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If asked, Hermione could easily pinpoint the moment it all started. She and Harry were sitting by the Great Lake, one reading a book and the other absent-mindedly throwing scraps of leaf into the water. Hermione was absent-mindedly lecturing her friend about Charms, in the matter where neither party is fully invested in the conversation.
“‘The Disillusionment Charm,’” began Hermione, reading from her copy of Practical Spells to Disguise and Deceive by Dr John Taverner, “‘is frequently used to occlude or otherwise hide an object or person, making the eye skitter off it without them being consciously aware of it. While the individual will be vaguely aware the object exists, the spell’s validity comes from enforcing a deceptive working on the mind in question, preventing them from recollecting the object and/or objects.’ In other words, Harry, it prevents someone from seeing it.”
“A bit like my Invisibility Cloak, then,” remarked Harry, turning to her and throwing leaves in her direction instead.
“Almost,” said Hermione. “But it isn’t true invisibility, just a means of ensuring the person won’t remember it. Ah, here it is: ‘The spell functions by forcing the viewer to not regard the object as important or as something that needs urgent action. It affects a term known as ‘diffusion of responsibility’; in other words, the witness does not regard the hidden object as being important, and can be safely ignored, leaving them a bystander in the scene.’ Taverner goes on to cite Robert Suydam, and, oh yes, Doctor Hesselius. Good sources, in all. So, understand, Harry?”
“I understand perfectly,” said Harry, affecting a pompous accent.
“All about Disillusionment?”
Harry turned his head further, and grinned a wicked grin, the grin of someone who has just thought of a terrible pun. “I understood about Disillusionment, Hermione, as soon as I heard about the Ministry of Magic!”
Hermione groaned, and Harry tossed back his head and laughed with boyish enthusiasm. The last rays of the sun across the lake hit his hair just so, creating something of a halo around his flowing locks, and Hermione felt a strange swooping sensation in her stomach.
Oh, Hermione thought to herself. Oh, oh dear.
It was with a mixture of dismay and excitement that Hermione was able to, very rationally, diagnose the beginnings of a crush building up. She had read books about this, after all, and they very clearly laid out the parameters of the romantic feelings. Shakespeare, for example, was very sure of the steadiness of the emotion, as opposed to Fitzgerald, who took the view that it was fundamentally fickle and liable to change. Some books that she had stolen from her Aunt’s cabinet even painted love as a tempestuous element, party of swarthy pirates and simpering maidens with low-cut bodices. Hermione wanted nothing of that, to be sure.
It was fine, Hermione assured herself. She had prepared for this very thing. Crushes and love and liking and all the rest of it were a perfectly natural part of life, with their own rules and regulations. They could be learned, just like charms or transfiguration. There was nothing to be worried about whatsoever.
She was wrong, of course. Hermione was a very intelligent girl, but matters of the heart do not come with a guidebook. Bathilda Bagshot had never published Heartache: A History, much to her dismay. The following week was some of the hardest Hermione had ever experienced.
She never quite lived up to the humiliation of Ginny’s elbow in the butter escapade (the Twins were still teasing the poor girl about it even years after the event) but those that knew her could see something was the matter. She once, much to her mortification, was so caught up in Harry’s green eyes that she got Jonathan Strange and Stephen Strange mixed up in her History of Magic essay, even though they were born a hundred years apart. The problem was, the person who knew her most was the last person she wanted to find out about her feelings.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Hermione?” asked Harry for the sixth time that morning, after Hermione had only packed one set of quills into her bag. Hermione melted inwardly at the concern, but remained firm.
“I’m fine, Harry. I’m just having an off day, that’s all. I should be fine tomorrow.”
This level of academic sabotage could not continue, of course, and so she resolved to do something about it. She would not be drummed out of Hogwarts due to something as banal as unrequited love, after all. It was with that she resolved to write a letter to her Aunt, who, living in a vicarage, knew matters of the heart well.
