in pearly foam when it happened. There was
something about bubble baths that she found extremely cathartic...
especially if the bubbles were vanilla scented.
Vanilla had always represented comfort to Hermione... the smell of it,
the taste of it, even its texture. Her favorite ice cream flavor was vanilla,

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despite her parents’ urgings for her to try the more exotic offerings of the
local Haagen-Dazs parlor. Yet a vanilla cone was always enough to make
her smile.
When she got older, she learned of other uses for vanilla, too. As she
sank into the bubbles and let the aroma soothe her racing mind, she
remembered.
By fifth year Lavender and Parvati had the girls’ dormitory constantly
smelling like a cheap French salon. Their home brewed sweet-smelling
potions were nearly as successful as Fred and George’s Canary Creams...
but solidified Hermione’s dislike of artificial scent.
Just before the Scourge began, there had been an addendum to the
usual Halloween feast... an evening hayride on horseless wagons across
grounds resplendent with late fall color, followed by a glorious bonfire.
Hermione wasn’t planning on making it a big deal. Yet all the older
girls in the school saw it as a prime opportunity to show off new robes and
jumpers and skirts and lipsticks and hairstyles and just act like... well,
girls. So Ginny had insisted on fiddling with her hair – ”don’t get me
wrong, Herm, it’s really very pretty straight, but if you just let me charm a
curl or two in, and pin it up like this, maybe a bit of my Goldenrod
Streaking Lotion-Potion as well... just wait, you’ll love it”.
Then Anya Parker, a quiet and shy seventh year, had fashioned the
most wonderful hair clips for all the Gryffindor girls out of leaves and
acorns, using a Preserving Charm. Despite the fact that Anya was giving
them away for free, Hermione pressed several Sickles into her hands.
“I’d much rather pay for this darling clip than that foul-smelling stuff
my silly roommates are selling,” Hermione told her.
Lavender and Parvati were doing makeup for everyone in their room,
and between all the giggling and gossip and the effort that not mussing her
hair involved, Hermione was rather cross... she’d wanted to spend the
afternoon doing a bit of pre-advance studying for the O.W.L.s., not hearing
about clothes and manicure charms. And especially not boys, who
Hermione believed were not worthy of all the special attention they got.
“I’m dead tired of Dean,” Parvati sighed, letting something glittering
and golden drip out of a flask and onto a sixth-year’s upturned face. “He
acts as if we’re married! I can barely breathe... I’m thinking about
breaking it off.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your boyfriend wanting to spend a lot of
time with you,” said Lavender sagely, making Padma’s hair stand up in a
swirled column. “I think it’s perfectly normal.”
“Perhaps that’s because you and Seamus are practically married,”

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giggled Parvati.
“Really? Do you think so? Is that what everyone is saying in the
Common Room and the Great Hall? I mean, we have been dating for six
weeks, after all, but...”
More giggling. Hermione groaned loudly and turned over on her
stomach with her book. Escaping to the common room wasn’t an option...
before Ginny had found her, she’d nearly sat on Fred and Angelina,
making out in one of the chairs before the fire. How embarrassing.
As she dashed away, she’d nearly run into Ron and Dean and Neville,
who had wanted her for a fourth in their Exploding Snap game since Harry
was nowhere to be found. But she wasn’t in the mood for fun and games.
She wanted to get at least some studying done so that the weekend
wouldn’t be a total waste. However, she hadn’t counted upon her room
being turned into a beauty parlor.
“It’s a shame there are no really cute boys here,” lamented Eleanor
Branstone, who although only a precocious third year always managed to
turn the head of nearly every male at Hogwarts. “I’ve told my mum that
I’m rather surprised that no one has caught my fancy yet.”
“Oh, I’m sure there are plenty of good ones, Nell!” giggled Lavender.
“My Seamus, for example...”
“Yes, except for the fact that he’s yours. He’s taken. So is Dean. So
are the Weasley twins. So are all the others anyone would ever consider.”
“Well, there’s Neville Longbottom...”
“Too short. Too round. And could you imagine trying to hold a
conversation with him?”
“Ron Weasley... he’s cute...”
Hermione looked up from her book and glared. But no one paid any
attention to her.
“Far too tall. It’d be like kissing a bloody giraffe!”
Not to worry, Ron would never give any of you ninnies a second
glance, much less kiss you, thought Hermione viciously as giggles rained
down ‘round the room and she turned back to her book.
“Blaise Zabini...”
“Sure, he’s dead sexy, but what decent witch would ever date a
Slytherin? Her reputation would be compromised forever.”
“Yes, you’re right... you ought to have heard the talk after that poor
Ravenclaw fourth year went out with Draco Malfoy last Hogsmeade
weekend. Although if he ever looked my way, both rep and Seamus might
have to be damned... at least for the afternoon. He’s horrid, but he’s
gorgeous.” She shivered, and Hermione felt rather nauseous. “Well, what

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about Harry Potter? Surely you can’t find a thing wrong with him...”
“Of course not, but then, neither can the dozens of other girls who’d
love to date him just to be seen with someone famous. Or... befriend him.”
At the subsequent giggling, Hermione looked up and saw that more
than a dozen pairs of eyes were diverted to her. She also caught the
challenge in Eleanor’s eyes.
“So what do you say to all this, Hermione? Surely you can give us
some insight into the male character, seeing as you’re so tuned into it,”
said Eleanor cattishly. “I’ve heard a rumor that Harry’s seeing Cho
Chang. Is he really, or do I have a fair shot at him? At least, I’m sure his
taste doesn’t run to bossy little bookworms with no fashion sense, so I can
count on you not to have any ulterior motives despite all the press last term
to the contrary.”
Lavender saw the tension rising and intervened. “Come, Hermione, a
whiff of our new Love Potion No. 9 eau de cologne... all the girls have
some... won’t you try it?”
Hermione appreciated her dormmate’s clumsy save and therefore
didn’t say what she thought... that Love Potion No. 9 smelled an awful lot
like the stuff her parents used to unclog their sinks with.
“No, thanks.”
“Who are you going to the bonfire with?” asked Parvati.
“Now girls, don’t be nosy!” said Katie Bell, in the midst of giving a
bog-mud facial and the most senior girl present in the room. “I’m sure
Hermione will manage to surprise us just as she always does.”
Everyone shrieked with laughter, then grew suddenly quiet. Hermione
groaned inwardly. It had been nearly a year since she’d waltzed with
Viktor Krum at Christmas, but between that and the Rita Skeeter articles
she’d got no peace from the other girls.
“No surprises. I’m not going with anyone,” she said dryly. “Didn’t
know having a date was a requirement for participation.”
“Is Harry or Ron going with anyone?” Lavender asked. “I mean,
because if they aren’t, I know a couple of girls who are interested... if you
could pass that on.”
She shrugged. “Tell them if you want. It’s not as if I care one way or
the other. They’re my friends. Merlin knows I don’t own either one of
them.”
“Yes, of course... now, just a whiff,” pressed Parvati, approaching the
bed with her new fragrance.
Hermione held up a hand in warning. “Come one step closer, Parvati
Sai Patil, and I will hex you from here to Hogsmeade.”

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“Oh, stop being such a spoilsport, Hermione! You were such fun
during the winter holidays last year...”
“No, I’m not interested, really! I have my own scent to wear.”
“Ooh, what is it?” asked Lavender. “You haven’t been holding out on
us, have you?”
Hermione allowed herself a small grin. “Of course I have, don’t
I always? It’s a secret... but tell you what, I could use a slight touch of that
lip gloss... you know, that really posh new one that goes from golden to
silver to bronze to pearl. Care to share?”
An hour later, they were all ready. Hermione secretly thrilled at the
look on Ron’s face when she met up with her friends in the common room
before they went to dinner. Ron seemed completely and utterly
dumbfounded and she relished every bit of it. It was unusual for Ron to be
at a loss for words.
Harry grinned. “Hi, Hermione... you look nice.”
“Thanks, Harry, so do you. Hi, Ron,” she repeated. “I’ve never seen
that jumper before. I quite like it... you ought to wear that shade of purple
more often.”
His ears turned red. “Uh, thanks... did you know you smell like
baking?”
“I smell like what?” She burst into laughter as the portrait swung
open and they stepped out into the corridor.
“Baking,” repeated Harry. “Were you in the kitchens earlier on
S.P.E.W. business?”
“Oh, that,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Lavender and Parvati
and some of the other girls were being silly, that’s all. Nothing out of the
ordinary.”
“And that has to do with you smelling like a tea biscuit because...?”
Ron was nearly recovered now.
“Well, they tried to attack me with that frightful perfume they’ve been
selling to all the girls...”
“Yuck,” both Harry and Ron said in unison.
“Say no more,” said Ron. “Much better to smell like a pudding than
Morticia Bloodworth’s funeral parlor. If you could do something about
that stuff, every male in Gryffindor Tower over the age of twelve will thank
you.”
Hermione smiled her appreciation at both of them. And thanked the
stars that Hogwarts was coed.

Nearly seventeen years later, the smell of baking enveloped her as she

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plunged into the warm water. Like her mother had before her, Hermione
favored natural scents... cinnamon and spice, milk and honey, and even the
occasional faint berry note. But her lifelong preference had begun with the
bottle of vanilla extract she’d pulled from among her potions ingredients
on that long-ago autumn day...
And soon tears dripped down her cheeks and disappeared into the
vanilla-scented waters.

Same day, approximately 11:30 a.m. EST

Center for Disease Control, Atlanta
Hermione was finishing the last of her paperwork for the Chicago case
in the library when Wayne Mallory walked in. Wayne was a research
fellow at the Center who hailed from the great state of Idaho. One of the
few doctors on staff who was younger than she was, Wayne held both a
Ph.D. in microbiology and a sweet slip of a wife who was working on
giving him a third child in as many years.
“Hello, ‘Mione, I had no idea you were back from Chicago,” he said
in a chatty tone, sitting down next to her. “How did it go?”
“Surely you already know,” she said a bit more testily than she’d
intended. After all, Wayne was a friend and would never say anything to
intentionally hurt her.
“No, I didn’t. Last I heard, you were in Chicago and doing a bang-up
job on the case.” Hermione wasn’t sure if “bang-up” denoted positive or
negative news. Even after three years in the States, there were still
Americanisms that confused her. “What’s cooking?”
“Nothing on this end, save my impending leave of absence.” She
threw a weak grin his way. “Any idea what holiday spots are hot this time
of year? I’ve not had the chance to travel much on this side of the pond...”
“Neither have I, and I’m from this side,” said Wayne. “But what’s this
about leave?”
“Dorset’s giving me some time off from the EIS.”
“You’re kidding me. This morning I ran into him and we were talking
about you. Never once did any of that come up... lucky!”
“I’m sure,” said Hermione, thinking of her not-so-nice meeting with
Dorset the previous day. The only things stopping her from phoning the
EEOC with an inquiry about sexual harassment suit were her British
upbringing and the fact that she was attempting to maintain a low profile
while in the States.
“You look like something heavy’s on your mind,” said Wayne

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thoughtfully. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” said Hermione quickly. “How’s Linda?”
“Oh, she’s great,” said Wayne, brightening. “Says once this one
arrives, that’s it for us... I’m betting that I’ll be able to talk her out of it just
as I’ve done twice before.”
“Goodness, what are you trying to do, Wayne? Father an entire team
on your own?”
“No, just investing in my retirement. With the way Social Security is
going, we’re going to need all the help we can get in our old age.”
Once back in her small office, Hermione considered the precarious
stack of books she’d wheeled down from the library... technically, she
wasn’t supposed to borrow them, but she and the head librarian had
developed a symbiosis of sorts. Mrs. Mercady, used to mild condescension
from many of the upstart researchers who used her facilities, had grown to
love the thoughtful young English doctor who viewed libraries as a second
home. So Hermione could always take whatever she needed back to her
office to peruse in peace.
Under the halogen glow of a torchière – the only source of light in the
windowless room – she reviewed the titles of the reference volumes and
journals she’d picked out. Nothing here was going to help her identify the
source of the disease. What she needed was lab time, and lots of it. Perhaps
she should ask Wayne about it before she went on leave and her secured
access status was altered to reflect her new position...
A knock sounded on the door. It was Norma Devine.
“Hello, hon... there’s been a delivery for you...” The kindly, ample
duty officer, whose looks always reminded Hermione vaguely of the late
Rubeus Hagrid, was holding a wicker basket in her hands.
Hermione took it from her... and heard a purr...
“Autumn!” she said, lifting the ginger kitty out of the basket and
holding her close. “Oh, how I’ve missed you... you and your family.”
There was a note too, in Devorah Holstein’s gentle handwriting.
Dear Hermione,
I hope that this letter finds you well. I would like to again express my
gratitude for your dedication to your work, for your honesty, and for your
compassion during our time of need. You are a true mensch – never let the
cruelties of life get you down.
Autumn hasn’t been the same since you left. She has been – and this
may seem as strange to you as it does to me as I write it – acting as if she is
depressed. We thought it might be because of Levi’s death. That may be
indeed the case, but then we also remembered how much you loved her,
saying she reminded you of a cat you had as a girl.
Please accept Autumn as our gift. We are grateful for your sweet

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presence during our darkest days. Our door is always open to you – and
always know that both your mother and your grandmother would have been
pleased to see the woman you’ve become.
Shalom,
Devorah
She folded the letter and placed it back into the basket. When Norma
saw this, she continued speaking.
“Dorset wants to see you in the new conference room in five
minutes... I ran into him on the way here, and he asked me to save him the
trip.”
Autumn was climbing down her new owner’s knit shirt, obviously
wanting to prowl this new domain, and Hermione obliged. “Yes, well,
could you tell him that I have nothing to say to him? I think we both made
ourselves quite clear during our meeting yesterday.”
“Tell him yourself,” said Norma matter-of-factly. “I’ll see you in a
little while.”
Hermione was surprised at Norma’s abrupt leavetaking. Usually the
duty officer would have stayed behind for a bit of a chat. What odd
creatures these Americans are, thought Hermione for the thousandth time.
Especially those of the Georgian variety.
She then debated on whether or not to see Dorset. In the end, her gut
won out... she wasn’t the type to start conflict, but neither would she run
away from it. Not showing up would signal to her soon-to-be former boss
that she was intimidated by him... and she was not going to have him
thinking that. She wouldn’t give Keith Dorset the satisfaction.
After placing Autumn back in her basket, she returned to the library
with both Autumn and books. Explaining to Mrs. Mercady that she would
return soon, she placed her parcels on the counter and made her way to the
conference room.
It was dark. The back of Hermione’s neck prickled. What was he
trying to pull?
“Dr. Dorset?”
“Yes, I’m here, Dr. Granger...”
Before she could back out or ask why on earth he was sitting in a
pitch-dark room in the middle of the day, the lights were flicked on... the
shades were opened... and there were bursts of confetti and balloons
floating and noisemakers.
“SURPRISE!”
Hermione nearly had a heart attack. For crowded into the conference
room were a couple dozen of her favorite fellow EIS officers... Wayne
Mallory, wearing a huge grin that matched Norma’s... Dorset and some of

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the other department heads and bigwigs... including Jack himself.
He seemed to be holding no anger about the night before. He swept
her up into his arms and kissed her in front of everyone...
Hermione broke away in protest. “What’s all this, then?”
“What do you mean, what’s all this?” asked Suzanne Ling, one of the
other EIS officers. “You couldn’t have thought that the brilliant job you
did on the Chicago case was going to slip by unnoticed. It was worthy of
celebration and more.”
“What brilliant job?” asked Hermione.
“Oh, stop being so modest, ‘Mione,” said Wayne. “After all, you’ve
just identified a brand-new infectious disease... and saved dozens of lives
in the process.”
“Wayne, you’re making me nervous. Whatever do you mean?”
“The X-Factor virus that was spreading at the Navy Pier
Condominiums, of course,” explained Wayne. “When you asked the
building engineers in the copter to check the ventilation, not only did they
discover that there was significant blockage on the infected floors, but tests
of the dust sent back to the labs revealed an organism – half bacterium,
half fungus – that seems to thrive in the filters under certain conditions.
Exactly as you said.”
Hermione didn’t say what she was thinking. If this was the case, then
why didn’t we find traces of infection in all those samples we took in
Texas? This is all very strange...
“There’s been some teasing talk in the lab about naming it ‘Granger’s
syndrome’,” said Wayne’s bubble-gum cracking lab assistant Kathy. “I’m
sure that talk will turn serious soon... tell me, how will it feel to have an
actual disease named after you? Isn’t that like so totally cool?”
“Yes,” said Hermione wryly. “What an honor. I’m sure I’m thrilled.”
Dorset was coming forward. “Dr. Granger, as your immediate
supervisor, it is both an honor and a privilege to introduce you to the
deputy Director-General of the World Health Organization, Dr. Hugh
Turner.”
There was a round of applause. Hugh Turner was a balding, dapper
little man who appeared to be in his early sixties. His receding hairline
made him appear rather like a monk, and his tonsure was as round and rosy
as his bespectacled face.
But when Hermione saw him, she wasn’t repulsed. Never that. She
was thrilled from head to toe. Hugh Turner had been her Muggle mentor at
Oxford... when she was in medical school around the turn of the
millennium, Hugh had been Waynflete Chair at Magdalen College.

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Hugh had been highly influential in her decision to practice Muggle
medicine after finishing at Oxford, and not just mediwizardry. Then during
her divorce, he’d been instrumental in getting her the interview with the
Center. Hugh’s passion for healing the whole patient was quite infectious.
He was noted throughout the United Kingdom for his commitment and
expertise in the area of public health, and he often advised the various
Royal Commissions and Working Committees set up by Parliament on
medical issues.
Like Minerva McGonagall, Hugh was more than a mentor... he was a
friend. Unlike Jack, however, Hugh’s guidance came with no strings
attached. For that she was grateful.
“Hugh!” she said, impulsively hugging him around the waist... or
where his waist would have been if he’d had one. “Oh, it’s so good to see
you.” Especially after the week I’ve just had, she thought to herself.
“Well, well. Thank you, it’s always a pleasure to visit the Center, and
it is always good to see one of our own doing so well in the world. I have
been following your career, Hermione, and I must say that you’ve done
rather well for yourself.” She reddened, knowing that praise from Hugh
was praise indeed. “I came to offer you an opportunity I am sure you will
not refuse, and here I find myself in the midst of a celebration.”
“This has all come as quite a shock,” admitted Hermione. Still
confused, but not wanting to admit that. “Especially after the Tribune
article, my arrest, and our meeting yesterday,” she said to Dorset.
The room went quiet.
“But the Tribune article was fantastic,” said Roy Rodriguez, another
EIS officer.
“What arrest?” asked Jack incredulously.
“How could we have met yesterday?” asked Dorset. “Correct me if
I’m wrong, Dr. Granger, but didn’t your plane just arrive back in Atlanta
this morning?”
Hermione looked from one stunned face to the other. At a loss for
words.
Then she realized something.
“What is today’s date?”
“Why, it’s Friday, of course,” said Hugh Turner. “And thank God for
it!” Everyone laughed.
“It’s not Friday,” said Hermione. “It can’t be. It’s Monday.”
Silence again.
Jack was the first to laugh, followed by everyone else in the room.
Wide-eyed, Hermione realized that they all thought she was joking. In the

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midst of the hilarity, she pulled Jack aside desperately and spoke in low
tones.
“Jack, please tell me that we had dinner night before last. At the
Palladium. There was a jazz concert, you asked me to marry you, and...
and I told you some things about me that came as quite a shock.” And
caught you with your pants down, she said. Well, make that gone.
“No, the tickets are for tomorrow night, dear. And who told you about
my plans? Was it Keith?” Jack glared in his friend’s direction.
Hermione was still in denial. For it had to be Monday the sixth... her
brain refused to register the fact that everyone else in the vicinity believed
it was Friday.
“He told me nothing! Jack, listen to me, please.” She looked around
and lowered her voice... from the knowing smiles she received from a few
whose eye she caught, she knew the assumption was that she was
whispering something lovey-dovey. “I left Atlanta on the first. I arrived
back here on the third – Friday – three days ago in utter disgrace. I was
arrested in Chicago for meddling where they thought I didn’t belong. And
as for my supposedly finding this miraculous cure, there were no known
survivors... it was just like the Texas case this spring...”
“What Texas case?
“Oh, don’t even try it! I was there over a month! I have proof... the
lady involved sent me her kitten as a token of her gratitude even when
I didn’t manage to save a single patient!”
Jack sighed and looked at her with great concern. “Darlin’, I think
you’ve been working too hard. Of course there were survivors in
Chicago... all thanks to you. Those people were all given antibiotics and
are now recovering.”
“Then I’d like to get names and contact information from the Illinois
epidemiologist. I’m sure a talk with Ralph Fox will clear all this up...”
But a booming voice behind her made her heart sink.
“Dr. Granger!” Fox was there too, horror of horrors, with a huge
plaster grin on his face and no trace of the patronizing chauvinism and
sexual harassment she’d been subjected to a half week earlier... or was it
only yesterday?
Or did any of it happen at all?
“As I’ve said time and again, I’m so pleased that you were the officer
that the EIS sent,” said Fox. “You’re sharp... with your observational
skills, patience, and passion for fighting disease, you’ll go far in this
field...”
Hermione left him behind and went over to Norma.