‘Dear Aunt Geraldine’, the letter began, before cycling through the normal meaningless platitudes added for politeness’ sake, eventually resuming with ‘I find myself in a bit of a bind, in that I have Harry a friend an individual that I have become somewhat taken with.’ Hermione then opted for a one-two punch with ‘While I am not expecting anything long-lasting out of this possible relationship, I am hoping to see how this goes’ and ‘It is, of course, essential that I make the first move, as he is, like most boys, rather dense in that respect’. She wound up for an upper-cut with ‘I hope I can rely as much from you as I ever could for advice in helping me through this difficult time’ before finishing with a finishing blow: ‘I ask you that you maintain the privacy of the confessional in this matter, especially from my parents. Yours fondly, Hermione’.
Knock-Out. Never let it be said that Hermione did not understand the tricky art of rhetoric.
Aunt Geraldine’s reply, of course, came winging its way from Oxfordshire with a convincing counter-attack.
‘Dear Hermione,’ the letter began. ‘I always knew you would eventually get your First Crush, though I’ve been waiting for a while. I remember when you were just a young tot, running around the vicarage and upsetting the fine china.’ The embarrassing childhood memories continued enough to slightly outstay their welcome, concluding with a highly accurate ‘ But you don’t want to hear me nattering on all day long.’ The meat of the letter came with ‘ In answer to your question, the fields of romance can be tricky. Try to give him some gifts to signal your interest- what does he really love and value? Make him associate those things with you. I’ve attached a parcel with some Rosie M. Banks novels for you.’ This was accurate; the parcel contained the thick tomes of The Courtship of Lord Strathmorlick and Only a Factory Girl. The letter resumed: ‘These books should be your bible. I wish you the best of luck, my girl. Yours, Aunt Geraldine.’
She shook the envelope. A curly-wurly fell out.
It took her most of the weekend to make her way through the two books, and she found herself tearing up slightly at the maudlin contents. The Courtship of Lord Strathmorlick was a moving story about two restrained nobles in the eighteenth century, one the eponymous Lord Strathmorlick and the other Lady Bellwether. Lady Bellwether began to court the Lord by sending him small romantic poems, culminating in a series of family paintings with a small triptych of her contained within. The paintings made Strathmorlick realise that he wanted Bellwether to be part of his family, and the two were wed in a touching finale. Only a Factory Girl, meanwhile, was the story of the star-crossed lovers Archie Leach (a fairly rich barrister of Mayfair) and Patsy Hobson (a factory girl living in Limehouse). The two had to fight their social constraints, ending in a heartwarming confession of love on a romantic boat ride in the middle of a lake.
The books were illuminating not because of the level of prose but because of the advice contained within. With the help of the books, Hermione was going to woo Harry Potter; she had already compiled several numbered lists.
The first thing to do, according to her novels, was to give the object of her affections a courtship gift. Which gift to choose proved to be a challenging process.
“My favourite gift?” Harry asked. “That’s a tough one. Why do you want to know, Hermione?”
“Just curious. I, I thought we should know a bit more about each other. A sort of Twenty Questions scenario.”
“Well, you’ve only asked me one so far, so I think I’m in credit.”
“Very funny. Well, what is it?”
Harry leant back in his chair in a manner that Hermione couldn’t help finding attractive. “Well, if you put a gun to my head---”
“--I wouldn’t do that, but go on--”
“--I would have to say that the gift I got from Hagrid at the end of my first year was my favourite. It was a photo album, with pictures of my parents in it. He had written to their friends- Lupin, McGonagall and so on- and asked them to send any old photos to him. You know that was the first time I ever saw what my mum or dad look like?”
Hermione tried, unsuccessfully, to not get choked up. “Thanks, Harry.”
And so Hermione decided to create a photo album with pictures of Harry’s loved ones in it, and then at the end, a picture of her. Sappy, of course, but that is what Rosie M. Banks said to do. She would also included a folded-up poem within the inside leaf- what was love if not courtly? The poem would contain a message hinting that, at the end of the week, Hermione would take Harry out on a romantic boat-cruise date on the Great Lake, just like in Only a Factory Girl.