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“Norma... please tell me you brought a kitten to my office when you
came to get me for the party just now...”
Norma was alarmed. “Oh, no ma’am, I’d never do anything like that.
Everyone knows unregistered animals aren’t allowed outside the
designated laboratory areas...”
“Shall we cut the cake now?” asked another officer. “Or should we let
Dr. Turner make his big announcement?”
“Excuse me just a moment,” said Hermione. “There’s something I’ve
got to check on.”
She slipped out of the conference room, then broke into a run, open
lab coat fluttering behind her as she zipped down the corridors to the
library. When she reached the doorway, she had to grip it tightly and catch
her breath.
Mrs. Mercady seemed alarmed. “Dr. Granger, dear, what’s the
matter?”
But Hermione’s eyes had darted past her to the counter. She gasped
when she saw the stack of books she’d left a few moments before... and no
basket.
The elderly lady seemed alarmed. “Dr. Granger?” she repeated.
“What happened to the kitten I left here a minute ago?”
“I didn’t see any kitten, Dr. Granger,” said Mrs. Mercady, seeming
even more alarmed. Hermione looked past her and at the large-print daily
calendar on her desk...
It was really Friday.
That was the last straw for Hermione. She turned on her heel and
walked down the hall blindly, hot tears streaming down her face.

~~~
She didn’t return to the conference room. Instead she sat locked in her
office, staring at the toothpaste-green walls. The tears had dried quickly.
Much as she needed the emotional release, Hermione had learned long ago
that crying did little to solve a problem. During the war, she’d learned to
detach from the horror... her smarts and skills were needed for the fight,
and the last thing she wanted was for her friends to believe that she was
vulnerable and couldn’t pull her own weight.
The tears had come at the beginning and the end of her marriage too.
In the beginning, there had been weeping for joy... and at the end, there
was pain and regret and shame.

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Then came her mother’s death two and a half years before. She still
hadn’t recovered from that. Hermione looked at the picture of herself and
her mother that she kept on her desk always... she’d been around twenty at
the time, and her arms were thrown about her mother’s neck as she peered
over her shoulder. Despite the fact that she was brunette and her mum was
blonde, the physical resemblance between the two women was striking.
How I miss her, thought Hermione. She’s the only Muggle in the
world with whom I could share what’s been happening to me. She’s the
only one who believed me and loved me no matter what...
Caroline Granger found the lump in her breast in mid-2008. Despite
the fact that she was in a health profession, despite the fact that she knew
much better, she didn’t think twice about it. She’d found other lumps on
several other occasions; those had turned out to be benign cysts. She was
far too busy with her practice, her lecturing at Oxford, and her life to worry
about such a trivial thing.
By the time Caroline had finally gone in for a checkup late the
following spring, she learned what she’d slowly begun to suspect... that it
hadn’t been a cyst after all. The cancer had metastasized to several organs,
including her liver and stomach. She was terminal. When she was told how
much more time she had and the odds of survival, she opted out of
chemotherapy.
Hermione could almost hear her mother attempting to rationalize the
irrational. I’ll take something for pain when the time comes, perhaps...
I don’t want to alarm Ted or Hermione... Ted’s heart is bad, he doesn’t
need the worry, and my Hermione... she’s going through such a hard time
right now with her marriage...
When she took the job with the CDC in September 2009, Hermione’s
parents turned her move into a month-long holiday. It would be the last
they ever took together. Hermione treasured those moments forever...
flying into Boston, visiting Darice and her mother (who was Ted’s cousin),
then renting a car and driving to Atlanta, with tourist stops in New York,
Philadelphia, and Washington, D.C. Hermione’s parents had helped her
find her home... Caroline and Hermione had walked all over the property
and planned out things.
“Will you have a trellis in the rose garden for your wizard and witch
friends to use when they visit?” Caroline had asked. She’d known that the
trellis in back of the Chelsea house had been used as a portal for the ABFN
and Apparation. Hermione had always made a point to explain to her
mother as much about the magical world as she could possibly understand.
Her father had been another matter entirely.

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On that day, however, she’d turned and given her mother a hard look.
“I don’t have wizard friends anymore, Mother. You know that. Now, no
more of this.”
That had been the end of that. Nevertheless, after her parents left,
Hermione had gone to Lowe’s – a home and garden superstore roughly
equivalent to the Sainsbury’s Homebase she’d grown up near – and
ordered a trellis anyway.
She was forever grateful that she made the hard decision to travel
home for Christmas that year. After wrestling with her own demons, she’d
come to the conclusion that Fidelius would keep her covered no matter
how much she was being looked for... there was no way in hell that Draco
Malfoy would break the charm, even for his wife... and her own parents
would never tell.
Hermione flew home... and stepped off the plane to hug a mother
who’d lost nearly seventy pounds in four months.
Caroline Granger died ten days into the new year of 2010. Hermione
spent every possible second with her mother... even trying to stop the
cancer at first with her hyperempathy. When Caroline saw what her
daughter was attempting to do, she was absolutely horrified, jerking away
feebly and rasping at her to stop it.
“I am too far gone, love,” Caroline had said. “I know what you are
trying to do, and I want you to stop. If you try and absorb this, it’ll do me
no good and kill you too.”
Hermione had been in emotional agony. “Mum, I won’t accept this.
I can’t.”
“You’ll have to. I don’t want to you to bury yourself with me. I want
you to live.”
What sort of healer am I, really? I couldn’t even save my own
mother’s life.
She’d spent most of the first half of 2010 in a daze... and then came
the summer and Jack, who’d betrayed her that night at the Palladium just
like most men seemed to do. She thought that Dr. Jack Calhoun would
become her salvation. Now he was turning into just another problem.
He couldn’t help her solve this. No one could... at least no one else
that she had left in the Muggle world.
Should I contact Malfoy? she wondered. There isn’t a fireplace in my
home... Jack has one, but he’s never used it. I don’t think he’d go for my
building a fire in it in the middle of summer.
I’ve no idea where to purchase or rent an owl. Ron won Circe in the
divorce... well, actually, I let him have her. Didn’t want anything I couldn’t

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 2. Disappearing Acts
carry with me. But... how?
Then it came to her.
Incredimail. It was how Malfoy communicated with his Muggle
mentor Bill Gates, of course... and she had his Malfosoft Incredimail
address just in case anything were to happen.
Just as she went to pull out her beetle-black Charlotte (a portable
mini-Spider), she was interrupted by knocking.
“May I come in?” The voice belonged to Hugh Turner.
“Of course! Just one minute...” Hermione stood up and in two strides
was unlocking the door.
Hugh looked around. “Well, you’ve certainly come down in the
world, Hermione,” he teased, eyeing the Oxford diploma and medical
licenses that were nailed to the walls.
“Haven’t I?” she said with a weak smile.
“I’d expect nothing less from a pupil of mine,” he smiled. Then the
smile faded. “You’re missing a party where you’re the guest of honor.
What’s amiss, dear?”
She sighed. “Hugh, I’m not sure that this is the place for me
anymore.”
“What, is it not challenging enough for you? Are you clashing with
your colleagues here?”
“I’m not sure,” said Hermione. “I just have the feeling that it is time
for me to move on.”
“Do you miss home, then?”
England. Hermione hadn’t seen it in almost three years. She hadn’t
been overly nostalgic for it, either. She no longer had close Muggle
friends, seventeen years in the wizarding world had left her jaded, and she
and her authoritarian father had never been close.
But in spite of herself, she nodded.
“Then I’ve an opportunity that you’ll not refuse. It’ll take you away
from here on a challenging project for two years. Beforehand and
afterwards, you’ll have the chance to travel home. Are you interested?”
“Perhaps if you’ll share more, I just might be.”

August 3, 2012 – take two

Palladium Dinner Theatre, again.
This time around, Hermione planned on being smarter. She dressed
differently to remind herself that she’d been given a chance to do things
over. The time before, she’d worn a filmy pink dress and had straightened

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her hair into a bun. Tonight she wore a basic black sheath and bouncing
curls. She also traded in her mum’s diamond pendant necklace for her
favorite string of pearls.
“Now that I’ve performed some of my own favorites and hit songs,”
said Cassandra Wilson after the applause died down, “I’d like to do a
tribute to some of the jazz greats of the past. This one’s for Louis... Ella...
for Bobby Darin, and for all of you.”
Hermione straightened up. Obviously other things had changed in this
particular time stream. A prickle of fear traveled up and down her spine.
She couldn’t wait to talk to Malfoy about all this... she’d sent off her e-
mail via the Charlotte late the day before.
How, then, was she going to respond when Jack popped the question
this time? How could she tell him about Hugh’s offer, an opportunity she
couldn’t refuse?
How do you tell a man who believes he has your heart that you have
other plans?
Oh, the shark has pearly teeth, dear
And he shows them pearly white
Just a jackknife has MacHeath, dear
And he keeps it out of sight...
“Hermione? Are you all right?”
She blinked twice, then glanced in his direction. Perhaps the song has
changed, but the man hasn’t.
“Better now,” she replied. “The concert is great, isn’t it?”
His hand covered hers. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“Finish your wine,” he whispered in her ear.
“No thanks, not tonight.” Hermione pushed the second glass he’d
offered away. It didn’t take much to loosen her inhibitions, and she needed
her wits about her.
Oh, the shark bites with its teeth, dear
Scarlet billows start to spread
Fancy gloves though wears MacHeath, dear
So there’s not, not a trace of red...
Jack pushed it back towards her. “No, you’ll want to finish it.”
She sighed. “Don’t worry, I’m in the mood already.” Or at least a
mood, she thought. “I don’t need any more to drink. I had a glass of wine
while at lunch today with Wayne and Linda Mallory.” It was a half-truth at
least; she’d had no wine but indeed had been with the Mallorys. Hermione
didn’t plan to spend an entire day alone in isolation ever again until she
could figure out what happened to her. The night before, her sleep had
been broken often. She’d kept waking up and checking the date-time stamp

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 2. Disappearing Acts
on the Spider. “While we’re on the subject, Jack, have you ever considered
that you drink far too much?”
“I’m no alcoholic, darlin’.”
“Perhaps not, but you never turn down an opportunity to imbibe. It’s
not healthy.”
He seemed floored. “Just a moment,” he said, picking up her wine
glass and the half-emptied bottle of Chianti.
Hermione studied her nails as she snapped her fingers in time to the
music in his absence. Three tables over, a handsome blond who looked to
be in his mid-thirties caught her eye. He smiled. She smiled back.
She looked away. Cassandra Wilson was now caught up in her song
and so was her entranced audience. So was Hermione. Just as that
Armstrong song brought up memories, so did many, many standards.
Not only had they spent that Christmas listening to the album
collection Arthur had bought for a song during an early VW2 foray into the
Portabello Antiques Market, there were other times. Shortly after the war
her parents had held a barbecue in her honor. All of her wizarding friends
had come, and so had all of her parents’ Muggle colleagues. The result had
been an occasion with many, many near misses, but one that had been lots
of fun for all concerned. The adults present chalked the antics of the
younger set up to their giddiness... none of them had any idea of the ordeal
they’d just gone through.
Hermione remembered everyone gathering in the living room after
dinner. Some of her parents’ friends had wanted to hear her play and her
mother sing. Soft-spoken Caroline had been blessed with an angel’s voice.
She remembered playing one of her mother’s favorite standards, “Why
Should I Care?” and looking up, expecting to see Ron standing there,
grinning with pride...
... and instead finding herself caught up in Harry’s haunted, lost gaze.
At the time, the oddness about him had puzzled her... it would be the last
time she saw him before he went away to Avalon.
Was there something more I could have done?
Or was I not meant to be the one?
Where’s the life I thought we would share?
And... should I care?
And will someone else get more of you?
Will she go to sleep more sure of you?
Will she wake up knowing you’re still there?
Why should I care?
She snapped herself out of it. Jack had been dead wrong in the time
before! She didn’t care about Harry Potter. Or anyone else in that world,

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for that matter. How could she, when she planned never to see them again?
To be sure, she was planning to e-mail Malfoy about her situation, but that
wasn’t the same as actually seeing him.
It was at that moment that Jack returned... with a tiny crystalline tray
of after-dinner mints. Hermione offered a weak smile in return as she took
it from him.
“Jack, you don’t have to hide it in my wine or in this candy. If you
have something to ask me,” she said, finding the same ring she’d seen in
the time before as a glitter amongst the mints, “just ask.”
He sighed, then nodded. “You’re right. After all, this is ‘take two’ for
both of us, right? Well, they say that love can be better the second time
around, so...”
Hermione wanted to ask who the hell “they” were, and how they came
to be experts on the matter. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever been in love
anyway, so it wasn’t like this was exactly a reprise for her. Or the first
time, for that matter.
Suddenly a terrible thought struck her.
I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before.
“Jack...”
“I love you, darlin’. I want you in my life forever. You’re pretty and
you’re smart and I want to make this official...”
She took a deep breath. “I can’t.”
His face fell.
“Well, at least I can’t right now. Hugh’s offered me a job heading up a
WHO research project at a new facility in Manaus... tropical infectious
disease is what we’d be looking at. It’d be for eighteen months at least.
I think I’m going to take it, Jack...”
“Manaus? You’re not talking about Brazil?”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “I’d start in December. There’d be
briefings and training modules back home at Oxford, so... I need to be all
packed by the end of the month.”
“You’re not serious, are you?”
“Of course I am. Jack, I need a change of pace. I want a challenge.”
She cursed herself silently when tears filled her eyes. “I want to go home.
I’ve not even seen where my mum’s buried yet...”
Jack nodded. “Go.”
She dashed away her tears with impatient fingers. “What?”
“I said go. I wouldn’t dare hold you back.” He took both of her hands
in his and gazed at her with eyes full of longing. “I want you to be happy
no matter what, darlin’. And when you’re ready, I’ll be here waiting.”

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 2. Disappearing Acts
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. Where was the sense of
release she’d had when she’d made his trousers disappear in the time
before? Perhaps she ought to tell him again... about Ron... and about
Harry... about magic, even.
Or perhaps not.
They ended the night in each other’s arms. First gliding across the
dance floor at the Palladium. Then in his bed, between the sheets. There
was no lovemaking though. No more tears, either. At least not on
Hermione’s part as she lay awake and wished with everything in her that
she could go back to the time before.

~~~
She ended up going home a bit before one.
“I don’t like you leaving at this time of night, Hermione. You know
that,” Jack said drowsily as he watched her dress in the shadows.
“Yes, but I’ve got to get up early in the morning to run a few errands.
With you, the temptation will be to stay in bed half the day.” She was
exaggerating, of course... the sex wasn’t that earth-shaking. Nevertheless,
she’d learned the script at a young age. What women were supposed to
say. What men wanted to hear.
Sure enough, he grinned. “How do you know the temptation wouldn’t
be to go to church? After all, it is the first Sunday of the month and I’ve
got to serve.”
“Oh?” asked Hermione with complete disinterest. “I’m sure I’d be
able to talk you out of it. I certainly have before.”
“I know, you witch of a woman, you,” he laughed. Hermione’s smile
faded until she realized he was teasing her. “No matter where you are in
December, darlin’, I want to fly you in so you can spend Christmas with us
again in South Carolina. My mother really likes you.”
Ah, that’s the kiss of death, Jack. I’ll never again marry a man whose
mother has me mentally dressed and trussed and handed to her son on a
platter. I don’t care if the mother in question is witch or Muggle, fifty or
eighty-five... I’ll not be the same fool twice.
She leaned over and kissed him. “I’ll call when I get home.”
Home meant another bubbly soak in her claw-footed tub. This time
with curls up in a twist and candles all around. Instead of her usual vanilla,
she chose a variation on the theme... the bath salts were English lavender
and the candles were freesia and gardenia. There was an old Diana Krall

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Paradise Lost 1
MP3 spinning out of the Spider, and a damp washcloth rested over her
eyes. A cup of caramel-kissed cappuchino and a book rested on the tray
that hung over the tub. She hated to admit it, but if it came down to a
choice between sex with John and her sinfully indulgent bath hour, on
most days of the month Hermione would choose her soak.
Afterwards, she dried off and slipped into a floor-length, sleeveless
linen gown. She loved the feel of silk and satin against her skin, but only
when the garment in question wasn’t meant to be slept in... both materials
tended to be hot and combined with bedding and bed partners could be
quite uncomfortable. Hermione was really a cotton and flannels girl at
heart, and the pale blue gown was one of the few items of sleepwear she
owned... after all, that was what t-shirts and borrowed boxers were for,
weren’t they?
The gown made her feel pretty and sensual. Feeling shut in, she
opened her bedroom windows wide, not caring that she was also blasting
the air conditioning... August in Georgia brought unbearable heat even at
night.
Outside the neighborhood seemed quiet save a chirping chorus of
crickets. She sat down at her vanity table and began to brush the few
remaining curls out of her damp hair. It was nearly three o’clock in the
morning.
Hermione.
The brushing slowed.
Come to me, Hermione.
The brushing stopped. She set the velvet-backed brush back on the
vanity, listening. When nothing more came, she shook her head, laughing
at her silliness. Then she lifted her hair from her nape, intending to tame it
into a single French braid before she fell sleep.
At that moment, she distinctly felt a touch on her neck. A caressing
touch.
Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin. She did jump up from the
cushioned stool, looking everywhere. When she saw nothing and no one,
she debated on whether or not to palm the pistol she had hidden underneath
the sweaters in one of her drawers. She hadn’t wanted a gun, but since she
was living alone Jack had insisted. And taught her how to use it. Perhaps
he was right...
No. She was being silly. She was imagining things.
Shaking her head again, she sat back down and went to pick up the
brush.
A hand covered hers. An unseen hand. Yet this touch was so tender,

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 2. Disappearing Acts
so non-threatening that Hermione was no longer afraid.
Come to me, Hermione...
She turned around and was caught up, melting into an unseen yet
familiar embrace that made her feel as if she’d been lost for a very long
time and had finally made her way home. This was no callous intrusion.
Neither was it some sinister incubus. This was breath and eyes and
memory and knowledge and serendipity and fate all rolled into one.
There was time for neither questions nor answers. Indeed, there was
no place for words as her unseen lover’s mouth fused with her own. As his
hands clutched at the linen at the back of her nightgown desperately, hers
slid up to bare shoulderblades that she could touch and not see... and yet
she’d learned over the years that sight wasn’t everything. All she had to do
was feel... to give in to this feverish, insane yearning...
He crushed her into his embrace, slipping strong fingers underneath
the linen, tracing his signature upon her skin. Her hands were just as
impatient as they slipped up his bare back, then back down into his
trousers... if she’d had her eyes open, she would have seen them disappear
at the wrists.
Their bodies fit together like two adjacent pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
One materialized and pliant, the other invisible yet strong.
She splayed her fingers and sent her dream lover soaring as she felt
the hem of her gown rise over the backs of her knees... then at her waist...
the small of her back... and then she forgot that there was such a thing as a
nightgown.
But her mind had many other things to be concerned about... such as
directing her fingers to undo the top button and zipper of his jeans, and
trailing her bare foot up and down his leg. Their kisses became more
frenzied, as if kissing was a new method of obtaining sustenance and
sunlight after dark...
All of her was drowning in all of him.
And a strange breeze whooshed through the windows and blew all the
candles out.

~~~
Just before dawn, the being that walked amongst the shadows came
again. More itinerant in its intent this time. Determined to snatch the breath
that had eluded it time and time again. Its orders were clear... and those
who sent it would not be denied this time.

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The windows were open, so there was no need to Apparate. It glided
easily into the room, alighting in the crooked shadow cast by the weeping
willow in the yard and the pines just beyond. Once it got its bearings, its
attention snapped to the bed.
She was not alone. Its eyes narrowed when it saw the cloaked man
who held her in his arms. For the shadow walker, it was hate at first sight.
Puffs of steam came out of its nostrils... the man was not even asleep yet.
His mortal fingers tangled lustily in her majesty’s unruly hair as if she
were some common strumpet and not the one they’d been searching for
forever. The creature opened its mouth in a silent scream... the meddler
was not worthy of tasting the breath it had slipped in to steal.
She stirred and shifted in her sleep to face him. He smoothed all the
hair away from her forehead, then kissed it. After lingering over her lips
for a moment, he cradled her head against his chest and she seemed to
settle back into slumber.
The creature turned abruptly away from the maddening sight and
slipped back out of the window in a white-hot rage.
You think to shield her from her fate, meddler?
You’ve got another think coming.
Soon...

~~~
Hermione awoke very late the next morning to an empty bed and a
silent room. Bright sunlight streamed through windows that were still
open. She sat up with a dreamy look on her face and a bittersweet pang at
the back of her throat.
She was alone. Again.
Tears streamed down her face. It had seemed so real, just as it always
did. As vivid as her nightmares. As inexplicable as the blip in time she’d
recently experienced. Yet it had all been nothing more than a fantasy, of
course. And why should she expect anything else?
Everything she’d ever loved, she’d lost.
Hermione slipped from her bed to close her windows and pick up all
the candles. Then she headed off to the shower, turning up the cold water
on the tap and letting it splash her heartache away. Wondering why she felt
so unbearably icky and sweaty only a few hours after taking her last bath.
As she wondered and lathered, back in the bedroom a strange
lingering warmth faded from the sheets and the tell-tale indentation on the

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spare pillow slowly began to rise.
By the time she was clean, everything was back to normal... if such a
word could be applied to Hermione.
For it was a devilish thing to be a woman.
More devilish still was being a witch in denial... and in grave danger.

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A/N: In the next episodes we’ll follow Hermione home to

England. She slips back and forth in time as she revisits the past,
meets her past in the present, and finds out that once a witch,
always a witch. We also get our first glimpse of this side of
Paradise... by catching up with all the old characters from canon
and learning what they’ve been up to since the close of Trouble in
Paradise. The Weasleys. Draco and Ginny. And... Ron and Harry.
Thanks to Chapter 2 beta readers: Pippin, Michelle, Catherine,
Ashley, and Heidi.
And thanks to all of you for your support, whether via e-mail,
IM, FictionAlley Schnoogle review, or HP_Paradise Yahoogroup
post. Again, the wait for the next installment ought to be much
shorter.
Chapter Summary: Reunions. Hermione faces her father and
his new life for the first time since her mother’s death and must
learn to forgive. She also wanders through her hometown haunts
and favorite spots in Muggle London until she falls straight into
Fidelius’ sole loophole... and much like Alice, finds herself right
back in the Wonderland she’d tried to forsake forever.
Dedicated to fellow H/Her and friend-across-the-miles
Stephanie Salerno (schnoogles!)... and to my dearest friend Chantel
AKA Patronus_Creator (hey, girlfriend!) who’s my first RL person
to join us in Paradise. Random quote from a teen poet wise beyond
her years: “Although we do not desire pain, we do desire the
product of pain, which is strength.” Thanks for being there when
I needed you most.

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aaaaa

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 3. Evergreen

“You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert,
repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of
your body
love what it loves.”
– Mary Oliver, from “Wild Geese”

Tuesday, September 11, 2012 – 6:30 a.m. GMT

150 miles outside of London, aerial approach.
“Will you be having breakfast, miss?”
Hermione awoke with a start and nodded. Twenty thousand miles in
the air, Virgin Atlantic Flight 23 had begun to stir as the flight attendants
finished serving a continental breakfast. She pushed the dog-eared Stephen
Hawking tome from her lap and rubbed the crust from her eyes, knowing
she must look a mess. Which would not do – she couldn’t have her father
seeing her like that.
The flight attendant was saying something else to her. “Would you
like some coffee? Or would you prefer tea?”
“Coffee,” she murmured without hesitation. British or not, coffee was
coffee... as evidenced by the proliferation of Starbucks cafés on every
corner of the isle during the time she’d spent at Hogwarts and the decade
thereafter. She needed to wake up and get her bearings.
The flight attendant poured the dark liquid into a tiny plastic cup with
a red-lipsticked smile, careful not to spill a drop despite the slight
turbulence.
“How close are we to Heathrow?” Hermione asked.
“About thirty minutes away, miss. Will you be wanting anything
else?”
She shook her head and the flight attendant left. After eating a few dry
and dissatisfactory mouthfuls of the airplane food, she made her way to the
lavatory with her cosmetic case to freshen up, and got back just as the
plane began its final descent into London.
 3. Evergreen
There were very few passengers on the plane, and Hermione was
lucky enough to have a seat by herself in business class. She slid over to
the other seat and opened the window shade.
Bright, early morning sunlight filtered into the cabin. Hermione
looked down and a lump caught in her throat. Compared to America, with
its variety of picturesque landscapes, southern England was relatively
monotonous. There were the obligatory fields, woods, and hills interrupted
by the occasional village. You had the sense when you were flying over the
United States that you were in a huge country. Not so England...
everything appeared much more compact from above.
And much greener.
Indeed, she’d forgotten how very green England was in late summer.
The green came in every shade imaginable, from palest ocean-foam to the
deepest forest-leaf shade imaginable. There were no skyscrapers to break
the emerald dream, either. She remembered flying over this landscape long
ago without benefit of a plane, too...
She stopped the thought cold.
Don’t even think about it, Hermione. Not here. It’s one thing
reminiscing about it all four thousand miles away. It’s quite another to do
it here.
As if she needed the reminder, she replayed the one-line message
she’d received in response to the S.O.S she’d sent to Malfoy nearly six
weeks before.
G: Return immediately. -M
She hadn’t responded. No more blips in time had occurred since that
frightening first weekend of August. Besides, Malfoy was supposed to be
her Secret-Keeper... if he hadn’t compromised her security, then she had
nothing to worry about. No spell could circumvent the powerful Fidelius
Charm...
New spells are being invented all the time, Hermione. Haven’t you
conjured up a few yourself? Even old magic like Fidelius can falter when
confronted with a force that’s even more ancient...
Hermione ignored her disquieting thoughts and looked out of the
window again.
They were flying over Greater London. She picked out the long
silvery line that was the Thames, snaking its way northwest towards her
native Oxfordshire where it became the tranquil river Isis. Even from her
vantage point, she could pick out first Islington, then Chelsea and the West
End in general, where Ginny had lived in Soho for many years. To the
north, in nondescript Hertfordshire, dwelled Fred and Angelina and their

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brood. She wondered if her Hogwarts friend Lisa Turpin and her husband
still called Lewisham home. Many were the afternoons when she and Lisa
had met each other halfway at their favorite Victoria pub, the Shakespeare.
She closed her eyes.
I’m home. I’m finally home.
From that moment on, she became increasingly anxious. When the
plane’s wheels hit the runway at Heathrow, her heart began to beat faster.
When it locked into its designated gate, her breath caught in her throat.
As she began to gather her carry-on luggage, she felt very surreal.
She’d phoned her father from the airport before she boarded her flight,
telling him not to bother driving in. She was coming in on a weekday
morning, and traffic on the M40 was typically horrendous during rush
hour. The X80 coach was perfectly good, and it always was a simple
matter to get a taxi from Gloucester Green during most of the year. The
only time she hated to do this was at the start and end of Oxford’s terms,
when transport was overloaded with students.
Customs were a breeze, as they typically were. She bypassed the
gaggle of Americans and other foreigners on her way to the EEU gate,
where she flashed her identification at the officer... who looked vaguely
familiar.
He was stunningly handsome, with refined blond good looks that
reminded her vaguely of Draco Malfoy and Malfoy’s cousin Dante Rosetti.
Yet where Dante was brawny and Malfoy was slight, this man was
somewhere in between. He had the finely sculpted features of a model and
eyes blue as the bay of Biscay.
Hermione was mesmerized.
“Nationality, miss?” the man was saying.
She snapped out of it. “Oh! Uh... umm... British.”
The customs officer flashed her a smile. “And just why were you in
the United States?”
“Bus... business. Good to be back.”
The officer waved her through with a nod. She smiled back.
It didn’t take long to pick up her luggage. She’d never been a high
maintenance type of woman who needed four different suitcases in order to
travel. Of course, when she felt how heavy her two bags were it was all she
could do not to consider levitating them. Such a simple spell wouldn’t even
require a wand... even certain Muggles could lift objects through sheer
willpower.
Resisting the temptation, Hermione walked out and into the crowd of
people waiting to pick up passengers... and looked straight into her father’s

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 3. Evergreen
dark brown eyes.
“Dad?” She was frozen in place.
Her father closed the distance between the two of them as she dropped
her bags. Then he hugged her as tightly as he could, dropping a kiss on the
top of her head. Shocking her completely... she hadn’t expected him to
meet her here. Or to be so emotional about it. Reserved didn’t even begin
to describe her dad.
Ted Granger was a man whose very presence could fill a room. His
competence in dentistry and orthodontic surgery coupled with a curt, no-
nonsense manner had long ago earned him universal respect in his field.
There were many who didn’t like him, but even his detractors had to admit
that he was a spanking good dentist and one hell of a lecturer.
Hermione had always wanted to imitate her graceful mother, but often
feared that she’d ended up much more like her domineering dad. She’d
inherited Ted’s hair and eyes and his tendency to boss everyone about.
She’d also received a double portion of his forced self-confidence...
whether it was genetic or learned behavior, she’d never stopped to analyze.
“I’ve missed you, darling,” he murmured.
She knew the appropriate response: I missed you too, Dad. But she
knew it wasn’t the truth. If she’d truly missed him, she would have been
back long before now.
Ted drew back a bit and studied her face. Although he didn’t say it,
Hermione could sense he was thinking how very like her mother she was
in appearance.. She had her father’s coloring, but her facial features and
build were all Caroline’s. Her father used to say it all the time, especially
whenever he saw her again after a year at Hogwarts. But now, such
comments were all but taboo.
Looking over his shoulder, Hermione noticed a little boy of obvious
Middle Eastern descent staring at her... from his appearance, she guessed
he was Pakistani or North African. He didn’t seem like an urchin at all. He
was well-dressed, clean and groomed... and staring pointedly at her.
Hermione blinked. The boy was gone.
Letting her father go, she took a startled step back and bumped into a
barrel-chested man. She turned around... and met Heath’s broad, wolfish
grin. In spite of herself, her heart turned over in her chest. Until the fright
took over, that is.
She jumped and emitted a tiny scream.
Her father reached out a hand to steady her.
“Hey, lady, watch where you’re goin’...” The voice was clearly that of
an American tourist, not the neutral accent of Heath and Seal’s speech.

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Paradise Lost 1
And when she looked up with a murmured apology on her lips, the face
was no longer Heath’s.
Hermione moved back towards her father, clinging a bit. This
behavior was so atypical for his daughter that Ted was immediately
alarmed.
“Hermione? Darling, are you all right?”
“Just tired, Dad. Tired and worn out and jet-lagged. I think I’m seeing
things.”
He smiled and hugged her shoulders again. “Well, there’s a bed with
your name on it. It’s been there for over thirty years and I’ve seen no good
reason to get rid of it yet...”
“Theodore? Oh, Theodore darling, there you are!”
A blonde woman with aristocratically pinched features approached
them. She looked to be somewhere in the neighborhood of her mid to late
thirties, no more than seven or eight years older than Hermione herself.
She sidled up to Ted and wound her arms about his neck just as Hermione
bent down to retrieve her suitcases.
“No, here, let me do that... and before we go any further, allow me to
do the introductions. Hermione, this is Clara Lancaster. Clara dear, this is
my daughter Hermione.”
Clara reached out a long hand with fingernails painted bright red.
Hermione had always hated red fingernail polish with an irrational passion.
On the rare occasions that she actually had time for a manicure, she
preferred clear polish or very subdued peach, pink, or pearlescent shades,
and invariably used matching muted tones for her self-pedicures.
“So nice to finally meet you, dear. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I can’t say the same about you,” said Hermione coldly, glancing over
at her father. The accusation was in her eyes... how could you do this to
Mother so soon? Then she returned her gaze to Clara and just looked at
her.
Clara broke eye contact first, volunteering to bring the car around.
As soon as she left, Ted attempted to set his daughter straight.
“It’s been nearly three years, Hermione. Don’t be so unreasonable,”
said Ted curtly.
“You say it as if it’s been ages and ages,” Hermione said scathingly.
“You were married to Mother for forty years...”
“‘Were’ is the operative word. I’ve grieved over your mother. Now
I have got to live my own life.”
Hermione nodded blandly. “Right, Dad. Can’t fault you for doing
that.”

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 3. Evergreen
He gave her a sharp look, but she didn’t waver. She met it measure for
measure. Thinking all the things she wanted to say to him and yet never
could.
I’m not a little girl anymore. You cannot intimidate me. My will is as
strong as yours... I may look like my mother, but inside I am the female
version of you. Ah, more’s the pity.
Speaking of that, Dad, seeing that woman here instead of my mother
only served to remind me that the one who connected us is gone. I wonder
if she connects us still? Or do you only want to forget her... and anything
that reminds you of her?
She said none of these things, however. Instead, she allowed her father
to take her bags and followed him out to the car park where Clara waited.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012 – dawn, GMT

Headington, Oxfordshire.
On her seventh morning in England, Hermione opened her eyes to a
slightly frightening realization.
Home didn’t feel like home anymore.
Her initial meeting with Hugh Turner at Magdalen was scheduled for
later that day. Hermione was glad, not to mention relieved. She’d been
staying around the house for much of the time – partly because she was
attempting to recuperate from her last whirlwind month wrapping up
everything stateside, and partly because she was irrationally paranoid about
running into anyone from the wizarding world. She hadn’t even yet
notified Malfoy about her presence back in England, although she was sure
that somehow he knew.
Nothing was the same now that her mother wasn’t there. There were
no meals unless Hermione cooked them; Ted had never been much good in
the kitchen and Clara seemed afraid of mussing her perfect little manicure.
There was nowhere in the house that she felt she could be private.
Clara found the most inane excuses for bursting into her room for no
reason at all. She also was one of those cattish women who liked to throw
stones, then hide her hands behind her back as Hermione seethed.
Hermione had been incensed to learn that her father had allowed this
new girlfriend of his to take over all the closet space in her room. After
she’d recovered from the jet lag, the first thing she’d done was dump all of
Clara’s Christian Dior and Prada frocks on the bed that her mother had
once slept in.
“Where am I supposed to put all this, then?” Clara had asked severely.

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Paradise Lost 1
In response, Hermione had shrugged and turned on her heel with a sharp
“not my problem” on her lips.
In Clara’s shallow mind, it was almost as if her lover’s daughter had
declared war. So the very next morning, Hermione went to the laundry
room to transfer a load of her whites from the washer to the dryer only to
find that they were now varying shades of pink. The culprit? A very
skimpy red nylon thong, which Hermione tossed onto the centerpiece of
the table where her father and Clara were eating breakfast.
“I think you’re missing something, Clara,” she said in passing.
Of course, her father was furious. Hermione expected this. Upon
returning to the laundry room, she counted ten and then looked up into his
fuming face.
“Your behavior is outrageous, Hermione Anne. You are thirty-one,
not three.”
Hermione’s glare was exactly identical to his. “No, Dad. This,” she
held up a tie-dyed pink lab coat, “is outrageous.”
“How do you know that it wasn’t yours?” her father said, veins in his
neck twitching. “Certainly you’ve done that sort of thing often enough
while you were living at home... not separating things carefully because
your nose was in a book. Most likely it’s your own fault that your clothes
were ruined.”
“I don’t wear trashy thong underwear, Dad.” said Hermione coldly.
“But then, I don’t wear cheap nylon either. Neither did my mother, by the
way... what gutter did you find this strumpet in again?”
Of course, that set Ted Granger right off. Hermione had never spoken
to her father in such a fashion. She’d always been the model daughter.
However, there were limits... and Clara Lancaster was hers.
Yes, Hermione knew she was being slightly catty. She knew that she
was driving a wedge between Clara and her father. But it wasn’t like Clara
was the most diplomatic woman in the world, either. She went out of her
way to make Hermione uncomfortable. She smoked in the house until
Hermione complained about it, and then used Hermione’s favorite grubby
old garden shoes as ashtrays.
“They were on the back porch. I thought you meant to discard them,”
said Clara innocently after Hermione confronted her.
Then there was the prawn-and-vegetable soup Clara made on the one
night that week she decided to become Delia Smith. She assured Hermione
that there was no other shellfish other than prawns in it... Hermione on
occasion had experienced allergic reactions ranging from hives after eating
fried kalamari in Spain as a little girl to having to be hospitalized after

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 3. Evergreen
eating a delicious bowl of clam chowder while visiting Darice in Boston.
When she felt her face prickle after summer pudding and tea, it was
too late. A look in the mirror revealed a nasty rash the size of five-pence
pieces all over her face.
“I knew there were scallops in that soup!” said Hermione angrily,
bumpy face turning an unsightly red.
“Oh, dear,” said Clara, looking up at Ted with concerned eyes.
“Perhaps the prawns I purchased at the Covered Market this afternoon
were mixed with the rest of the catch at some point?”
Ted nodded. After he saw that Hermione’s allergic reaction wasn’t life
threatening, he downplayed the incident with a forced laugh.
“I’m sure Clara meant well, Hermione. No real harm done, is there?”
Hermione was too angry to say anything else. She lay in her bed later
that night, angry tears making her ointment-smeared cheeks sting as she
thought of all the myriad ways she could make Clara suffer. By the time
she drifted off to sleep, she decided that the bitch wasn’t worth the trouble.
Once she met with Hugh, she thought, she’d see if there were any rooms
available for members of the Fellows Common Room at Magdalen...
Perhaps coming back here was a mistake, Hermione thought as she
awoke on the morning before her birthday. Her thirty-second birthday.
Perhaps if she’d been living as a witch, she wouldn’t have thought that
sounded as bad as it did.
In the bathroom, she examined her face for any wrinkles and her hair
for any premature grey strands. Finding neither, she sighed, staring at her
reflection. In her estimation, she was neither a raving beauty nor a hideous
troll. Quite average she was, with fairly good cheekbones, an expressive
mouth, and dark brown eyebrows that slanted naturally upwards into twin
questioning arches.
Those were her better features. She also had horribly unmanageable,
unbelievably thick brown hair that she’d long ago decided was the color of
mud, boring eyes with unruly long lashes that had a tendency to tangle and
fall into her tearducts at the most inconvenient times, and a perennial
distrust of her magically straightened teeth. Overall, Hermione thought, it
was the sort of face whose pluses and minuses cancelled each other out and
rendered her quite plain.
Shaking herself out of it, she splashed water on her cheeks and began
to rub the sleep out of her eyes. She was to meet with Hugh during
elevenses and didn’t wish to be late.
Yet there was still some time before she had to walk to the bus stop or
the taxi stand. It was only six. Not bothering to dress just yet, Hermione