To give the photo album, of course, she had to get the photos, and those were not easily gained. Photos of James and Lily Potter- and Sirius, and Remus, and others- could only be found in the National Magical Archives on the third floor of the Ministry. It was to that end that she approached Ministry of Magic Employee and Professional Suck-Up, Percy Weasley.
She found Percy Weasley where she expected him, three paces behind Barty Crouch Sr at a miscellaneous Tournament event, hurriedly scribbling addendums on a notepad.
“Percy?” she said. “Can I have a word?”
Percy looked anxiously at Crouch, non-verbally asking for permission. At the required assent, Percy turned to Hermione, and gave a restrained smile. “Of course, Hermione.”
They reconvened in an abandoned classroom, and Hermione anxiously paced back and forth.
“Percy,” she said, looking up at him. “I need your help.”
Percy inclined his head, as if to say this fact was self-evident. “Will this take long? Because I am urgently needed in assisting Mr Crouch in his endeavours.”
“I’m assembling a photo album. There’s someone I’m… fond of. I was thinking- well, not thinking, but planning- that I could go the Ministry Archives and assemble a series of photographs there. It’s just that… these photos- they’re very important for this individual… and he’s been through so much… and I’m just doing it to cheer him up. To help him, and show him how I feel.”
Percy Weasley, to whom the word ‘romantic’ meant an Italian insect, was spectacularly unimpressed by her motives. Hermione tried a different strategy.
“I’m writing an essay on the relative thickness of cauldron bottoms.”
Here, Percy perked up. Hermione had clearly just spoken the (metaphorical) magic words, and he himself had entered lecture mode.
“Well, if it’s for a good cause like that, I’d be eager to guide you to the Ministry. I recall when I wrote an essay on cauldron bottoms; you never forget your first time…”
For Percy Weasley, the living embodiment of the footnote, getting a permit to enter the Ministry was spectacularly straight-forward. Hermione soon found herself in the National Magical Archives, gawping at the large oaken filing systems and the scattered sheaves of yellowing paper wafting about.
“The National Magical Archives,” Percy exposited, “are built on the same National Subscription system that form the basis for other wizarding libraries, most notably the Libraries of Babel, Dream and the Abbey of the Rose. That is to say, every single book, document, photo, painting, diary, letter, or notebook eventually ends up here. It’s all arranged in alphabetical order, although not necessarily by the first letter.”
“Pardon?”
“That’s right, any letter. For example, if I had an article about--” --he grabbed a piece of paper out of the air at random-- “--Zanoni and other Rosicrucian Masters, I would file it under O for Zanoni, or S for Rosicrucian, or Q for Masters.”
“But ‘Masters’ isn’t spelled with a Q.”
“I never said wizards were good at spelling, Hermione.”
Hermione frowned at that. She had always been rather passionate about library science, and this absurd system rankled somewhat. She was on a Mission, dammit, a capital-M one.
“How does anyone find anything then, if it’s so unclear?”
“By feel, of course. Have you ever heard the old myth of the Library Angel? What you need will be found through a ring of coincidence and chance, not looking through a musty old catalogue. Close your eyes, and feel.”
Hermione closed her eyes. She felt a light gust of breeze coming from one corner of the room, wind that had the salty tang of the sea in it, and thought Adventure. There was a dense patina of crackling parchment coming from her right that evoked Legal Papers, and a damp mustiness from her left that felt like History Books. And, in the distance, the glossy sheen of wizarding photographs. She set off in that distance, and started to look.
She did not know how long she spent there. When she was in a library, she frequently lost all sense of the outside world, her focus shrinking down on the books directly in front of her. She was dimly aware of the stiff figure of Percy standing by the entrance, and a lolloping figure in the shadows- was that an orang-utan?- but apart from that she knew nothing. Instead, she was focusing on the pictures of Harry’s parents. She had already found several of a young Lily, and had carefully pasted them into the album. There was one of all four Marauders, and one particularly touching one where Sirius was shaking hands with James. These people, dead for over a decade, smiled up at her. I’ll take good care of him, she wanted to whisper.