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Paradise Lost 1
went back into her bedroom.
It was a lovely boudoir indeed, Hermione and her mother having
refurbished it while she was living here prior to her marriage to Ron.
Hermione originally thought about trying a medieval “solar” theme with
colors and furnishings similar to the Gryffindor common room, but
Caroline had studied classics before becoming a dentist and was all for a
theme that would match her daughter’s name.
“How about a Greek key pattern running around the perimeter of the
room? A mosaic on that far wall? Marble and ivory for the furniture, white
mesh curtains for the canopy? With rugs and cushions here and there to
warm things up. We could even cover your Hogwarts chest, if you like...”
Hermione had laughed. “Mum, I’m a witch. I’ll Transfigure it into a
chest of alabaster if you like.”
That alabaster box was still there, edged with gold. With the cushions
placed over it, it appeared as a regular window seat. Hermione, since her
return, had pretended that was all it was. She didn’t want to think about
what was in it. Her textbooks and the tomes she couldn’t bear to part with
in the estate sale. Her old collapsible cauldron and deluxe senior-grade
Potions kit. A few of the robes she liked best. Her bridal robes... no.
She didn’t want to think about that.
There were also the jewels she and her friends had been given as part
of their VW2 award, wrapped in velvet... jewels that had been given to her
by default by the Confederation because she had been the girl... jewels that
she never wore because most of them were far too ostentatious for her
taste. She’d given most of them away to the various wizarding museums
and to charity, but had kept a few out of curiosity. Like the seventy-two
foot long strand of freshwater pearls from ancient Cipangu, and the
multifaceted Golden Diamond of Teohuatican, larger than a chicken egg.
Items that had been in her Gringotts vault until the divorce, they were now
secreted in the deepest reaches of her chest.
And that was just the tip of the iceberg. A magically-enhanced storage
vault could always hold much, much more than met the eye.
Yet even if she had wanted to open it, Hermione could not. The
sealing enchantment on it was so powerful that even she required a wand
to break it. And her wand was nowhere on her person... Malfoy had it in
his possession, to bring to her if and when she decided to break Fidelius
and rejoin that world.
Never.
Turning away from the alabaster window-seat, she went to the favorite
of her many bookshelves. This was the one that contained all of her

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 3. Evergreen
favorite childhood reads. The Secret Garden. The Hobbit. Anne of Green
Gables. The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. Jane Eyre. The
Borrowers. The Subtle Knife. Wuthering Heights. The Ruby in the Smoke.
Pride and Prejudice. Alice in Wonderland. The Famous Five. The Dark Is
Rising. Northern Lights. The Mists of Avalon. Wild Swans. Emerald House
Rising. Five Children and It. The Secret of the Old Mill. There were
literally hundreds of titles, now handled with care and regarded as old
friends... Hermione didn’t really have many playmates during her pre-
Hogwarts days, so her books had been her companions.
It also contained her one Muggle photo album. She drew it from the
shelf, sat down on her bed, and opened it. The album was chock-full of
pictures of her family in happier times.
In the front of the album were her baby pictures. Being an only child,
her parents wasted a considerable amount of film capturing her every
infantile action from sunrise to sunset. Her first bath, first crawl, and first
step were all preserved for posterity underneath adhesive plastic sheets.
As she turned the pages, Hermione watched herself grow up. There
was her fifth birthday party with all the neighborhood kids and the sugar-
free candy that made one of the smarter older girls ask if someone in the
house was diabetic. She explained her parents’ obsession with dental caries
and the girl thought she was even stranger.
Then there were her school pictures. Six of them – one for every year
until she disappeared from the Oxfordshire educational records altogether.
Reason for leaving? Attending an outcounty boarding school, her
paperwork said.
At the back of her album were the pictures Hermione treasured most
of all.
First, there was the picture of her mother and father on their wedding
day. September 1970. Her parents waited quite a long time to have children
– they were both in their middle thirties when she was born a decade to the
month of their wedding day. Now that she was thirtysomething herself,
Hermione wondered if that was why she didn’t have any brothers and
sisters. As a child, she’d always assumed it was because she was enough
for them to handle with their busy schedules. She never really minded
being an only child, though, having been the sort of little girl who
treasured her space to read, think, and dream.
Hermione lifted the plastic and touched the wedding photograph,
smiling at the way her dad was looking at her mum. Her father’s one soft
spot had been for her mother. Caroline Means had been the love of his
life... they’d known each other since university, where they were both

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training to be dentists. She helped to temper his black-and-white
worldview of absolutes... and had been instrumental in persuading him to
allow Hermione to attend Hogwarts.
Hermione looked at another picture of her father on the same page,
taken when he was around thirty years old. She knew that her father loved
her very much. But when it came to his only child – his little girl – Ted had
always been very regimented. He’d wanted to be a doctor, not a dentist,
and so that was what his daughter was going to be.
“If you go to this witch school, Hermione,” said Ted on that long-ago
day, looking first at McGonagall, then at his wife and daughter, “know that
my expectations for you have not changed. I’ll not have a daughter of mine
reading palms for a living.”
Minerva McGonagall had given him a disdainful look. “Sir, there is
much more to witchcraft and wizardry than that. Hermione will have her
pick of professions in the wizarding world, and I daresay many of them are
far more amenable to women than their Muggle counterparts...”
“There is no comparison between hocus-pocus and the hard sciences,
madam. I am not denying that my daughter is a witch... remember, I am
her father and have known her all her life, not just since yesterday. I will
allow her to have this witch training only if she still takes her GSCEs and
A-Levels and goes to Oxford when she’s done with this foolishness. That
is my final word.”
As she went through Hogwarts, her father’s ultimatum was always in
the back of her mind. She knew only her very best was good enough for
her father... he expected perfection. And in the end, Hermione came to
demand the same of herself.
School distanced her from her parents. It saddened her that she could
never give them a full, no-holds barred account of her Hogwarts
experience. She learned the hard way after first and second years. Her
parents were so electrified when they heard of the Forbidden Forest,
Fluffy, and everything that was under that trapdoor that Hermione was glad
that she hadn’t taken any pictures as they’d originally asked her to do.
When she was Petrified second year, Dumbledore wrote to her
parents. Hermione was sure that it was a hard decision to make, but in the
end, the old beloved Headmaster must have thought the Grangers and the
other Muggle parents had a right to know. Her father had wanted to pull
her out of Hogwarts, and it took the entire summer for Caroline to talk him
out of it.
After that, she told her parents everything about excelling in her
classes and absolutely nothing of her adventures with Ron and Harry or the

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trouble she managed to get into on her own. It was better that way, she
knew. And while she didn’t mind not telling her father things, it bothered
her that there was a part of her life that she couldn’t share with her mother.
Her last two years at Hogwarts were exceedingly horrific in that
regard. Between the Christmas holidays in 1997 and the Missing Week of
1998 – nearly a year and a half – she only saw her parents one time, at the
end of sixth year. She hadn’t been able to take the Hogwarts Express...
she’d had to Apparate into Oxfordshire without a license under cover of
Dumbledore’s strongest Stealth spells... and she’d had to lie.
I have to be away this summer... no, not a holiday... all my class is off
to India for a special summer course... yes, Ron and Harry and everyone
else are going as well... yes, it’s required by the school... no, I won’t be
able to see you before term begins again... yes, I will send word every so
often, but I may be too busy to write... yes, I’ll be all right... please trust
me... I’ll see you as soon as I can... I love you too... Daddy. Mummy...
good-bye.
“Are my parents under Death Eater surveillance?” Hermione asked of
Dumbledore the second she returned to Hogwarts.
“Your parents are being watched, yes. But our side is also watching
them. No harm will come to them.”
Her eyes had filled with tears that time, because as much as she loved
and trusted the old Headmaster, she didn’t quite believe him. And so he
held her fast with only his sparkling, wise eyes.
“Miss Granger, you cannot fight Voldemort if you are preoccupied
with your own parents’ welfare. The future of our world is at stake. Take
up your wand against evil for their sake if you must, but you alone cannot
protect them. I fear that we cannot do without you at this point... he cannot
do without you... which means that without you, we are all lost.”
It was a choice that she never had an opportunity to make freely. Even
if she had given in to the little voice that wanted to succumb to the anguish
in her parents’ eyes and stay – after all, I’m their only child! – the horror
would have shown up at her Muggle doorstep.
She’d been sixteen when she last saw her parents as a girl. When she
saw them again at eighteen, she was not only an adult, she was a different
person altogether. She had walked through the most forbidding of Shadow
Lands. She had mastered the Pattern, the three-dimensional pathway of
human physical, emotional, and spiritual sensations that Nephthys first
helped her to navigate. She had partaken in the same mystical Covenant
ritual that in ages past had destroyed Atlantis and Troy, founded Hogwarts,
severed the entire magical world from the Muggle, and irrevocably

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damaged the unholy mystical alliance between Hitler and Grindelwald. She
had given her body and her soul to one man and had her heart stolen by
another.
Yet even with all of this madness and wonder swirling inside of her,
she remained Ted Granger’s daughter. So she healed and researched in the
infirmary alongside Neville between classes, practiced complicated attack
hexes and defensive charms and maneuvers with Harry and Ron after
dinner, and studied Muggle chemistry and physics until her candle burned
out.
Hermione knew that her mother was very proud of her. But she never
was entirely sure if everything she’d done had been enough to please her
father. He’d wanted better A-Level results... he thought it a disgrace that
she finished Magdalen with seconds. Never mind that she was tied with
Neville for first in their Paracelsus class. Never mind that she’d been
attending two medical schools at once and planning a huge wedding at the
time.
She knew nothing short of perfection would be acceptable to her
father.
Hermione thought of all this as she looked at the pictures of her
parents. Then she reached the final page of the photo album.
She only had two pictures of her grandparents. One of them was of her
father’s father and mother, Hubert and Anna Granger from Lincolnshire.
Both were long dead by the time she was born. Hubert was thin and grey
while a riot of brown curls surrounded Anna’s round face. Both had been
career teachers and then heads of their respective schools before
retirement. Both also had mouths so humorless that Hermione understood
why her father often found laughter difficult, even painful.
As she’d told Devorah Holstein in the Time Before (she refused to
believe that the Texas case hadn’t happened), Hermione only had the
faintest of memories of her maternal grandmother Helena Vablatsky.
Smooth snow-white hair, a whiff of vanilla, a face that had been quite
lovely once. Baby-soft hands that stroked her forehead, and a sweet voice
telling tales of gallant knights and fair ladies, dragons and dragonslayers,
shadowy ringwraiths and legends of valor.
“I don’t like Baba Yaga, Grandmother Helen,” said tiny Hermione
with a yawn. She couldn’t have been more than four at the time. “Oh,
I wish I could be a witch... I’d do good. Not bad like her.”
Grandmother Helen’s lips met her plump cheek. “Perhaps you’ll get
your wish. If you wish hard enough...”
Her grandmother died the summer before her fifth birthday. Hermione

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remembered sitting with her parents at Grandmother’s bedside as they
waited for the inevitable. And even as young as she was, she felt lost... as if
there were things that her grandmother intended to say to her and didn’t.
After she got her Hogwarts letter in July 1991, the precious parchment
that confirmed that yes, she could see fairies in her garden and there were
indeed ghosts in the Bodleian, she asked her mother something she’d
wondered all her life.
“Mum, was Grandmum a witch?”
Caroline sighed. Talking about Grandmother Helen always made her
sad, but Hermione felt as if she had to know this. For her own sanity.
“I don’t think she was. But you know, I’ve often wondered about my
father. She was very young when she fled Russia and ended up in
Edinburgh. Edward Means was a dashing man, they say... and Mother
loved him shamelessly... but he died in the War before they could marry.”
“Is that why Grandmother gave you your father’s last name?”
“It is why, although she was called Mrs. Means in our village. She
was able to collect his pension. She had a marriage license produced
somehow, and lived as his widow until she died.”
The picture of Helena that Hermione had was a black-and-white
snapshot taken in the late thirties, just before she left old Russia. She had
indeed been a exceedingly pretty woman in her day... any physical virtues
that Caroline and Hermione had were obviously inherited from her,
although neither her daughter nor her granddaughter could hold a candle to
Helena.
“Do you have any pictures of your father, Mum?”
“That I do not. The only one was in Mum’s possession... it was on our
mantelpiece for years. I don’t know what happened to it. I remember being
a bit frightened of it because when I was a little girl, I thought it... it
moved.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Wasn’t that silly of me?”
So for her first few years in the wizarding world, Hermione searched
for evidence of her grandfather and grandmother in wizarding records. She
never found anything of a Edward Means or the Vablatsky family,
although her grandmother shared a last name with the famous author of the
text Unfogging the Future. Hermione had to chalk it all up to a strange
coincidence.
“Perhaps your magic comes from further back, Hermione,” Ginny had
told her once when she accompanied Hermione to the Ministry to request
records. It was shortly after she’d married Ron and they were talking about
having children. “There are Muggleborns who have traced their lineage
back sixteen generations and not found evidence of a wizard or a witch

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anywhere.”
“But you don’t understand, Ginny... there was something about my
grandmother Helen that just makes me wonder. I’m sure she was at least an
empath, if not a hyperempath... did I tell you about the time I fell out of a
tree and my parents thought both my legs were broken? Grandmother was
visiting... she put her hands on them and they were better than new. And
my mother’s story about her father’s picture... what of that?”
“Well, maybe a wizard or witch took his picture by accident or for
some purpose and your grandmother found it. Sometimes the Ministry
slips up, you know that.”
“I can’t shake the feeling, though, Gin. My mother’s always been so...
she’s not magical but what we usually call a ‘sensitive Muggle’. She
always knew deep down I was a witch, she says. I really believe that my
grandfather was a wizard and that he died fighting Grindelwald, not Hitler.
And I can’t help but wonder if Grandmother was a Squib at the very least,
if not a witch herself.”
Years later, Hermione looked at the picture, at her grandmother’s
secret smile. What are you thinking, Helena Vablatsky?
But Grandmother Helen was silent as always.
Sighing, Hermione closed the album and readied herself for the
journey to the city centre and the College.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012 – 10:00 a.m., GMT

Oxford, England.
Hermione alighted from the Park and Ride coach in Carfax Abbey
amidst the usual midmorning bustle of the High Street. She loved the
international university town atmosphere of Oxford and thought it a
wonderful place to call home. Even after traveling extensively, Oxford was
still her third favorite Muggle place in the entire United Kingdom after
Greater London and Glasgow.
Of course, she thought, none of these held a candle to the magical
Hogwarts vicinity or Diagon Alley or the famous witch-spas at Bath or her
absolute favorite spot in the whole magical world, the Portal Island of Ayr.
But since she wasn’t planning on visiting these any time soon, she could
appreciate her hometown at its full worth.
Her first stop was the post office in St. Aldate’s, as she wanted to send
a letter to Darice in Boston and had forgot to post it while still in
Headington. She had to rant about her father’s new girlfriend to someone,
but she didn’t dare use the phone with all of Clara’s snooping about. Clara

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would only whine to her father.
After leaving the post office, she walked back up to the High Street to
grab a latte and a pastry at the nearest Starbucks. Perhaps people like her
were the reason why there were now four of those infernal McCoffee joints
in the City Centre, but with high prices at Caffe Nero and other places and
uncertain hygienic standards at some of the other establishments Hermione
didn’t much care about patronizing an evil American opportunist
corporation.
She wanted to run a couple of other errands, such as stopping in Boots
for a new mascara for her unruly lashes (the only cosmetic she used on a
daily basis) and perhaps some paracetamol or Nurofen... she was getting
such headaches lately! She also wanted to browse a bit at Blackwell’s, but
a glance at her watch revealed that her meeting with Hugh was only a few
minutes away. Hermione didn’t believe in being late.
So she walked to Magdalen, going back down St. Aldate’s and taking
the back road, past the Bear, past Christ Church College... where she ran
into one of the deans of the cathedral, the Rev. Mr. Smith, who was also a
friend of her parents’. After chatting with him briefly (the conversation
was all of thirty seconds) and making her excuses, she continued up the
road past Corpus Christi and Merton Colleges, looking through the gate
longingly at the gardens and the lovely Christ Church meadow. She vowed
that the very next morning she’d take a walk beside the Isis to celebrate her
birthday... something she loved to do between Hogwarts terms to clear her
head, especially during the war.
She hurried on and before she knew it was in the familiar vicinity of
Magdalen College, where she’d read medicine for five years. Compared to
the rigor of her three-year Paracelsus mediwizarding study, the work at
Oxford had seemed fairly easy. Then again, studying magic was infinitely
more difficult than Muggle letters, arts and sciences simply because there
was so much more to know about magic. Wizards and witches never really
experienced a counterpart to the Muggle Dark Age at all and so kept on
accumulating more knowledge for posterity.
Still, Hermione respected her Oxford tutors a great deal and bore an
special love for Magdalen College, which she chose simply because in her
eyes it was the loveliest. It was also renowned throughout the world for its
research contributions to science and medicine. Of course, the fact that her
parents were both old members of Magdalen and her father still lectured
there on occasion had helped matters; she knew it would please them if she
went there. So she kept her promise to her father and sat for all of her
practical exams, then for her GSCEs and A-Levels in the natural sciences

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in her fifth and seventh years at Hogwarts, respectively, in McGonagall’s
office.
“You’re mad,” said Ron to her over lunch at Hogsmeade one
afternoon towards the end of sixth year. “The professors are already bad
enough with their business-as-usual attitude... we’re in the midst of
fighting a bloody war and they actually expect us to sweat over our
NEWTs next year. Don’t you feel like your head’s about to explode?”
“Oh, never that. I learned my lesson third year with the Time-Turner
incident. I know my limits. Besides, this is all very easy... there are more
connections between, say Chemistry and Potions, than one would think.
And Herbology and Biology. And Transfiguration and Physics. Everything
connects.”
As she walked up the long staircase towards Hugh Turner’s office, she
thought about that. What she’d told Ron so long ago remained true... in her
mind, even the most abstract concepts always seemed to make sense once
she related it to something else she already knew.
Hermione no longer thought that her intellect made her special. She
chalked up her supposed intelligence to her father’s whip-cracking
ambition for her, her mother’s constant assurances that she could do
anything that she put her mind to, and the natural sensitivity that came with
being a hyperempath. Which is why, in retrospect, she hadn’t been the best
teacher in the world for Harry’s students... she just knew things intuitively
and sometimes grew impatient with the kids when they did not.
Hugh Turner was the opposite, and ultimately, the role model of what
she wanted to become. Infinitely patient and kind, he could explain
molecular genetics to a cockroach. He was the Muggle answer to Remus
Lupin.
I don’t think I want to practice medicine forever, thought Hermione.
I’d like to teach others how to do what I love doing some day. Perhaps at
Oxford, perhaps at Paracelsus. And perhaps someday I’ll be able to
revamp the Muggle Studies curriculum at Hogwarts to what it could be... a
course authored not with disdain for Muggle scholarship, but with
understanding and appreciation for it... showing all the apparent
connections between science and magic. I could teach and continue my
own research into biomagical origins... finding out what makes us different
in the first place.
Now, it’s not like the idea isn’t feasible. When Hogwarts wasn’t
willing to make a reasonable offer, I proposed the course to Sirius and
Harry for the Dumbledore School. Harry seemed interested in giving it a
try, but Sirius told me that I was already doing too much and that I didn’t

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see enough of my husband as it was. My husband? Ha! By that time, he
was already shagging that tart. But I’m sure Sirius was thinking only of
himself... about the stunt he and Harry and Remus pulled, and was trying
desperately hard to cover his tracks. Didn’t want any guilty confessions
from his godson, did he?
Her fingers trailed along the banister as she walked. I never thought
I’d live to see the day that I absolutely hated Sirius. Or Remus. And
I especially never expected to hate Harry. Not after loving him so.
Yes, I admit that much freely. I did love him. Certainly I’ve never
worried over anyone else a fraction as much as I worried over Harry. One
of the memories that will remain with me from my school days forever is
the feeling of perpetually waiting for Damocles’ sword to drop... waiting
for Harry not to show up at breakfast some morning and Dumbledore
solemnly announcing his death. Truth be told, that was another reason why
I hated that Trelawney woman so much. She was always voicing my worst
fear and I simply could not remain in that course...
Was I ever in love with him?
That’s what Jack wanted to know. I’m sure he’s not the only one
who’s wondered that... I’m sure there were those who wondered in our
world. But upon reflection, I’m certain that I did answer Jack truthfully.
I simply don’t know.
Loving someone and being in love with them are two vastly different
things. Sometimes when I am feeling particularly weak and lonely, I find
myself believing that perhaps I was indeed head over heels when it came to
Harry... once. And not only that, but desperately in love with him, the way
that I should have loved my husband and always felt guilty because
I didn’t... couldn’t.
Of course, what Ron and I had was real at one point. At his best Ron
made me feel warm and comfortable and cherished, even when we were in
the midst of a blazing row... that simple homespun warmth is the
foundation for plenty of marriages that last forever...
I suppose in the end it wasn’t enough for us, though.
Watching him with that Ludlam woman in the Place of Echoes and at
the wedding was a unique form of torture. Maddeningly, I kept thinking
that Ron never looked at me like that, Ron never kissed me like that, Ron
never held me like that. As much as I wanted to tell myself that she was just
the most convenient pretty face around at the time, that their interaction
was nothing but lust, I knew I was lying to myself. She’d had his child...
that little boy meant the world to Ron, and so did she. How could she have
stolen his heart in such a short time? What happened to the old adage that

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love takes time to grow?
As for me... well, I must be honest. Ron never caused my heart and my
breath and my mind to come to a screeching halt. Total systems shutdown
is what Lisa calls it, and watching her with Malcolm, I am sure she’s one
witch who knows what she’s talking about.
And sometimes I wonder if Harry ever...
No!
No indeed. The other part tells me that I couldn’t have possibly been
in love with someone who did such a horrible thing to me. Ever. In a way,
what he did was worse than what Ron did. Much worse.
It’s like Nephthys always used to imply. Hyperempaths are good at
knowing what everyone else around is feeling in the marketplace of life,
but have this unhealthy tendency to disregard what’s going on in their own
jar of clay.
But I know this much is true. All things considered, I don’t think I’ve
ever been in love. And – sad to say – I’m not so sure that any man has ever
truly loved me.
She came to Hugh’s office door and knocked. A young woman with a
cheerful air opened it.
“Yes, how may I help you?”
“I’m here to see Dr. Hugh Turner. Is he in yet?”
The young woman shook her head. “No, he isn’t. Were you expecting
to speak with him?”
“Yes, I was. Wasn’t I on his schedule for today? Oh, bother... perhaps
I ought to introduce myself properly. I’m Hermione Granger, an
epidemiologist with the Center for Disease Control. Also a former pupil of
Hugh’s here at Magdalen...”
“Ah! Brilliant! What year and department?”
“‘03, clinical medicine. Anyway, he’s wanting me to head up a team
of visiting scientists at the new TID research facility in Manaus. I was
supposed to talk over training modules with him today... we want to offer
seminars for the scientists and interns who will be accompanying us.’”
“Sorry, he’s not yet back from holiday,” said the girl. “Are you sure
that he specified the eighteenth?”
Hermione pulled out her Charlotte, frowning. “Yes, I have it here on
my calendar. Strange... it’s unlike Hugh to miss an appointment.”
“Well, first time for everything, right? Would you like some coffee or
tea?”
“No, thank you. Have you any idea on how to reach Hugh?”
The girl nodded. “If you like, I can phone him at home and you can

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leave a voice message. But as he’s in Greece until the twenty-third, I’m not
sure that he’s checking every day...”
“I have his number at home,” said Hermione. “Thanks, I’ll give him a
ring later.”
Hermione walked out of college annoyed. She couldn’t believe that
Hugh had not called to inform her that he’d chosen to extend his holiday.
Now she was stuck with her father and Clara until the end of the month at
least, and by then term would be starting again and the College would be at
full occupancy.
She wandered about the City Centre for another hour aimlessly, not
going into any of the shops or seeing any of the people. Feeling as if she
was stuck in an odd limbo... Hermione Granger was unused to having
nothing on her agenda, and it was driving her insane.
The Haagen-Dazs parlor loomed ahead. As the day was becoming
unseasonably warm – the high was a balmy twenty-one degrees –
Hermione decided to stop in for a vanilla ice cream.
It was just the way she liked it. Double scoop, no toppings, with a
little hot fudge dripping down the insides of the waffle cone. Leaning
against one of the tables, she flipped through the pages of the previous
day’s Guardian that someone had left behind. The fact that she’d already
read it didn’t bother her in the slightest.
Feeling eyes on her, she looked up. A man around her own age
seemed fascinated with watching her lap at the cone. Nothing about him
screamed “creep” though... he was blond and turquoise-eyed and well-
groomed and gorgeous and...
Oh, bloody hell! He’s the customs agent from the airport!
That was the first odd realization that hit her. The second and more
disturbing revelation was that the customs agent had looked uncannily like
the man whom she’d smiled and winked at in Atlanta’s Palladium six
weeks before.
There was only one explanation for the strange coincidences.
She was being followed.
Hermione blinked... and he disappeared. But the back of her neck
prickled. She whirled around and there he was, sitting three tables behind
her. However did he move so fast? she wondered. He was still staring,
smile curving his mouth into a tight bow and revealing even and stunningly
white teeth. There was nothing overly sinister about the smile. And nothing
invitational about it, either.
No. It was a knowing smile. An “I know something that you don’t
know” smile.

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Nothing could have been more horrific to Hermione. She dropped the
paper, stood up, and rushed out of the ice cream shop. Only one thought
was on her mind:
I’ve got to get the hell out of Oxford... right now.
Where to go? She rushed up the street, wondering how much train fare
to Salisbury would be... there was an old Magdalen schoolmate who lived
there with his live-in girlfriend and her daughter from a previous marriage.
Hermione was still in infrequent touch with John Wimbley only because he
was one of the few Muggles who’d never met even Ron.
But she couldn’t drop by unannounced on a weekday... could she?
Then the Oxford tube passed by, stops emblazoned on the tinted
windows: Hillingdon. Shepherds Bush. Notting Hill Gate. Marble Arch.
Victoria Bus Station.
London.
She wondered why she didn’t think of it before. Not only could she
perhaps shake the irrational feeling of being stalked, it was impossible to
be bored in the city.
The only problem with London was the number of people that she was
trying to avoid who lived and worked there. If she ran into any one of
them...
And that’s when the two sides of herself began to argue. Hermione
knew them very well. The doctor-scientist within her ruled her mind and
conscience. The witch-hyperempath ruled her heart and spirit and soul.
And they were constantly at war with one another.
Come, Hermione, what are you afraid of? Even if you were to run
smack into Diagon Alley, it isn’t like anyone would be able to see you.
They’d walk right past you and you’d be none of the worse for wear...
I don’t think I’m ready for this yet. That’s all.
Damned if I’m going to hide anymore. You can stay here and crawl
under your bed if you want to. Me, I’m off to London.
Oh, well then. I suppose if I stick to the most Muggle of places there’s
nothing to be concerned about.. South Bank... that pub in Victoria I like...
perhaps a show in the West End... theatres are always dark and crowded.
Nice and anonymous...
Having made her decision, Hermione made her way to Gloucester
Green and the waiting coaches.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012 – 1:00 p.m., GMT

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London – Notting Hill Gate.
Hermione had spent most of her ride into London in a supremely odd
fashion for her: daydreaming without thinking of anything in particular. It
was easier to just take in the countryside alongside the M40, to reorient
herself to the fact that the coach was on the other side of the road.
She hadn’t tried driving since she’d got in from the States. The
monster Ford Excursion she’d left with Jack would dwarf even some of the
smaller lorries here. Idly, she wondered what had happened to the
Volkswagen she’d sold off in the post-divorce estate sale. For that matter,
she wondered whether or not her broom’s new owner had treated the poor
thing well... not that she’d never used it much...
That’s it! The next time you think about magical objects, creatures,
spells, or people I am going to...
I’m sorry, I can’t help it.
Sigh.
I’ve not done the Muggle thing over the past three years very well,
have I?
No, you haven’t. But I suppose it’s understandable, which is why
I warned against this running away stunt in the first place.
What?
You may be Muggleborn, Hermione, but you are not a Muggle. You
may be overly analytical and practical and stubborn as even the most
Muggle of technogeeks, but you are a witch down to your very fingertips.
One of the most talented witches of your generation. And you’ll always be
unhappy if you keep denying that part of yourself. Not to mention
schizophrenic. Although you’re tripping down that road quite merrily
now...
Oh, shut it! And thanks for nothing.
Hermione let out a sound of frustration, clamping her palms over her
cheeks and pressing her fingers into her temples. Great. On top of all her
other problems, she was nearly certifiable.
She was so preoccupied with her pity party that she nearly missed her
desired stop. Rushing up the aisle and down the stairs, she hopped off the
coach and found herself in Notting Hill Gate.
Although the famous antiques market was on Sundays, Hermione
loved visiting the shops along Portobello Road even throughout the week.
It had been a form of catharsis during the final dismal days of her marriage,
as the Portobello shops were the one Muggle area in the city where she
could lose all sense of time. “Closest thing the Muggles have to Diagon
Alley” was what Arthur Weasley always said, and Hermione understood

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the sentiment. It wasn’t that you could stock up on snail’s tails or anything
useful there; rather, it was the glorious dust-and-must ambiance of the
place.
She’d been gifted with her mother’s eye for the antiques and a healthy
affection for the classic yet unique and elegant... Hermione’s home in
Chelsea had been many things, but avant garde was not one of them. Her
recalcitrant streak made for an excellent haggler as well. So she walked in
and out of the shops, wandering first over to an art deco statue, examining
it for damage and trying to place the period and probable value, then to a
fine Victorian porcelain vase.
This worked to clear her mind for a while. But in spite of herself, she
began to remember another visit to this selfsame place at another time,
with different people surrounding her...
“Dad, we’ve been walking around here all day,” complained Ron,
running frustrated fingers through bright red hair. “How about a bite to
eat?”
“How about you get lost?” said eighteen-year old Fred testily,
looking up from the cuckoo clock he’d been examining alongside his twin
for their new Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes showroom. “You’re making my
head hurt.”
Hermione saw Ron’s glare and intervened. “I’m a bit hungry myself,”
she said. “Mr. Weasley, would you mind if we found a café? You could
meet us there once you’re done shopping.”
“At least someone cares whether or not I drop,” glared Ron at Fred’s
head. “Dad, what do you say? Dad? DAD?”
Mr. Weasley looked up from the exotic Persian lamp he was
examining with a start. “Wha... what was that, son?” Ron, with extreme
patience, explained his plight to his father and named the Red Lion Café as
their destination. “Certainly you can. We’ll be along shortly... hmm... this
can’t be enchanted, surely the Muggles would have noticed by now...”
Arthur Weasley’s attention was once again diverted to the dusty lamp.
“Freedom at last,” said Ron once they were out of earshot. “I’ve
wanted to be alone with you all day...”
He reached down, took her hand in his, and soon they were walking
very closely side by side. She blushed and tried to change the subject.
“Can there be such a thing? Seems like only yesterday that the
Scourge ended. Your father’s right. Things are too quiet. In more ways
than one.” She looked up at him questioningly. “Have you heard from
Harry? I’ve had no word from him since we left school – he disappeared
after the Leaving Feast – and he wasn’t on the Hogwarts Express with us

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last week...”
Ron cut her off. “Well, you know he’s always with the Muggles during
the summer...”
“He wasn’t with them last summer, you know that. And if he was
really going to the Dursleys, then why didn’t he come home with us on the
train? Ron, I’m worried about him...”
“You’re always worried about something, Hermione.”
“I am not! I just think ahead.”
“That’s the problem, you think too much.” Ron didn’t want to admit
his own concern, although it was written all over his face, belying his
words. “He’s going to meet up with Sirius and some of the others in what
they’ve been calling ‘the old crowd’, that’s all. He’ll likely be back with
the Muggles in no time.”
“Are you certain? Oh, Ron, I’m not sure everything is all right.
Remember those strange-looking Egyptian wizards who were sitting at the
high table at the Leaving Feast? That cloaked man with the blue crescent-
and-star tattooes on his hands and face kept staring at you. And that
woman with him... she didn’t take those creepy purple eyes of hers off me,
once. Wasn’t it eerie?”
Ron stepped in front of her and grabbed her other hand. They stopped
in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing other shoppers in the crowded
sidewalk market to step around them.
“Can we not talk about this right now?”
“Tell me,” she said, very quietly, “what are your father and brothers
looking for here? I know Dumbledore sent them...”
“Yeah. He sent them and not us. So why are we wasting time thinking
about it?”
“Ron, please... how can you just dismiss my concerns when you know
I’m right?”
He looked at her. Then he drew her close to him in a tight, impulsive
hug. The behavior was so unlike Ron that it surprised her. What he said
next as he bent down and their foreheads touched surprised her even more.
“Do me a favor,” he whispered. “Let’s pretend just for this afternoon
that we don’t know anything about the Scourge or Death Eaters or
Wormtail or Voldemort, okay? Let’s not think about what happened last
week or yesterday or what’s waiting for us tomorrow or two weeks from
now... let’s just be two teenagers, grabbing a bite to eat.”
Hermione looked up into his steady blue eyes, filled with affection. An
uneasy smile played about his lips. Temporarily she felt the ever-present
knot in her stomach begin to unwind... and then she felt Ron’s arms

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encircle her waist and pull her close...
She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes. Ron was right.
Perhaps she did worry too much... perhaps another miracle would occur...
perhaps the war would come no closer to them.

Hermione opened her eyes on the crowded street and let out a
shudder. How naïve she’d been at fifteen. Not only had the war come
closer to her, it had almost killed her two years later. She bit her lip,
remembering Ron curled into a fetal position on the red-orange mud floor
of a hut in the middle of Tartarus, screaming at the top of his lungs as the
Dark Lord himself gouged his “third eye” out... remembered seeing
Harry’s heart beating beneath his ribs as he tried to lift his wand again, all
his pale, nearly translucent skin having been cruelly hexed away from his
abdomen and face...
She remembered the peppery rancid smell of Lucius Malfoy’s breath
hovering inches away from her face as someone jerked her head
backwards, someone else lacerating her robes and skin with a bone knife,
and Malfoy’s cruel hands closing around her throat.
Scream for me, you filthy little Mudblood...
No more.
She had to focus on the here and now. Not on the events of the past.
Not on the nightmares that still haunted her.
Hermione walked on, slightly disoriented. In fact, she was so
disoriented that she ran into the man in front of her, knocking the London
Daily Telegraph out of his hand.
“Sorry,” she murmured, bending down to pick up the paper.
“Not a problem,” said the man in a neutral inflection that Hermione
immediately recognized even before she looked full into his face.
Heath.
Hermione’s first instinct was to run. She felt extremely uncomfortable
around this man and she didn’t quite understand why. Perhaps this was
because of the other two irrational urges she got whenever he was around...
to either put his eyes out or shag him senseless. Indifference didn’t seem to
enter into the equation.
His broad smile froze her to the spot.
“We meet again, doc,” said Heath, low. “And how have the past six
weeks been for you?”
“Go to hell,” she spat under her breath.
“Just came from there... have no intentions of heading back until I get
what I surfaced here for.” His voice softened as he reached out a hand and

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touched the side of her face. “And until I complete my mission.”
Hermione jerked away for dear life, keeping her jaw set.
“So tell me, when exactly am I scheduled to die during this little
mission of yours?”
Heath threw back his head and laughed. “Die? Who said anything
about death? You’re worth more to us alive than dead. Which is why we’re
playing this little cat and mouse game.”
She narrowed her eyes and took a step forward again. “You had better
have your wits about you, then. I’ve crossed wands with far better than you
in my day.” Yeah, like your wand is anywhere in Greater London. Nice
going, Hermione.
“Have you really? Well, speaking of days... which day of the week is
it, then?”
With wide eyes, she looked down at her watch. The day switch no
longer read Tuesday.
According to her watch, it was now Wednesday.
“Happy birthday, doc,” grinned Heath.
“It is not,” sniffed Hermione. “That’s a cheap trick. Anyone can do the
same with magnets and enough concentration. Really, I must say that I’m
unimpressed... Wednesday indeed.”
“Don’t believe me? Ask around, then.”
She didn’t have to. They were just coming to a newsagents, and the
headlines of every major daily confirmed the sinking feeling in Hermione’s
gut.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012.
She looked around with alarm. Portobello Road was the same and yet
very different in the subtle but profound way that city streets can change
from day to day. The sky was slightly different as well... there was not a
cloud in a sky, when a moment ago it had been becoming slightly
overcast...
“You!” exclaimed Hermione. “You’ve been changing the time! But
how? No one can do that!”
Heath shrugged. “Hey, what can I say? When you’ve got it, you just
got it.”
“Change it back!” she screamed, charging straight for him. But
instead of knocking the man to the ground, she ended up simply sprawled
on the crowded sidewalk herself. Causing a bit of a commotion... so much
for the plan to remain incognito, she thought, self-frustration at its peak.
A burly furniture dealer pulled her back up to her feet, and his partner
looked into her face with concern. “Miss, are you all right?”