“I’m finished Percy,” she said, eventually. “I’ve got everything I came for.”
Percy, who at this point had realised that Hermione was not doing an essay on cauldron bottoms, sniffed. “We need to check these with Madame Bones before taking them out,” he said. “Ministry Policy. This way.”
They exited the library, Hermione internally swearing to return one day, and headed to the nearest lift. A greying wizard looked askance at her.
“You’re awfully young, aren’t you, to be working at the Ministry?” he said.
“She’s with me, Lord Darcy. We’re just doing a spot of research,” said Percy, bowing obsequiously.
“Ah. Carry on, then. What floor do you need to be on, then?”
“Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
“Floor Two, I know it well. Used to run it, you know. Happier times,” Lord Darcy nodded, and the lift rattled downwards.
“Sharp as a tack, Lord Darcy,” explained Percy as they left the lift and walked down the corridor. “He was Chief Criminal Investigator and Department Head back in the sixties, you know. He passed the mantle onto Barty Crouch Sr- great man, genius- and then onto Amelia Bones.”
“I see,” said Hermione.
“It is Madame Bones we are seeing now. This way.”
Amelia Bones was a lady with sharply-defined features, and a flowing bob of red hair that was shading into white. There was something piercing about her gazes, something that spoke of a powerful intellect at work.
“Weasley, come in,” said Madame Bones. “And you must be… let me see… not Wormwood, not Hubble, but Granger, yes? Hermione Granger?”
“That’s, that’s right. How do you know my name?” stammered Hermione.
“I make sure to remember every person of interest. Even the future ones.” She gave a rare smile, and leaned back slightly. “How can I help you?”
“Just a routine call, Madame Bones,” Percy spoke up from the back. “We’ve been through the Archives, you see.”
“Ah, I see,” said Amelia Bones. “What have you found, then?”
Hermione, reluctantly, handed over the album. “Be careful with it. It’s for a friend.”
Bones cast a quick eye over the pictures of Harry Potter’s relatives, and deadpanned “I wonder who that could be.” Hermione, typically, blushed.
The Head of the DMLE flicked through the album, glancing at the flickering images. Lily and James Potter’s marriage, Sirius and his younger brother, Remus and his parents, James and Peter Pettigrew together...
Bones froze. “Do you know what this is?”
“What?”
Bones tapped the picture with her wand, and words floated out. Hermione recognised Pettigrew’s voice, and James’ reminded her of a deeper version of Harry’s.
“... Do I go first, Prongs?”
“Come on Wormtail, you know the words.”
“Right, right. ‘I, Peter Pettigrew, hereby offer myself for the role of Secret Keeper, Promising to Contain the Whereabouts of James and Lily Potter from Any Other Party, So Mote It Be.”
“I, James Potter, hereby accept Peter Pettigrew as my Secret Keeper, and accept that I shall be Hidden Away for the foreseeable future, So Mote It Be.”
The picture stilled, as did the room. For a second, nobody spoke. There was the tantalising air of secrets uncovered, of steps that could not be taken back.
Bones spoke again. “Do you know what this is?”
Heart in her mouth, a mouth that was faintly dry, Hermione nodded. Sirius is Innocent.
More silence. And then, Bones burst into action.
“Get Wisdom. Call Kipling. Merlin, get the whole crowd on this. Get the boys at the Unspeakables- Chant, Rune, and the rest- to look over this. This is going to light a match that will blow this government wide open.”
At this, the office began to rapidly fill up, with dozens of wizards running everywhere, panicking, sending streamers of notation papers throughout the room. Astounded at the action that she had unwittingly caused, Hermione allowed herself to be bundled into an elevator, and began her journey back to Hogwarts.
Let us leave Hermione Granger’s quest for love as she departs for her school and her beau, however, and focus instead on events occurring several hours later at Level 9 of the Ministry of Magic, colloquially known as the Department of Mysteries.