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“What day of the week is it?” asked Hermione, ignoring the dull
throbbing in her hip... she could deal with the bruising later.
The dealers exchanged incredulous looks. “Why, miss, it’s... it’s
Tuesday.”
Her head jerked around as she stood up. First she took in the
newspapers... the cover stories were back to normal, and she was sure the
dates were too. Heath was gone too, and Hermione swore that the next
time she laid eyes on him she would put his eyes out. Her life was topsy-
turvy enough without his interference.
She had come to the conclusion that Heath was neither sinister nor
good. Although she wasn’t sure about the blond man’s intentions, she felt
that if Heath had wanted to capture her he would have. Cat and mouse was
an overstatement... he was merely an annoyance and a distraction, like
Peeves had been. If he ever appeared again she would make short work of
both him and whoever sent him.
“Miss, again, are you all right?” asked the dealer who’d helped her to
her feet. “Did you hear what he said? It’s Tuesday.”
She nodded. And thanked the stars for it. Even though she wasn’t
expecting anything special, missing half of her birthday would have been
terrible indeed.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012 – 5:00 p.m., GMT

London – from Notting Hill Gate to Charing Cross Station and
Embankment.
Hermione spent the duration of the evening wandering about the West
End in no particular direction. When she was hungry, she stopped for a bag
of crisps or a biscuit. When she was thirsty, she stopped for a bottle of still
water. She wandered in and out of shops – clothing stores, booksellers,
chemists – never purchasing anything out of the ordinary.
She felt inexplicably restless. It was a Herculean task to keep her mind
focused in the moment. Either her thoughts ran backwards with memories
of walking down this selfsame road with those people, or they rushed
towards the future and what awaited her in Brazil... and back in the States.
Rather than end the life she’d built for herself in Georgia, she’d put it
on hold. Instead of selling her house, she let it to Kathy from Wayne’s lab
with a veiled warning about dropping gum on her hardwood floors. She
also took a formal leave of absence from the EIS, keeping a foot in the
door so she could return to the Center after her stint in Brazil was up.
She also didn’t formally break things off with Jack. Even when she

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knew she wasn’t in love with him. How could she tell the man that she had
dated him for all the wrong reasons? Or that she was welcoming the
position in South America so she wouldn’t have to think about men?
In fact, Hermione decided that now was as good a time as any to
really find out what it was like to be single. And celibate. Yes. She wanted
to concentrate on herself and her own healing... and she couldn’t do that
while being bothered with yet another bloke.
As if they could read her thoughts, the couple in front of her stopped
in their tracks, looked deep into each other’s eyes, and proceeded to engage
in a lengthy liplock. Hermione groaned and stepped around them, her
heavy Louis Vuitton handbag swinging to hit the woman’s hip with a dull
thump.
“Ouch!” exclaimed the woman against her lover’s lips. But Hermione
didn’t offer an apology. She was already halfway up the street.
Once she noticed the first couple, she began to notice others. Indeed, it
seemed as if the whole of London was filled with nothing but pairs... and it
irritated her. Not to mention made her feel more alone than she already felt,
if that were possible.
Before she knew it, she was in the rush-hour bustle of Trafalgar
Square, shoulder to shoulder with people rushing to and fro, speeding
towards tube and train stations. Rushing. Hermione had a sudden
epiphany... it was the first time that she’d ever walked through central
London without rushing herself.
So she took everything in, savoring the sights, sampling a spring roll
at one of the Thai restaurants across from the Square... until she found
herself at the head of Charing Cross Road.
The way to Diagon Alley...
Well, she certainly wasn’t going down that route. Muggles could see
her even if Squibs couldn’t, and the Ministry was being extremely liberal
with the issuance of MagiCards these days. Thank goodness that under
Fidelius, anyone other than Malfoy who was specifically looking for her
wouldn’t find her.
She decided to have a bite at the Shakespeare in Victoria... she’d not
had fish and chips since she’d returned home. The Shakespeare had the
best beer-battered haddock that she’d ever tasted. She could take the tube
from the Embankment to Victoria and from the Shakespeare get a coach
back to Oxford in Grosvenor Square...
The way to the Embankment was jammed solid with commuters,
rushing towards the tube station and back up the street to Charing Cross
station for their trains. Without thinking much about it, Hermione joined

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the bustle and descended into the tube station.
She arrived on the District/Circle line platform as soon as the train
whizzed up. In spite of the computerized voice admonishing riders to
“mind the gap”, Hermione’s shoe wedged between the unusually narrow
space between the train and the platform... and stuck there. At the same
time, she fell forward... for the second time that day. Her hands went
before her to break her fall... and her right wrist protested.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed hoarsely. “Wait, please...”
But the doors were closing... Hermione knew that they were supposed
to stop if there was an obstacle in the way, but the train doors did
malfunction sometimes... and her ankle...
Two pairs of hands grabbed her shoulders and with one great tug
pulled her into the train.
The normally jaded passengers seemed concerned. A couple gave up
their seats so that the two middle-aged men could elevate her fast-swelling
ankle, then remove her sock and trainer to evaluate the damage.
“There you are, miss... let’s see here... no bones broken, but you might
want to get it examined anyhow,” said the one man. His accent was
distinctly Irish, most likely Dublin... Hermione had been there quite a few
times on business and knew the inflection well. His sandy curls had a bit of
grey in them, and his blue eyes twinkled.
The other man seemed about the same age as his Irish friend. Tall and
Afro-Caribbean, he was not very dark. Something about his hair and eyes
suggested some sort of Mediterranean or Latin mixture. “Bit of a nasty fall
you took there,” he said. “Where are you heading? You’ll be needing some
help... can’t walk on that ankle, can you? Do you have a phone?”
Hermione nodded. She knew that to heal herself just then would cause
many eyebrows to rise. Damn. If she could just get away from the crowd
once she arrived at Victoria, she could take care of both hip and ankle and
make it home. Merlin only knew she didn’t want her father called... she
could just see the look on her face.
“So you do, then. Perhaps you’ll want to phone now?”
“I will once I get to my station, thanks,” she said, forcing what she
hoped looked like a smile of appreciation.
Just when she thought the situation couldn’t get any bleaker, the worst
case scenario occurred.
The sandy-haired Irishman had been looking at her strangely ever
since they helped her sit down. Hermione glanced up and became a bit
nervous. For he looked distinctly as if he was trying to place her.
The minute she spoke, his eyes widened.

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“You... you went to school with my boy, didn’t you?” he said,
lowering his voice.
It was Hermione’s turn for wide eyes. “Uh... oh, I...”
The black guy looked at his friend, then at her. His eyes widened too.
“Yes, you look familiar,” said the man. “Aren’t you married to a tall
redhead? You’re... you’re Helen...”
Hermione shook her head with alarm. For she now recognized them
both, from a few weddings, a few parties, at least one funeral... and a
couple of dozen sightings and encounters on Platform 9 ¾. They were
Muggles. They’d had MagiCards for over two decades.
And they also knew the very people she’d been trying to avoid!
“No,” she laughed uneasily. “I’m sure you’ve mistaken me for
someone else... I’m...”
But there was no fooling the Irishman.
“Bless my soul, you’re Hermione Granger!” he said. “Patrick
Finnegan, Seamus’ father... and this is Daniel Thomas. We’re off to
Chelsea for a dinner party... Danny’s Dean and his Eleanor are celebrating
their third wedding anniversary. Is that where you’re headed as well?”
Danny Thomas seemed tickled by the coincidence. “Long time no see,
my dear! I’m sure we can get a cab from the station and have you at Dean
and Nell’s in no time flat.”
Hermione could find no words to speak. She didn’t have her wand...
she couldn’t Obliviate them... she couldn’t run or hide or...
Damn, damn, damn!
“Actually, I need to get home to change first,” said Hermione quickly,
eyeing the current stop. They were speeding out of St. Pancras and would
be in Victoria at any moment. “Tell everyone I said hello and not to wait
for me.”
“It’s really no trouble...”
“No, I’m quite all right... really I am... thanks for your concern...”
The train whizzed up to the Victoria platform. Hermione stood up
quickly, ignoring the sharp pain shooting up and down the length of her
leg.
“Hermione, dear girl, you’re hurt,” said Mr. Finnegan. “Even if you
think you can handle the walk to the coach station, you’ll pay for it later...”
“Remember, I can take care of myself just as well as anyone at that
dinner party can,” said Hermione, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
“Really, I’ll be fine... and thanks for all your help.”
Mr. Thomas shook his head. “Be careful, then.”
“Certainly,” she said. As she limped off onto the platform, her final

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statement to the two men was a lie.
“Nice seeing you two again.”

Tuesday, September 18, 2012 – 8:15 p.m., GMT

Back home to Headington.
Hermione did only two things on the Oxford tube home: mend her
ankle, wrist and hip, and play “what if”. At first, she tried to tell herself
that the chances of either Mr. Thomas or Mr. Finnegan telling the others
about meeting her on the Underground were slim to none.
Then she tried to tell herself that any wizards who were there would
think the two middle-aged Muggles were both insane. Why would they
believe she’d be riding the Underground after all this time? She wasn’t
sure if she’d been reported missing to the Ministry or not, or if anyone had
bothered looking for her. She hadn’t much cared at the time she left... now
the information was vital.
At any rate, she was now only one fireplace message or owl away
from all the witches and wizards she knew being notified that she was in
England somewhere. Of course, if they were looking for her, they couldn’t
find her... but then again, Dean and Seamus’ dads hadn’t exactly been
looking for her either.
She thought about not going home, of heading to Heathrow and
hopping on the next plane to Outer Mongolia. Or somewhere where no one
could find her...
Why were you Sorted into Gryffindor, then? Do you run away from
your problems, or do you face them head on? I expected more from you
than this, beautiful...
As if someone had audibly spoken to her, Hermione clapped her hands
over her ears. She didn’t want to think about seeing him face to face. Not
after the way she’d left.
Then she recalled something she’d said long ago in Tartarus, on what
she’d thought would be the last night of her life.
What do you mean, don’t be afraid? Of course it’s all right to be
afraid sometimes! Without fear, there is no real courage and no heroism
either. Yes, fear is nothing to embrace... but even in this hellish place, we
cannot let our fears overcome us. They know our hearts and minds... yes,
and they are trying to make us lose heart... they want us to flee in fright so
that they can hunt us down like dogs and kill us. That’s why we must stand
our ground, and remember... remember what Hagrid told us... we have to
meet whatever comes with the best that we’ve got... and indeed, whenever

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it comes.
So Hermione bravely hopped off at the Headington Shops stop,
paying no attention to the driver’s amazed stare at her miraculous recovery
after limping painfully onto the coach a mere hour or so before. Ten
minutes later, she could see the distinctive life-sized plastic shark sticking
out of the roof of the house that was up the road and around the bend from
hers. Rolling her eyes, she wondered for the millionth time why her parents
had chosen to remain in their starter home for forty years...
And then as she rounded the bend that led to the lane her childhood
home was situated on, Hermione had little chance to wonder about
anything else other than the strange sight that greeted her.
For the waning evening sunlight revealed her home... and what
appeared to be a flock, no, a veritable swarm of owls flying to and from it.
Stop panicking. No one magical can find you under Fidelius that you
don’t wish to see. No one can find you unless they aren’t looking for you
and have no ill intent...
Hermione fought the urge to run in the other direction. She took a
deep breath and walked straight up the drive to her home as if everything
was normal.
Her father greeted her at the door, a curious look on his face.
“There’s a few people here to see you,” he said slowly, studying her
face. “And by the way, you’ve got mail.”
This seemed to be the understatement of the year. She not only had
mail, she seemed to have an avalanche of it. It was all swept to one side of
the vestibule... owls of every shape and size.
“There’s more in your bedroom,” said her father. “I’ll carry this latest
batch up.”
“Where is Clara?” asked Hermione, remembering that Clara did not
have a MagiCard and likely had no idea that her lover’s daughter was a
witch.
“Off visiting her mother,” replied her father. “You’ll want to do
whatever’s necessary to stop this up before she returns, although I expect
she won’t be back before the morning. Now, go on and greet your guests...
there’s a girl.”
Hermione watched her father tramp up the stairs, a sheetful of letters
slung over his back. Then she walked out into the living room.
Draco Malfoy was sitting there in her father’s favorite easy chair,
looking so much as Hermione remembered him that she suffered a sudden
moment of wondering if he was real. Upon second glance, she revised her
opinion... he appeared a bit older than her memory, his cheeks slightly

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more rugged. He was dressed in a black woollen roll-neck jumper and a
pair of black canvas trousers. His legs were crossed, showing mid-calf
boots underneath the hem.
He wasn’t looking at the doorway at all. Instead he seemed entranced,
completely preoccupied with watching a very familiar-looking redhaired
woman turn the pages of a pop-up book for a tiny tot that Hermione did not
know, an impeccably dressed little girl-babe with strawberry blonde hair,
pale skin as translucent as milk, and starry grey eyes.
“Ginny, is that your... daughter ?” asked a shocked Hermione, rushing
forward to greet her. But Ginny made no sign of having heard her, even
after Hermione repeated the question. She stopped in her tracks.
“She can’t hear you,” Draco said. “But she knows that you’re here.”
She turned to face him and his eyes left his wife and child for a
moment to face her. A slow smile curved her lips as his eyes appraised his
old friend in a purely aesthetic manner.
“There’s obviously something to be said for sabbaticals in the Muggle
world, Granger.”
Hermione blushed. “And marriage too, from the looks of you. I’d say
more, but I trust you don’t need to hear it from me.”
“Oh, I never tire of hearing my virtues expounded upon,” Draco
replied, grey gaze returning to his wife. “That’s why I married her.”
Following his eyes, she sat down on the sofa opposite oblivious
Ginny... but the child glanced up in her direction. Where Draco was
virtually unchanged from when she saw him last – on the morning of the
spellcasting – Hermione could tell that there was something very different
about Ginny. Her very aura seemed calmer and more settled... and there
was a maturity and depth to it that Hermione had never noticed before.
The girl had been lovely, but judging from appearances the woman
Ginny Malfoy had become was divine.
“Who else knows I’m back?”
“Practically everyone. The Ministry, the media outlets, and all of the
wartime Hogwarts set. Expect a mention on page one of tomorrow’s
Prophet... and I do believe the postmaster has sent all of your owls that
have been accumulating for the past three years.”
“Damn it, hasn’t that old warlock ever heard of a ‘Return to Sender’
stamp?”
“Apparently not,” said Draco. “From what I understand, the
announcement that Finnegan and Thomas’ fathers made at the dinner
caused quite the stir. Owls, fireplace messages, and Incredimail went out
immediately... come, Granger, you couldn’t have thought that you were

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just going to slip back into our world unnoticed.”
Hermione rested her chin in cupped hands. “I had hoped.”
“You’ll find that your affairs have been well taken care of in your
absence. I’ve hired a family of house-elves to manage your Gringotts
account, tend your home, and file the stealth owls that were sent to your
Chelsea address...”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure...”
“I’ll owl you the bills by week’s end,” he said. At her raised
eyebrows, he replied, “After all, you’re the one who pushed for
unionization in the first place. That meant I had to pay benefits on top of
their salaries. You do believe they ought to be paid a fair wage, don’t
you?”
“Yes... well, I...”
“And since I consider you a friend, Granger, I’ll only ask five percent
interest on the principal,” he said magnanimously. “There isn’t a wizarding
bank in all of Europe that’ll give you a rate like that.”
Hermione folded her arms. “If you’re quite done expounding upon
exactly how you plan to make a profit from my absence, Malfoy, I’d like to
know if you have my wand.”
Draco looked at her strangely. “You don’t have it?”
“No, I left it with you. After the charm was cast...”
“We used Gin’s wand to cast, or don’t you remember? You didn’t
have yours and you said you were in a hurry. Have you really spent the last
three years without it?”
She nodded. He stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she had been so
stupid.
“You forget, Malfoy... our enemies hate Muggles. Why should
I worry?”
“Because you sent me Incredimail about time changing and being
stalked. Even when I spent that year living amongst the Muggles in Seattle,
I kept my wand close at hand just in case. You’re not exactly the most
obscure witch breathing, Granger...”
Hermione shrugged. “I’ll just slip into Diagon Alley tomorrow and get
a new one. It was only my second one anyway... although I was a bit
attached to it.” They’d all had to change wands after the war, Draco
included. “What about a broom and cloak? Or should I slip to the Chelsea
house and pick those up as well?”
“First things first,” said Draco. “Are you ready to break the charm?”
Hermione glanced back over at Ginny. The toddler was bobbing up
and down on her lap. As Ginny read, she tried to catch one of the miniature

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eagles that were flying around Rapunzel’s tower, her tiny voice crying out
“Want birdie!” with a giggle. Instead she poked Rapunzel in the eye with a
wee pinky.
“Ouch!” said the storybook princess, using her fantastically long red
ponytail to swat at the little girl. “Hey, watch it!”
This seemed to amuse the child to no end. She giggled in her wee
baby way and even Ginny had to smile.
Hermione turned back to Draco, eyes shining.
“Yes, I’m ready. Let’s do it.”

~~~
Later that night, Hermione sat on her alabaster box-made-window
seat, looking out at the star-studded deep blue sky. Trying to figure out
why she felt so content when the very worst had happened.
The accumulated owls were piled in a corner high as her waist.
Hermione planned to send them off to the Chelsea house the next day so
they could be sorted by the house-elves. If she was going to have to pay for
the caretakers, she planned to utilize their services to the fullest extent
possible before she let them go.
Her reunion with Ginny had been joyous. Hermione had always seen
Ginny Weasley – now the estimable first lady of an international empire –
as a younger sister, someone to be protected and coddled and given advice
long after she reached adulthood. Marriage and motherhood had served to
settle her, though, and she seemed very happy with her new life.
“You don’t mean to say that you’re not with Gladrags any longer?”
Hermione had asked incredulously, bouncing Draco and Ginny’s daughter
gently on her knee. “I can’t believe it!”
“Believe it. Jean-Claude Rancier felt as if my marriage to Draco
represented a conflict of interest.”
“How so?”
“Well, at the time, Draco was purchasing Gladrags outlets at Firebolt
speed and Jean was afraid of a hostile takeover. Then, too, Rancier’s one of
those who hates Malfoys in general... he lost both his children in the May
Day Massacre at Beauxbatons, and nothing will ever convince him that
Draco had nothing to do with it. So headquarters in Paris began to punish
my Emerald City store... owling me substandard garments, cheating my
associates out of their commissions and bonuses, and being really very
petty.”

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“She told me none of this,” Draco said, sending a harsh look in his
wife’s direction. “Suffered for nearly a year in silence without a single
word to me...”
“That’s because I knew what you’d do, and I didn’t want to be
blacklisted,” Ginny had replied. “It was all I could do to put on a good face
and pretend nothing was the matter... and then I was fired without pay...
and had to hide that from him too by leaving every day as usual and
enlisting the girls at my store as accomplices. But...”
“At any rate, she couldn’t keep it from me forever. I still found out. It
just so happened that I returned home early one afternoon and found her.”
Ginny laughed. Draco didn’t. “By day’s end, we owned Gladrags
International.”
“Rancier hasn’t had a proper job since,” Ginny said with some
satisfaction. “Draco offered the corporation to me, but as Paris
headquarters remained loyal to Jean, I would have had to run it with an
iron fist. Besides, I was pregnant with Hazel and didn’t want to Apparate
or fly that far every day. So Maddy runs Gladrags to our satisfaction... and
now I’m chairwoman of the Malfosoft Foundation.”
“Which means she spends all her waking hours giving my money
away,” complained Draco. “You wouldn’t believe some of the projects
she’s financed...”
“My Diagon Alley Beautification Initiative was a success, darling,”
she said. “Even you must admit that the banners and the welcome mats
make things look so much more festive. And with the economy the way it
is, people welcomed the new job opportunities... we were able to employ a
few dozen sweeps.”
“Economy’s down?” said Hermione, trying to coax the restless tot into
settling down. “Well, it was bound to slow a bit, wasn’t it? We’d been in
boom mode since war’s end... and gold is gold. What’s the Rainbow
curvature right now? Forty-five degrees? Fifty?”
Ginny looked at her husband, a frown creasing her russet brows. “She
doesn’t know, does she?”
Draco shook his head sharply at her. “It’s a long story, Granger,” he
told Hermione. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
“It’s past our little one’s bedtime,” said Ginny. She reached out for her
child, then snuggled her close in a sweet, inimitable maternal gesture.
Hermione grinned, feeling a slight pang that she couldn’t even begin
to explain. “Little Miss Malfoy indeed. The fact that you two are actually
parents still hasn’t registered yet. Shouldn’t ever have been allowed, if you
ask me.”

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“Oh, Hazel came as a complete surprise,” Ginny grinned. “I can’t say
I was terribly thrilled about it at first... but he was.”
Draco shrugged. “I mean, look at the child. You’ve got to be born
looking that good... that child is all Malfoy.”
“I see she’s got the Weasley hair, though,” Hermione replied, winking
at Ginny.
“He doesn’t mind, of course,” said Ginny, with a twinkle at her
husband. “It just so happens that he fancies redheads.”
After promising to drop by the next day, the Malfoys left. Hermione
went into the study and had a brief chat with her father. In the end they
decided to wait before telling Clara about the wizarding world. It wouldn’t
do any good to secure an extra MagiCard if Hermione was going to breeze
in and out of England, they agreed... the Ministry application process,
including evaluation and processing took several days and could be
grueling.
Now Hermione was alone in her room. The crescent moon was
reflected in her dark brown eyes, giving them an otherworldly pearlescent
gleam as she gave her thoughts free rein.
Draco was right. She couldn’t continue to live in the Muggle world
without a wand... if she’d been properly armed, perhaps the encounters
with Heath and Seal and the blond man could have been prevented as well
as that strangely repeated August weekend.
She wondered what had happened to it. All this time she could have
sworn she’d left the blasted thing with Draco... most likely, it had been
packed in something at the estate sale or tossed out.
Her eyes traveled the length of the room over to her bed. Even if
Draco planned to get his money back for being caretaker of her estate, his
wife had been extremely generous. Knowing that Hermione had given
away nearly all of her witchy implements, she’d gone shopping. She’d got
Hermione a new designer broom, a glistening pewter and bronze cauldron,
and even a few critical items of clothing.
There was a deep wine-burgundy hooded cloak made of the finest
wool, lined in dyed shearling. Robes for every day of the week in every
stylish shade of the spectrum... Hermione was thrilled to know that trailing
sleeves and dramatic necklines were back in style, as were long, full skirts.
The straight, slit look that had been in style when she left did little to flatter
her or anyone unfortunate enough to not look like a coat hanger.
There were boots, too... boots she’d given Ginny right before she
left... boots that Ginny claimed she’d never dared to wear. They were the
one seventeenth birthday present Hermione had kept over the years. Made

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of fabulous Hebridean Black dragonhide, the footwear cradled her legs and
ended in heels that could either go flat and rugged or extend three inches
depending upon the charming desired. They were charmed for comfort and
for fit, ensuring that they would never wear out. Not only did the boots
protect from hazardous terrain and harmful spells from the knee down,
they looked damned good on her. Yet conservative Hermione had only
worn them twice.
Once in Tartarus.
Once upon a time that she couldn’t remember...
She blinked with a sigh, looking away from the window and down at
her folded hands. Her foray into the wizarding world tomorrow would be
no more than a visit – she didn’t intend to stay very long. She’d slip into
Diagon Alley first thing tomorrow morning, purchase her wand, and get
back to Oxfordshire in time to contact Hugh and let him know if he could
arrange the training modules, she’d be heading off to Brazil early. England
no longer held anything for her but old wounds, pain, regret, and horrible
memories.
Too much pain. Too much loss. I want no more losses.
A single tear trickled down her cheek.
Don’t you know there’s nobody left in this world to hold me tight?
Don’t you know there’s nobody left in this world to kiss good night?
Good night... good night... good night.