“Strange business, Christopher,” said one Unspeakable, lighting a cigar with a flick of his fingers. “It reminds me of the time I uncovered who stole Marie Antoinette’s necklace.”
“That was two hundred years ago, Hugo, I highly doubt you were involved,” sighed the other Unspeakable.
“O, hark on thee, Mister Chrester-Mancer. I’ll have you know I was personally tutored by Merlin himself. No, I tell a lie- I was Merlin, and I tutored King Arthur,” replied Hugo. His genius with cases of this description was considered sufficient excuse for everyone to put up with this bolstering of his own ego.
“Never mind all that,” said Christopher. “What do you think of this?”
Christopher pushed forward a small piece of parchment towards the other Unspeakable. It was the poem that Hermione had placed, in a fit of romantic fervour, in the photo album.
“To the one who has always supported me,
And to whom I see such worth,
I give this gift as a promissory,
For hopeful future mirth.
In three days time, if you agree,
I shall meet you on the lake.
And there we’ll be, and there we’ll see,
For our future is at stake.”
Hugo read the poem, eyes lighting up. “What do you think of it?” he said, returning the question onto the asker.
Christopher muttered the poem back to himself. “Scansion’s a bit off. The metre changes from line to line. Sweet, though, ultimately harmless.”
Hugo gave a mocking laugh. “O, Christopher, you never learn, do you? This isn’t just a poem. This, my friend, is a prophecy.”
“What?”
“A prophecy! Trust me, Christopher, I’ve seen enough of the bloody things to recognise one on sight. Look, see- two separate mentions of the ‘future’? We’re looking at Nostradamus and Mother Shipton rolled into one, here!”
Christopher felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on. “Surely not, Hugo, this is just another of your little jokes---”
“No jokes! Look, walk with me on this one. ‘To the one who always supported me’, what do you think that means? Well, there are two individuals, of course, one working over another- but at what? Probably something that involves a lot of money, see lines two and three, with ‘worth’ and ‘promissory’. Promissory notes, bankers drafts, you see? Probably someone wealthy, high up in the ministry. And then, ‘I give this gift’, yes? Something undergoing a change of hands? Dirty dealings in the corridors of power! ‘Future mirth’- mirth, jesting, tomfoolery, skullduggery, chicanery, ill-doing, villainy! Disaster, Christopher, disaster in the upper echelons of the world!”
The problem with working in the Department of Mysteries, surrounded by difficult-to-interpret Prophecies all day long, is that soon you begin seeing metaphor and simile and strange connections everywhere. It warps your mind, leaving you viewing the outside world through a kaleidoscope lens. It should surprise no-one that there was a wall full of scraps of papers interconnected with strings in Hugo’s office. It does not do to dwell in dreams and forget to live; by staying so long in the world of conspiracy and prophecy, or the world of romance novels, our actions can become strange and dangerous, full of bewildering wrongful convictions.
It is greatly unfortunate, therefore, that Christopher was beginning to get some of the manic fevrous energy that Hugo was emitting. Hating himself for doing it, he asked, “What about the second verse?”
“Ah! The second verse is where things escalate, my friend! See the first line: ‘In three days time’. That would mean that the events I have discussed occur happen on Saturday eve; observe, the location: “on the lake”. I would hazard that this either refers to the alchemical notion of world’s lake, that we are all adrift on, or else the Great Lake at Hogwarts. The ‘see’ in the third line no doubt refers to the acting of ‘seeing’, that is, predicting the future; for the final line reveals the level of danger we are in, as the very “future is at stake”. Oh yes, Christopher, make no mistake; a terrible meeting of corruption will take place in three days’ time.”
Christopher looked exceedingly sceptical.
“You do not believe me! I see; well, let us reconvene in the weekend, and we shall see what happens.”
The Great Lake at Hogwarts was party to a great many events, and so it was on one Saturday evening several forces convened. First, Harry and Hermione, entering their first faltering steps down the path of romance, pushing the envelope on their friendship by pushing a boat out from the boathouse into the inky black waters of the lake. Second, Hugo and Christopher, squatted under a threadbare Ministry issue invisibility cloak, gripped by the intoxicating mysticism of prophecy. And third, former DMLE head Barty Crouch Sr, who was, as it happened, having an urgent discussion with an individual assuming the appearance of Mad-Eye Moody.
Pay close attention, Reader, for there are many moving parts.
All six of our players are intelligent individuals, but were in the grip of self-administered delusions and wrongful convictions. Hermione Granger was convinced that romance could be chartered, that the events of love stories provided a blueprint for real life, rather than being an enjoyable fantasy. The Unspeakable Hugo was convinced that the future could be predicted, that the chaos of the world can be streamlined by the mystical logic of Prophecy. Barty Crouch Senior was convinced that, as the former head of the DMLE, he was untouchable, himself above the law, able to conduct a conversation with his supposed-dead Death Eater son with no consequences.
All of these individuals are about to receive a rather sharp wake-up call.
The boat sculled over the surface of the water, the inky black depths reflecting the figures of Harry and Hermione. Hermione’s reflection seemed nervous and conflicted; Hermione herself was even more so.
“So, it’s looking good for Sirius,” began Hermione, uncharacteristically shy. “Madame Bones is pushing forward with a trial, and everything seems hopeful.”
“So I heard. Good work on that, by the way. How did you manage it?” asked Harry, fondly.
Her initial instinct was to take the credit that Harry’s innate respect for her was offering. This vanished, however, like a dream on waking.
“It was an accident,” said Hermione, ashamed. “There was a photo in the album… and…”
“Listen. It doesn’t matter how it happened, the fact is, it did, and I’m grateful,” said Harry, taking one of Hermione’s hands. “Very grateful.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
The boy in question laughed. “I should be thanking you, Hermione. You’re a true friend, you know? We work together well. Through thick and thin.”
The boat moved through the lake more, as both halves of this little romance sat in their own thoughts. Unconsciously, they moved closer.
“I just wanted everything to be perfect, you know? A fairytale, romantic ending. I had a poem and everything. I was going to give you a photo album with pictures of your family, and then a picture of me, to suggest that I wanted to be part of your family. It was all going to be very emotional and moving.”
There was a trend of self-deprecation in her voice that Harry did not like. No-one could insult Hermione, not even herself.
“I’d rather have a freed godfather than a photo book any day. Although I’m sure it was very nice.”
“It was. It really was.”
“You should have seen Percy, though. He was a little shaken with Crouch. Shocked at the whole ‘miscarriage of justice’ affair. That’s one idol that has fallen for him, I reckon, or at least had a small stumble.”
As if summoned by Harry’s words, a conversation between Crouches senior and junior came wafting through the air.
“Hush, Harry! What’s that?” whispered Hermione, and the two sat in silence, ready to eavesdrop.
It was the statesman Crouch they heard first. “It’s all falling apart, son. My Empire. My reputation. All because of Sirius Bloody Black.”
The voice of Moody, their apparent teacher, came next. “You’ll be fine. You’ve weathered worse storms.”
Crouch growled. “Let me spell it out for you, you fool. Black didn’t get a trial because I didn’t give him one. I deliberately mucked up the records to stop him from getting called up. If I hadn’t, he might be free now.”
Harry gasped, and it was only Hermione’s grasp on her arm that stopped him angrily leaping up.
“Did you know that----?” This was from Moody-Crouch.
“That he was innocent? No. But did I know-- or thought I knew-- that he was Death Eater scum? Yes. I just wanted the bastards in jail.”
“Present company excepted, I should hope.”
“Don’t get me started on you. If they know I’m harbouring a fugitive, it’ll be Azkaban for me. Nothing remaining of the great Bartemius Crouch but a cautionary tale.”
“Just leave me out of it. I’m enjoying the Teacher life. This magical eye is good for more than one thing, you know.”
“You disgust me. But then, I disgust myself most days.”