~~~
Below the Granger home, hidden amongst the shadows cast by
Caroline’s favorite rosebush, the watcher stood. Hooded eyes gazing
upward, but not at the moonlit, star-spangled night. His current fixation
was the woman who sat curled up on the window seat, clearly visible from
his vantage point.
A red haze of fury flashed behind his eyelids. His mouth hardened
into a cruel slit. Here was the source of all his misery. Here was the witch
who was to blame for everything that had gone wrong for him over the
years.
After all this time...
The watcher was fortunate enough to have had a friend who worked at
the Daily Prophet. It was also his good fortune to have had a late evening
date at the Leaky Cauldron with the friend in question.
“Sorry I’m late,” the friend had said. “Angelina Weasley’s been

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having some trouble coming in as usual, so I got stuck covering a breaking
story down in Kensington.”
His lips had curled into a derisive sneer. “The Weasleys seem to think
they’re above working for an honest wage like everyone else. That’s new
money for you.”
“Not much of that to go around these days, is there?” his companion
had replied nonchalantly. “Speaking of which, story’s sort of interesting.
You’ll read all about it in the morning edition...”
“What?”
“It seems that Ron Weasley’s estranged ex-wife is back from the dead.
Turns out she went deliberately missing... I’m not surprised. I’ve met
Hermione Granger on several occasions, and I was always of the opinion
that she was slightly unbalanced...”
The watcher had fought the urge to stand straight up from his bench.
The news that his loathed nemesis was not missing and presumed dead had
come as the biggest shock of his life. After all the gold he’d paid to have
her disposed of three years back...
Now here she was, alive and breathing. The watcher didn’t see the
sigh or the tears. He only took in her presence... a presence that angered
him into gnashing his teeth and clenching his fists.
Stop this foolishness and seize the opportunity! You have only to aim...
He raised the directed energy laser rifle to his eye. Hermione’s figure
was visible, the side of her head clearly outlined by the crosshairs...
In the next instant, the watcher felt a silken thread wrap around his
throat. He dropped the gun, struggling to free himself and regain his
breath. He and his attacker fell to the grass, he on top, thrashing about,
trying to gain the upper hand. Meanwhile the attacker was engaged in an
attempt to use his hands where the cord had failed.
A lucky elbow saved the watcher. He jabbed his attacker in the neck,
stunning him enough so that he could free his hands, scramble up to his
feet, and begin kicking the attacker around the head and abdomen and
thighs.
When he was sure the man was unconscious, the watcher snatched
back up the rifle and glanced upwards.
There was no sign of Hermione Granger. The lace curtains at her
window had fallen back into place.
His mouth opened wide in a silent scream. Wild thoughts of
rampaging through the tidy suburban home and murdering everyone inside
danced through his head. It wouldn’t be a hard task either... he had the
element of surprise on his side.

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Whirling around, he took a step forward... and stopped dead in his
tracks.
The attacker was no longer on the ground. In fact, he was nowhere to
be seen.
The watcher gasped and loped off, clinging to the shadows from
which he came.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012.

Dawn.
Hermione stirred while it was still yet dark. She sat up in her bed,
spine tingling.
I’m thirty-two years old today. Unbelievable.
She considered this for a moment in the bleak grey light. Half a
lifetime ago, she’d been a sixteen year old girl. And in many ways, she still
felt very much like the selfsame girl... much as every woman always is all
of the ages she has ever been and will be at once.
The events of the prior evening pricked her. She wondered what the
day would bring... but she didn’t plan to languish in bed waiting on it.
Or for those who would wish to find her.
She dressed quickly. There weren’t many clothes she’d brought along
with her; most of her Georgia-weather gear had been sent ahead to
Manaus. She didn’t think she wanted to wear the beautiful robes Ginny had
selected for her quite yet, though.
The forecast had been for cool, overcast weather, so she dressed in
Muggle clothing – a short sleeved cream cashmere sweater and a calf-
length grey woolen skirt. Considering her plain leather loafers for a
moment, she shook her head and her glance fell on the Hebridean boots.
Why the hell not? The boots went over her stockinged feet and she laced
them tightly.
Gathering her cloak and broom in hand, she made her way downstairs
quietly. No time for breakfast... she could get something to eat in Diagon
Alley. With any luck she would be there and back long before noon.
The cloak was glorious. She fastened it around her neck, admiring the
intricate braid and twin pearls that held it in place. Once it was on, she
twirled around a bit, grinning. She’d always thought that cloaks were
perhaps the most magical garment in a witch’s ensemble... and Ginny had
great taste.
Smiling to herself, Hermione opened the front door... and came face to
face with Clara. She looked at Hermione as if a bad smell was underneath

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her nose, taking in the fabulous cloak and a broom that obviously wasn’t
used for sweeping. Hermione smiled in turn.
“Good morning, Clara! Had a nice time at your mother’s?”
Clara gave her an evil look. “And just where do you think you’re
going this time of morning?”
Hermione’s smile didn’t waver. “Just tell my father I’ve gone to
Diagon Alley and I’ll be home before lunchtime.”
“Diagon Alley?” asked clotheshorse Clara, eyes sparking with
interest. “Is that a new store? Did you get that posh new coat from there?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, however do you get there?”
“Oh, I’m afraid that it’s a ‘members-only’ sort of venue,” she said.
“And unfortunately, you don’t qualify.”
Hermione reached over and patted her father’s girlfriend on the head
as if she was a nasty poodle. Then she swept past in her magnificent cloak
and stepped outside into the chill, crisp early morning air.
She knew exactly where to pick up the ABFN... from her own garden.
Muggle homes were not supposed to be directly linked. When it had been
built, she’d used all the clout she’d possessed to connect her parents’ home
just in case. The portal was just behind the rose trellis... just as it had been
in her Chelsea home...
The rose garden had seen nearly the last of its blooms for the year, but
a few hardy flowers lived on. She looked around... she hadn’t been out this
way since she’d been home, since roses always reminded her of her mother
Caroline...
It was obvious that something was amiss. The grass underneath the
trellis had been trampled into a most curious shape... and there was an odd
red stain right in the center.
Goosebumps formed on her skin, which had little to do with the wind
that was blowing through the trees. She looked around, senses heightened,
all of the hyperempath under full alert.
Something had happened. The garden that her mother so loved was
not safe for her just then... whatever had transpired, she knew instinctively
that it had something to do with her return.
There was no time to lose. Perhaps she and her father had their
differences, but she didn’t want anything to happen to him. And in order to
cast a proper protection charm, she needed a wand. Especially since she
was out of practice.
She had to get to Diagon Alley straightaway.
Hermione stepped into the portal, mounted her broom, and took off at

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a very modest clip. She made it all the way to Christ Church Meadow
before she decided to slow down and test out the new broomstick’s
maneuvers before getting on the ABFN where loop-de-loops and rotations
were part of normal commuting. Again, she missed her wand... one of
Hermione Granger’s biggest secrets was that she was deathly afraid of
unprotected heights. She flew out of necessity, but much preferred to
Apparate. And she couldn’t Apparate all the way to Diagon Alley without
a wand. At least she couldn’t any more...
She decided to try a simple loop-de-loop to begin with. Speeding up
just a bit, she pulled up, then ignored the queasiness in her stomach as she
turned back on her previous path, went upside down – she thought she
would be absolutely ill – and then suddenly the color above her was no
longer green but pearl-gray and she was right side up again.
She had been so preoccupied with her maneuver that she didn’t notice
that she had company... that someone was watching her from behind the
trees, along the path beside the Isis River.
“Well, that went well,” she panted, trying to regain her breath. “Now
for an easy spiral... Merlin help me...”
She leaned forward on her broom, trying to ignore her fear, trying to
gain momentum. Then all of a sudden, the broom seemed to... drag.
Hermione frowned. Was there a malfunction in the charming?
Broomstick sellers and professional Quidditch players were the only
people who really bothered to learn the complex magic required to correct
broom malfunctions. She knew a bit, but could only use the appropriate
spell if she knew exactly what part of the charm needed reincantation.
“Come on, come on!” she said impatiently, lips set into a serious line.
Yet the more she tried to push forward, the more resistance the broom gave
back. Soon she was traveling at a whopping five miles per hour.
Hermione screeched with frustration.
From behind the trees, her unseen guest was attempting desperately to
stifle peals of laughter.
“All right, then, have it your way,” said Hermione viciously to the
new broom. Placing a firm hand on the handle, she pulled up quickly... and
got stuck in midair.
She screamed with fright. She was at the very least thirty-five feet up
in the air. She’d repaired enough flight injuries in her day to know what the
fractures would look like when one fell from this distance. And no one was
around to help her...
Her heart was beating very fast and her breathing was shallow. The
sweaty hand that gripped the broomstick handle began to slip... it didn’t

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help matters that she’d pulled the broom up into a seventy-five degree
angle...
“Help! Somebody, anybody, please...”
The guest had stopped laughing some moments before. Hermione
vaguely heard footsteps rushing forward but as she was too terrified to look
down, she couldn’t see who they belonged to. All she knew was that she
was not alone... she didn’t have to hold on any longer... she knew she
couldn’t...
Despite her determination to stay on the broom at any costs until she
could make sure that the person below wasn’t that infuriating Heath
character, she blacked out momentarily... and fell earthward like a velvet-
wrapped stone.
A few moments later, she came to. She felt a hand examining her
neck, then stroking her forehead. Another hand held hers tightly. Before
she opened her eyes, she assessed the damage. She was sore in several
spots but nothing seemed to be broken, twisted, or sprained. Groaning, she
wondered why she’d fallen so many times in a less than twenty-four hour
period... and why this falling kept getting her into trouble.
Since she hadn’t been badly injured, she supposed that her rescuer was
Heath again. She groaned a second time out of frustration. This time she
was going to demand a more satisfactory answer than that infuriating
wolf’s grin.
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
“Are you all right?” Her rescuer came into focus slowly. Hovering
about a foot over her, he was seated on the ground and propped up on one
hand. His brows were furrowed with concern. “You gave me quite a fright
there...”
Hermione couldn’t speak or move. She couldn’t even blink. It was all
she could do to continue staring up into a pair of bright green eyes that
she’d never intended to see again.
Total systems shutdown...
Shut up, my brain is still working!
Really? Could’ve fooled me.
“Hermione, say something. Or at least grunt... you’re fairly conversant
in Troll, if I recall correctly.”
“I’ve got the luck of a Malaclaw,” she finally moaned to herself,
closing her eyes again. “What else could go wrong?”
“Well, blimey, it’s great to see you again too, Hermione,” Harry said
with the smile that always made her feel inexplicably warm all over. “I’ve
been awake all night... you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

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“I would think a strong cup of coffee would be far more appealing,”
said Hermione, trying her best to keep her voice steady.
“Perhaps you’re right. Cup wouldn’t have landed straight on top of my
head.”
“No one told your damned head to get in my way,” said Hermione,
eyes sparking. “I knew perfectly well what I was doing, thank you very
much.”
Harry sat back and folded his arms, grinning and shaking his head.
“I must have forgotten who I was speaking with. Wonder Woman herself...
I suppose there’s some lost and arcane art to plummeting to the ground in a
dead faint, then?”
“Oh, be quiet and help me up.”
He stood up, still holding on to her hand. “Now, this is the part where
you say, ‘Thank you, Harry, for catching me. All things considered,
I really appreciate your becoming a human rescue net and saving me from
a possible broken neck... how can I ever repay you?’”
She glared at him.
He pulled her up so swiftly that she teetered a bit and fell forward...
straight into his arms, for he caught her easily. As she felt his embrace
tighten around her, she found that she had neither the strength nor the will
to push away. All she could do was listen to the beating of his heart against
her own – she could sense it even through all the layers of clothing and
skin and sinew that separated the two – and quietly quelled the tears that
stung behind her eyelids.
“Maybe you ought to go back to bed and start all over again,” he said
into her hair, voice a bit harsh.
“Maybe you ought to explain why you turned up here all of a sudden.
I didn’t exactly disclose my location or my itinerary in a Daily Prophet
advertisement.”
“I was there when Dean and Seamus’ fathers told everyone they saw
you at Dean and Eleanor’s anniversary celebration. Been looking for you
since. Not that I haven’t been looking for the past three years...”
Hermione looked up at him questioningly, stepping out of his embrace
with a tinge of regret that she quickly tamped down. “But I told you that
I was going away, Harry. I also told you I didn’t want to be found.”
“Fidelius,” he said, studying her face. “Yes, I know. I thought I’d
talked you out of that foolish business...”
“You know how stubborn I am.”
He looked her up and down, letting his gaze sweep over her slowly.
Unlike Malfoy, it wasn’t an overtly appraising glance, as if she was a gem

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that he was rating according to some set standard. Indeed, Draco had a
tendency to look at all women in that manner save Ginny... and even his
own wife used to be subject to the same general scrutiny.
Yet there was nothing of the sort in Harry’s eyes. No. This look was
the one that had always been in his eyes whenever she was reflected in
them, the look that once upon a time had made Ron clench his jaw in
suspicion and had set outsiders to whispering. It was a look of gratitude
and tenderness and wonder... and something else that she could never quite
put her finger on.
Something she’d always tried to ignore.
“Apparently I underestimated you.” He closed the distance between
the two of them again.
“Apparently,” she whispered dazedly, still caught up in that gaze.
Damn his eyes, she thought helplessly. Almost could make me believe that
he’s...
Stop it, Hermione.
He took both of her hands in his. “Thank you for coming back to...
us,” he said, tacking on the “us” as an afterthought. For she’d been
watching his lips form the words, and she’d caught the voiceless “me”
beforehand.
And there she was, frozen in place for the second time in mere
moments.
This is absolutely ridiculous...
Ridiculous was perhaps a more apt term to describe how attractive he
appeared to her. Many of the last traces of boyhood had disappeared from
his face, only lingering in gesture and in the lightning scar that would mar
the smooth skin of his forehead forever. He was wearing his hair in the
same mid-length cut as before, but it wanted trimming. He hadn’t been
lying about being up all night... she could tell from his Sirius-like five
o’clock shadow that it had been more than a day since he’d seen the
business end of a razor.
He was dressed in black and green... that much hadn’t changed.
Hermione knew this was because Harry had never been much for fashion
and trends. Upon his return from Avalon, a bit after her engagement to
Ron, she’d gone shopping with Harry for Muggle clothing at Selfridges
and then Debenhams.
Despite her colorful suggestions, she’d watched him purchase the
Muggle bulk of his entire adult wardrobe: ten pairs of trousers, a couple of
jumpers, a few pairs of jeans, a good number of t-shirts and dress shirts, a
pullover with a hood, and a few pairs of shoes. With the exception of two

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items (both checked) and the jeans, all were either black, grey, or green.
“And you call me boring,” she’d teased him at the time.
He had just shrugged. “I never know how to match stuff up. Easier
this way.”
Easier perhaps, but ridiculously attractive. He was wearing a pair of
black trousers, a button-front dark green shirt, and over it all, his everyday
black cloak that she used to say reminded her of the vampirish frocks
Snape used to skulk about in at school. He would give her an exasperated
stare every time she said it, she would dissolve into giggles, his own
laughter would ring out... and usually at that point Ron would come into
the vestibule of the Chelsea house and tell them both that they were
nutters...
“Hermione... earth to Hermione...” Harry was saying. “I mean, my
flies aren’t open, so why are you so riveted by...”
For she’d been staring at his trousers as she reminisced, nostalgia
softening her eyes. She looked up, cheeks flaming.
“Oh! I mean... I, well, my broom... and the fall... I was just...”
“Uh-huh.”
The rational side of her took charge and began smacking her upside
the head. This is only Harry, damn it! Get a grip... But it was only when
she unlaced her fingers from his that she regained her train of thought.
“Really I was just... looking at my broom over there,” she said,
indicating the splintered broom, which was visible from her vantage point
only if she looked between his legs. “Don’t you know broom repairing
charms?”
“Some, but not for a Moonbeam 3000,” he replied. “Where on earth
did you get such a girly broom anyway? Dead expensive, for certain, but
girly. It’s for show, you know, if you want to powder your nose in midair.
No one uses a Moonbeam for serious flying...”
“It was a gift, if you must know,” she said, a trifle annoyed.
“That’s right, it is your birthday today,” said Harry. “I have something
for you as well.”
“How can you have something for me when you didn’t even know
I was coming back into town?” Her expression was quizzical.
“Because I always knew you’d be back someday. Witchcraft is in your
blood. You would have never been able to turn your back on it forever.”
She sighed. “I tried. Merlin knows I tried.”
“Well, I for one am glad that you didn’t succeed at it,” said Harry.
“Do you want to take your broom into Diagon Alley and see if the folks at
Quality Quidditch Supplies can do anything for you? While they work on

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it, we could have a bite at the Leaky Cauldron and I could catch you back
up on everything that’s been going on in the wizarding world...”
“Could we eat here in Oxford, please?” she asked, stunning herself.
What was she saying? She didn’t want to eat breakfast with him! Why
couldn’t she just tell him that she would check in with him later? Why
couldn’t she just be distant and cold, wiping that grin from his face and
that sparkle from his eyes?
Why couldn’t she admit to herself that her very first thought was only
that she didn’t want her first talk with Harry in three years to be in the
wizarding equivalent of Waterloo Station? The Three Broomsticks and the
Leaky Cauldron were both horrible locations for a private talk, and all
things considered, they would be interrupted and eavesdropped upon... and
then there were the yellow journalists like Rachel Ratliff who would make
up all sorts of stories if her first public appearance was with Harry... when
all she wanted deep down was to retain this solitude.
If we were the only two people in the world...
“Seems like you still care more about public perception than I do,”
said Harry with a laugh, lacing his fingers through hers again. “Remember
this? ‘Oh, Harry, think what’ll happen if McGonagall were to find out!’
And this? ‘Whatever will people say? Like it or not, we are in the public
eye, so at the very least you two ought to try and pretend that you’ve got
some sense!’”
She was so startled by her belated remembrance that he was telepathic
she didn’t think to pull away at first. She’d never had to worry about him
reading her thoughts before because she told him everything anyway... and
most of the time he didn’t pry. Harry used to be considerate, if nothing
else.
Things were different now. What else had he heard her thinking? And
why did he think it necessary to read her thoughts telepathically? Didn’t he
trust her anymore?
Hermione should have been furious. Instead she blushed again. Well,
two could play at that game. Perhaps she couldn’t read his thoughts, but he
couldn’t read her emotions accurately. She, on the other hand, could tell
that he was experiencing joy mixed with anxiety just from a mere touch.
Good. For whatever reason it was, let him sweat.
“Well, someone had to be the voice of reason back then. And I’ll
thank you to stay out of my head unless invited,” she said, pressing her lips
together in what she hoped was a stern expression.
“Sorry about that, bad habit,” said Harry, not sounding very sorry at
all. “Anyway, your idea is grand. I’d much rather be alone with you... best

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not to go into London before we absolutely have to. You know I can’t
stand being the center of attention...”
“It’s inevitable,” said Hermione with a small smile, ignoring a certain
part of his last statement. “I’m sure witches everywhere still swoon when
the famous Harry Potter walks by... a living legend of our time.”
“Not as famous anymore. Thank Merlin all that was a long time ago...
people have short memories, and now I can walk down Hogsmeade’s High
Street without disguising myself first.”
“Well, you needn’t look so pleased with yourself. Especially when
I know you’re pulling my leg. I don’t care how much time has passed,
Harry. Certain people have presence... you’re one of them.”
Harry laughed. “Yeah, but I can dream, can’t I? Most days I’d rather
chat with a witch who sees me as just Harry, average guy with an average
name who just wants average things out of life.” He looked down at their
clasped hands. “With average dreams, too...”
When he looked back at her, Hermione was mesmerized again, rooted
to the spot. Long ago, she’d known what those dreams were... she could
only guess at what they were now.
She released one of her hands and used the other to pull him in the
direction of the path.
“Come, I know exactly where we can get a decent breakfast. Hope
you’re hungry.”