Harry had taken this opportunity to stand up in the boat, shaking with anger. He whipped his wand out and sent a spell careering to the father-son pair
“Wait! Who’s that over there?” the younger Crouch mustered out, before Harry’s signature spell, “ Expelliarmus! ”
A band of red light hit the elder Crouch, who flew backwards. Unfortunately, the recoil of the spell tipped the small boat over, and Harry and Hermione were soon immersed in the water.
“Harry…!” sputtered Hermione, and began striking towards the boat.
The Unspeakables took this moment to emerge from their discount invisibility cloak, and lunged at the two Crouches. Hugo tackled the elderly statesman, while Christopher caught the Death Eater in a headlock. Harry and Hermione had managed to swim to the shore, and had stumbled, dripping, onto the shore. It was at this point that Percy Weasley’s strident tones entered the scene, along with the rest of him.
“What’s going on here! Students should be in bed at this time of night- you’re all breaking curfew!” said Percy, who had never fully left his prefect days behind him.
“Everything’s under control,” said Hugo.
“Well, arguably,” said Christopher.
“I’m quite sure that’s not-- wait, Mr Crouch?” Two figures turned at Percy’s question.
“Yes?” said Barty Crouch Sr, whose patience was wearing thin.
“Yes?” said Barty Crouch Jr, whose polyjuice was wearing thinner.
There was a moment when everybody recognised the former Death Eater in their midst. Then, chaos erupted.
“Harbouring a fugitive? That’s criminal!” bellowed Hugo.
“Being a Death Eater? That’s abominable!” yelled Christopher.
“Impersonating a teacher? That’s dishonest!” sputtered Hermione.
“Conferring with a family member? That’s nepotism!” yelped Percy.
“ Stupefy!” shouted Harry, which was, perhaps, the most appropriate reaction for the situation. Barty Crouch Jr went down like a ton of bricks, before being swarmed by the two Unspeakables.
“You are hereby under arrest for attempted murder, harbouring a fugitive, and conspiracy to wrongful imprisonment,” said Christopher.”
“And for malicious fulfilment of a prophecy!” said Hugo, whose priorities were a little off.
“Ignore my companion. The heat gets to his head a little.”
The exhilarating action part of the evening had worn down, somewhat, and Hermione was wrapping Harry in one of her trademark hugs. Christopher, the more sensible and sceptical of the Unspeakables, wandered over.
“Good work, you two,” approved the man, looking at the two decidedly moist teenagers. “Stick together. You’ll go far. Just- don’t stick to poetry, all right?”
“Thank you, sir,” said Harry. “We’ll stick together. And I happen to be a dab hand at poetry myself.”
Hermione looked at Harry, brown bangs obscuring her eyes. “Harry… we’re a team, aren’t we?”
“What are you, fishing for compliments? Of course we’re a team.” He nudged her playfully with his shoulder. “Granger and Potter, crime-solvers extraordinaire.”
“Ah. I’m top billing, am I?”
“Well, you’re the brains of the operation. I’m here to provide the movie star good looks.”
“Naturally.”
There was another pause. Sometimes, however much she ran from it, part of Hermione was always the little girl who sat by herself on the school playground, who completed group projects on her own, who was never friendly enough or pretty enough or good enough to be loved.
“Are you sure, Harry?”
“Hermione, listen. We just exposed a government official, unearthed a decades-long conspiracy, saved an innocent man from prison, and caught a murderer. All in all, it’s been a hell of a week.”
“You know, Harry, when I compiled the album, and wrote the poem, I did have other things in mind. I was hoping to- well- start something, you know? I really am awfully fond of you, you know, and I know everything’s crazy at the minute, but I just wanted to tell you how much you meant to me, and I read all these books, and maybe if I gave the speeches they gave, you would understand---”
“Oh, Hermione. You didn’t need to do all that. You don’t need all that grand romance stuff, not when it’s you and me.”
“Really? It can be that simple?”
“Of course it can. You had me at ‘Has anyone seen a toad?’”
As kisses go, their first one was spectacular. But the second and third were even better.