7:45 a.m.
The walk to the Head of the River pub was about seven minutes from
the meadow, just at the point where St. Aldate’s became Abingdon Road.
Both Harry and Hermione were quiet for the duration of it, keeping their
own counsel.
But everyone who they passed took it for granted that they were a
couple. There was plenty of evidence that the man and woman knew each
other inside out... it was in the unconscious way he guided her through the
narrow, traplike gate that led out of the meadow she’d been visiting since
infancy, the manner in which she drew closer to him instead of crossing in
front whenever they had to make room for passers-by in the opposite
direction, the fact that the personal space between the two was negligible.
Thankfully, Harry and Hermione were oblivious to these idle
observations, and made it to the pub without incident. They’d left their
brooms secreted away in the meadow, and Harry had Transfigured their
cloaks into generic-looking overcoats. Hers the rich burgundy shade of her

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cloak, his the usual basic black.
After ordering breakfast, they sat quietly for a moment. Hermione
studying the grain of the rough-hewn table. Harry watching her do this.
When the waitress set small pitchers of milk and juice on the table,
Hermione looked up with a start. She left, saying their food would be ready
in a moment... and Hermione was left with only one thought on her mind.
“This is hard for me, Harry.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Sigh. “I wasn’t really prepared to see you just yet.”
“Are you sorry that I sought you out?”
She studied his face for long moments, knowing she couldn’t bear to
lie to him. “No. I’m not sorry at all.”
He smiled. “I’m glad, Hermione.” He looked as if he wanted to say
more, but didn’t. “So you’ve had no contact with the wizarding world for
over three years? How did you manage it? Where were you, America?”
Her mouth opened. “How did you know?”
“Well, that’s where your mother said you were to begin with.”
Hermione gasped. “She told you?”
“As a matter of fact, she did. So did you... the night of Draco and
Ginny’s wedding.”
Her face grew hot. She did not want the conversation to go there,
towards the last time she’d seen him. Hermione wasn’t proud of her
actions at all. She’d wanted to get back at Harry and she had, in the worst
way imaginable.
Hermione had spent the better part of the past three years being sorry
for the way they’d parted.
“It didn’t take long to put two and two together. I learned that you
were in Atlanta, that you were working for the Center for Disease Control
and lived nearby. I even later found out that Malfoy was your Secret-
Keeper. And he was a damned good one, too... nothing I tried could get
him to betray you.” He laughed to himself. “Who would’ve thought Draco
Malfoy could be so damned loyal?
“Then I went to your mum’s funeral... we all did...”
“I know. I saw you. All of you.”
“Right. We knew you were there too, but no one could see you.”
“I didn’t want to be seen. Draco knew that. I talked with him later that
day before I flew back to the States.”
Harry’s eyes seemed to darken. “Why now, then? Why did you decide
to break the Fidelius Charm? Even if Finnegan and Thomas did see you,
you could have very well stayed protected.”

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Sighing again. “It was time, Harry. Deep down I missed being a witch.
Like you said, it’s a part of me I can’t ignore. I nearly went insane living
without magic.”
The waitress brought their breakfasts. Typical English morning fare:
fried eggs, thick slices of ham, sausages, a pile of toast with little jars of
assorted jam and marmalade on the side, and sliced tomatoes. There was
also a basket of fruit to top things off, largely consisting of apples,
bananas, and fat red grapes.
“Bet you missed this,” Harry said, piling her plate high.
“Oh, they fed me well enough in Georgia,” she said, noting that he
remembered how she invariably arranged her breakfast – a single egg on
top of one slice of toast, a dollop of plum jam on one side, tomatoes on the
other. “You get eggs and meat and thick biscuits and pancakes... but it’s all
very fattening and I found myself refusing a lot. The one thing they eat that
I could never get used to was grits. Nasty stuff, that... reminds me of
porridge. Yet everyone I knew there absolutely loved them and had their
own favorite way of eating them.”
“Were these magic grits?” asked Harry. At the look Hermione gave
him, he hurried to qualify his statement. “Joe Pesci... My Cousin Vinny,
won an Oscar... ah, never mind about the Muggle films. Anyway,
I suppose every locale has their one food that only a native could love.”
“You’re right about that. My American colleagues were always
making wisecracks about how horrible our food is. But I thought I’d died
and gone to heaven when I bit into a ploughman’s the other day.”
They ate for a moment, thankful for the food as a welcome distraction.
Hermione finished her toast and wiped her fingers before she spoke again.
“Right, then. How’s everyone been doing?”
He swallowed a mouthful of milk before answering. “Where shall
I begin? Let’s see... I’m guessing you’ve spoken with Malfoy and
Ginny...”
“Yes, and they had their baby daughter with them. Isn’t she sweet?”
Harry laughed. “Yeah, but Hazel has her moments, and I’ve seen
plenty of them. We’re all hoping against hope that she takes after her
mother... but Bill says Ginny never threw a tantrum in her life, so it may be
a losing proposition.”
Hermione laughed too. “Is Hazel the only new baby? Who else has
had children since I left? I mean, out of those we know?”
“Everyone.”
“Everyone? Are you serious?”
“Yeah, come to think of it. Just about everyone that we know,

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practically... I’m thinking that there’s something in the water as of late.
Let’s see here... Dean and Eleanor are expecting, Seamus and Lavender
welcomed triplets not to long ago... all girls...”
“Triplets? They already had three kids! I don’t believe her... she had a
baby a couple of months before I went away! What does that make for
them, six?”
“Six. I don’t think they’re going to have any more, but Lav’s a
different person now. You wouldn’t recognize her. She’s almost exactly
like a young Molly Weasley in looks and personality. Anyway, Neville and
Susan married a couple of years ago and their son was born this summer...
Simon and Cassandra have one and are expecting another.”
“Cassandra? Is she still over the Prophet, then?”
“You know Cassandra. She’s the epitome of the superwitch – wife,
mother, still running an award-winning paper. Lavender opened up a posh
daycare center in the Emerald City... made it dead convenient for all the
witches in our set to work and have as many kids as they please. Molly
thinks it’s scandalous, though.”
Hermione grinned in spite of herself. During her last few weeks in the
wizarding world prior to this, Molly had gone from blaming Hermione for
all the trouble between herself and Ron to overtly trying to make amends.
“How are Arthur and Molly? Well, I hope.”
“Very well indeed. Getting on a bit in years, but then again, they’re
not yet eighty. Still have got plenty of time on their side. There was a bit of
trouble with Arthur’s heart a while back, but he got to your clinic and
Neville mended him right up... clinic’s doing just fine. You’ll be proud
when you see how well your partners managed things.”
“I never doubted that they could manage without me,” said Hermione
flatly.
“No, don’t get me wrong, they miss you. Blaise and Ernie talk about
little else... at parties half of their statements begin with ‘Remember when
Hermione... ’ Drives their wives batty... you have a way of making other
women jealous, you do know that?”
“Just one of my many talents, I suppose. I didn’t know that Ernie was
married... and Blaise and his wife couldn’t have kids from what I recall.
I remember how hard they tried. Sort of like what I went through.” She
was careful not to mention Ron.
“Well, Ernie married a widow with two small children. And the
Zabinis adopted a little girl from Malaysia last year... Sirius and I helped to
arrange that through Black and Potter.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” said Hermione, face glowing. “There are so

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many children who need good homes... I can’t say that the thought of
adoption hasn’t crossed my mind, although not very recently.” Her throat
felt rather dry as she remembered her own sterilization charming. There
would be no children for her now. “So... how is Sirius doing?”
Pause. “He’s still Sirius, of course. No longer teaching full-time,
though... he runs Black and Potter and I run the school. Turned out it was a
far more amicable arrangement than crossing functions so much. He and
Carole married the autumn after you left and have a little boy around
Hazel’s age.”
“And Remus?”
“Still wandering about... but he’s finally found someone as well.
Russian werewitch by the name of Tatiana who he’s known for years.
They both consult for Black and Potter, but travel for a great deal of the
year.”
Harry continued to update her on all the births and marriages she’d
missed. Fred and Angelina had twin boys, Sean and Michael, who
ironically shared a birthday with Hermione and were much more like their
mother than their father and uncle. Little Malinda, according to Harry, was
fiercely protective of her brothers and was just about the swiftest thing
anyone had ever seen on a broom in well over a decade and a half.
“I’ve never seen the like of it,” said Harry. “The child can nearly
outfly me... she can play any Quidditch position, Hermione, and she’s only
eight years old. The Hogwarts heads of houses are all salivating in
anticipation, and disgusting as it is, so is the League.”
“She’ll be a Gryffindor,” said Hermione with a grin. “We always get
the best... I see I’ll have to start attending matches again.”
George and Anya had tied the knot at a spectacular Christmas 2009
wedding, were the parents of a little girl named Katarina who was exactly a
year younger than her twin cousins, and were expecting another child early
the next year. Anya was balancing her new role as a wife and mother with
part-time work and her final year’s courses at Paracelsus – she was
studying psychiawizardry.
“She’d be perfect for it,” said Hermione. “Anya’s so sweet and
compassionate... no one deserves happiness more.”
“And they are happy,” said Harry. “Almost giddy with it, and Fred
gets a kick out of teasing them both about it.”
Percy and Penelope and their brood were all about the same. Maggie,
their eldest, was working for the Ministry as a young undersecretary and
had a sweetheart that her father and mother disapproved of. The eldest boy,
P.J., had just begun his final year at Hogwarts as Head Boy. Mary and Paul

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and Joe were all matriculating through Hogwarts with a minimum of
trouble, and the nine-year old twins Gryff and Rave were looking forward
to beginning soon. Charlie and Liz and Elizabeth Molina were all doing
quite well – Elizabeth was now a second year Ravenclaw, her parents
having chosen to send her to England to be educated – and Bill and
Madeleine were still lovebirds.
“Those two haven’t married yet?” laughed Hermione.
“No, and they say they aren’t going to. Both are divorcees, and their
former spouses were equally shallow, so their conclusion is that marriage
takes all the fun out of life. They are expecting a little one, though...
Madeleine says she’s due in February.”
“Great wizards! Did Molly die of shock?”
“No, Bill and Ron have more than prepared her for this with their
unconventional behavior in the past. I think she’s beyond shock.”
Significant pause.
“Well, then,” said Hermione slowly. “Is he... did he...”
“Yes, he married her,” said Harry slowly. “You knew that, though,
didn’t you?”
“I knew – after all, she wore her bloody ring to Draco and Ginny’s
wedding, how could I have missed it? – but I want to know how long he
waited after I left to do the despicable deed.”
Harry shook his head. “Hermione, surely you’re not still... that’s all
water under the bridge...”
“Perhaps for you it is, Harry. But for me it’s almost as fresh as if it all
happened yesterday. Do you think I really left because I had a sudden urge
to exile myself to a world where seventy miles per hour is considered
speeding?” She looked up at him with imploring eyes. “When did they
marry? Are they still married? Whatever became of that babe of theirs?”
He took his hand and covered hers. Knowing the questions she wanted
to ask, but couldn’t: Are they happy together? Is he happier than he was
when he was with me? And if so, where’s the justice in this world?
Harry let out a deep breath, then began.
“Well, if I recall correctly, your divorce was finalized in September,
three years ago...”
“It was three years ago today,” said Hermione. “My twenty-ninth
birthday. Mum phoned when the papers were owled from the Ministry.
I remember it distinctly.”
He looked extremely sorry for her. “Right, then. Ron and Maureen
married the first of October that year... about two weeks later, I think.”
“Did you attend?” she snapped.

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“Yes, I did.”
She glared at him.
“Hermione, attending didn’t mean that I endorsed what they did. You
of all people should know I didn’t...”
“Well, you certainly played the role of accomplice well.” She folded
her arms.
“What else would you have had them do? Not give that child of theirs
a family? Anyway, you can console yourself with the knowledge that it’s
been an uphill battle for them. Their reputations were mud and still are...
they were almost universally blacklisted. The Lions refused to offer him a
new contract after the season was out, and no one else would sign him.
Maureen lost a good three-quarters of her clients. She had to fold.”
Hermione was surprised that hearing this didn’t make her feel better.
“What are they doing now?”
“Ron’s working for us part time... don’t look at me like that. It’s not as
if he and I are the same any more, we’re not and we haven’t been since
before you left. It’s purely a business arrangement. He’s also coaching the
junior Quidditch league club that Fred’s Malinda is playing with and trying
to start up a flight training gym.
“As for Maureen, she’s doing some consulting, but she’s mostly
consumed with being the perfect wife and mother. They have had their ups
and downs, and certainly public perception didn’t help, but they’ve
managed to hold things together so far. She’s pregnant again, so that’s a
good sign I suppose.”
Hermione’s smile was sad. “I’m sure Maury will be glad to have a
little brother. Being an only child isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Tell me about it,” said Harry. “Actually, Maury’s already got a little
brother. Artie – that’s Ronald Arthur Weasley, Junior – was born about
five months after you left. This will be their third child.”
Hermione pushed her plate aside, face blank. Placing her bare elbows
on the table, she cupped her chin in her palms thoughtfully.
“Seems he’s recovered nicely. Some people have all the luck.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. He never talks about you... at least, he and
I never have. I know he’s missed you...”
“Spare me the sentimentality, please,” she said. “I certainly didn’t
miss him.”
Silence. As for Harry, he seemed as if he had a lot more to say than he
was divulging. So finally she just spat the question she was wrestling with.
“And what about you, Harry? You’ve told me about everyone save
yourself. Did you finally meet the girl of your dreams? Are there a lot of

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little Potters running about that woodcutter’s cottage on Ayr?”
He stared at her. Hermione wondered if he would ever weary of
looking at her... it was making her uncomfortable.
“No, I’m not married. No little Potters, either.”
“I’m sure everyone teases you because of it,” said Hermione, exhaling
a little even as she smiled. “Confirmed bachelor that you are, I suppose
none of that matters to you any more. I understand the sentiment myself...”
“Of course it matters,” he interrupted. “There’s nothing in the world
that I wouldn’t give to have what I see that some of our friends have. I’m
doing all the things with their kids that I would love to do for my own
someday.
“And as for marriage... well, you’ve got one thing right. I suppose I’m
waiting for the girl of my dreams to come around, even if it is little more
than wishful thinking on my part. What I am finding, though, is that
forever is taking a bit longer than I suspected... and sometimes it doesn’t
do to dwell in dreams and forget to live. Something Dumbledore told me
long ago...” He switched gears. “So what about you? Have you got some
Muggle husband secreted away back there in Georgia?”
“No indeed,” she giggled. “I’m quite like Madeleine Rancier... I don’t
ever want to marry again. Being a rich divorcee with a medical degree has
its privileges.”
“Perhaps the right man could persuade you to change your mind.”
“Perhaps. Miracles do happen, they say. But most of the time I love
my life. Maybe all the women in our set have taken to the whole wife-and-
mother traditional role very well, but I fear I would be terrible at it.” She
sank a little into her palms. “I certainly was terrible at my first stint as a
wife.”
“You were not,” said Harry sharply. “You did the best you could. It’s
just that... you two just grew to want different things out of your marriage
and from life. Could have happened to anyone.” He laughed to himself.
“Hermione, you’re a lot of things, but you’re not terrible at anything. Trust
me.”
“You’d be surprised, Harry,” she whispered, thinking of Jack. Another
one bites the dust. “I’ve made so many mistakes...”
He lifted her hand from where it rested on the table and took it
between both of his.
“Haven’t we all? But tell me one thing. Aren’t you tired of dwelling
on the past and the future? Are you ready to just live in the moment,
without thinking of yesterday or tomorrow? That philosophy has kept me
sane over the years... I spent my entire wizard’s training looking

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backwards and forward. Living in Avalon taught me to take each day as it
came.” His fingers traced the lines of her palm idly. Carelessly, almost.
“You ought to try it sometime.”
Merely a comforting gesture it was, but Hermione felt her cheeks
grow warm at the feel of his fingers caressing her hand. She wondered
cynically what demon or mischievous sprite had taught him exactly how to
touch a woman... that with careful tenderness a skillful gardener could
cause even the most difficult of flowers to open its petals to the sun...
She snatched her hand away, taking a sudden interest in her
wristwatch.
“Gracious me, look at that time! It’s nearly half past eight. I must be
off to London... I want to be in and out of Diagon Alley well before the
lunch hour.” Then she remembered. “Oh, bugger! I don’t yet have my
wand...”
“As if you need one to Disapparate,” said Harry. “It isn’t as if you’re
turning this pub into an Indian elephant. You know this place, you know
the Leaky Cauldron, you know your own body. Just project your...”
“Well, Mr. Know-It-All, you try living without magic for three years
and we’ll see how good you are at it.”
“Mr. Know-It-All, eh? Well, I can’t say I mind the surname change.
About time someone gave you some competition in that department...
you’ve held the crown for years.”
She stood up angrily. “Oh, just forget it. I’ll walk up to the High Street
and get a coach. Good-bye...”
He stood up too and put a detaining hand on her arm.
“You know, you’ve developed this frightening habit of storming away
with dramatic flair whenever something upsets you, Hermione. Wherever
did this fiery temper of yours come from? You used to be so much more
patient and considerate.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Patience? Well, between you and that
friend of yours I married, I’m sure I used my share of that virtue up a long
time ago.”
Harry took a mock-stumble back and laid a hand over his heart.
“Ouch, that hurt.”
“Harry, really. I’ve got to run my errands, I don’t have time for idle
chit-chat right now...”
“And you’re right. You don’t have time to take the coach, either...
after all, you’ll still have to take a bus or the Underground from Oxford
Circus to Charing Cross Road. You’ll not get into the Alley until at least
eleven... but I know a way you can be there inside the hour.”

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She caught the gleam in his eye and laughed. “You’re mad. There’s no
way under heaven I’m going to fly that fast.”
Harry grinned.
“Who said anything about you doing the flying?”

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