Chapter Five: Here and There
For Psyche3 (though she's already read it ;), in honor of her upcoming birthday...

 HERMIONE

The Burrow was still sleeping off the aftereffects of the wedding bash the next morning when Hermione Granger crawled out of bed and made her way down the dew-slicked lawn to the rickety old pier. She perched neatly on the very end, letting her bare feet dangle in the murky water, keen to relish the early morning cool while it lasted. Ordinarily, she would regard such time spent without a book as wasted, but she desperately needed time to mull things over, away from the cast-off shoes and dresses that littered the bedroom she shared with Ginny.

Something’s beginning, she thought. With the wedding in the past, the hunt for the Horcruxes could begin. We might never be back here again, she realized with a pang. What if we never go back to Hogwarts? What if I never see my parents again? And, what if this is the last summer we have altogether like this?... by which she meant, ‘what if this is the last summer with Harry?’

The boards creaked under the weight of another, jarring her from her lonely wonderings. She knew without looking that it was Harry come to check on her.

“Mind if I join you?”  

“Not at all,” she said, fixing her gaze on a clump of lilypads so that she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes.

“Sorry about last night. Ginny was completely out-of-line—”

“Don’t apologize for her,” Hermione sniffed. “She had every right to be upset.”

“She’s not my girlfriend anymore,” he said, sitting down beside her and kicking off his raggedy tennis shoes.

“She still loves you,” Hermione said, needing desperately to clear the air. “In her own way, she does, Harry.”

“I know.”

“And?” she prompted, tentatively.

“And…I don’t know.”

“Will you get back together?”

“She wants to,” he said dully.

“And you, Harry? What do you want?” she asked, a note of resignation in her voice.

“You’re still the only one who ever asks what I want from life, Hermione.”

She smiled inwardly and leaned back against the moorings, feeling slightly happier than the circumstances dictated. So many things went unsaid between them but somehow, on a gloriously imperfect morning such as this, it didn’t seem to matter. Gradually, the fog began to lift, though a gauzy haze lingered on the horizon and Hermione knew that their moment was fleeting.

* * * * *

“Shall we put on a pot of coffee?”

They had passed a peaceful hour by the pond, but once the sun had breached the horizon, the temperature had skyrocketed from “warm” to “unbearable” and they had retreated to the cool indoors to wait for the others to awaken. 

“Better make it a vat of coffee,” Harry said dryly. “I think we may be the only two in the house who didn’t overindulge.”

“Ah, the joy of merrymaking will soon be replaced by the agony of penance,” she remarked, striding over to the stove and striking up bluebell flames beneath a kettle.

“Pancakes would be good,” Harry said, sidestepping her on his way to the pantry for flour and sugar. “Uncle Vernon had his share of intemperance,” he said, by way of explanation, “and pancakes always seemed to work for him.”

“I’ve never had much luck with kitchen spells,” Hermione said good-naturedly, taking down one of Mrs. Weasley’s thick cookbooks. “But I reckon one can’t go wrong with 500 Magical Meals in Five Minutes.”

“If you married Ron, your mother-in-law wouldn’t be impressed. She’d send you to cooking classes,” he said, but instead of laughing at his little joke, he frowned.

“Well, nothing’s certain,” she said, waving her wand so that batter began to stir itself. “If Voldemort and his minions are all they’re cracked up to be, we might not live to see our wedding days.”

“You’ll make it. You and Ron both. I’ll make sure of it,” he vowed, their eyes locking for the briefest moment. She was spared the burden of countering him, however, by the opportune arrival of a rumpled and weary Ron.

“Coffee, pancakes? Both?” Harry asked, springing into action as Hermione did the same so that they collided halfway between the kitchen table and the stove.

“Unh,” Ron mumbled.

“Both,” Hermione deciphered, flipping a stack of pancakes onto a plate as Harry poured him a brimming mug of coffee.

“There are you. It’s good for what ails you, Ron,” Harry said. “Hermione’s doing, not mine.”

“Thnh.” 

“Funny, I don’t remember Ron getting anywhere near the spiked punch,” Hermione said, hurriedly preparing two more plates of pancakes as the twins lumbered into sight.

“We made the completely unfunny error—” Fred muttered.  

“—of spiking both,” George finished.

“I see,” she said reprovingly. “So Ginny—”

“Out like a rock.”

“And Gabrielle?”

“Merely sleeping in,” George said, rousing a little as he drained his second cup of coffee. “We did have the common courtesy to make sure she stayed as far away from it as humanly possible. We did a roaring trade on our Wizards’ Wheezes products though. Ought to hit up the wedding circuit more often.”

Harry caught Hermione’s eye and stifled a laugh at Fred and George’s predicament; Ron snored into his breakfast.

It was another hour before Ginny made an appearance, looking over-rouged and unkempt. The elder Weasleys and the Delacour clan followed; Arthur Weasley kept muttering “never again” under his breath as he permitted Hermione to serve him coffee. A bleary-eyed Mrs. Weasley kept casting cagey glances at the three remaining Delacours and moving her lips around the words of her mantra “social tact is making your company feel at home, even though you wish they were.” 

By the middle of the week, however, the Delacours had departed and all of the weekend’s transgressions were long forgotten; Ginny and Hermione had fallen back into an uneasy truce over who-knew-what; Ron had mostly forgiven Fred and George for having tampered with the drinks but was still too embarrassed to so much as look at Hermione after the disastrous kiss, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were still none the wiser about any of the Burrow’s more sordid affairs.

* * * * *

HARRY

Harry awoke on the morning of July thirty-first to find the Burrow once again decked in paper chains and sprays of summer blooms. After a breakfast of buttery croissants and warm butterbeer (“room temperature with all the fizz gone out, just the way you like it,” Ron had proclaimed jovially), he began sorting through a mound of presents.

Arthur Weasley’s eyes widened with anxiety as smoke began to seep through the seams of one of the packages as Harry undid the wrappings. “It’s alright, Mr. Weasley,” Harry said, removing a strange apparatus that he immediately recognized as one of the whirring, silvery instruments that had once belonged to the late Headmaster.

Hagrid had sent a tin of rock cakes and a pair of dragonhide gloves, which made Harry worry what he might find upon returning to the school. Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback was still too fresh in his memory. Curiously, Lupin’s present contained a slab of Honeyduke’s chocolate and a booklet of tickets for the Knight Bus (labeled “just in case.”)

As he lifted the lid from Ron’s present, a fast-moving Golden Snitch fluttered out. “Nicked it from a Chudley Cannons game,” Ron said, smiling approvingly as Harry reached up instinctively and caught it with the swift reflexes born of a Quidditch Seeker. Hermione’s present was a thick balaclava, knitted from unicorn hair (“It will never tear, and it has remarkable curative properties.”). Ginny wrapped her arms possessively around Harry’s shoulders and made a show of kissing him on the cheek as he unwrapped her gift of a bottle of Wizardwear cologne from Gladrag’s and a rub-on Hippogriff tattoo. The package from Fred and George contained a large silvery Shield Cloak and a box of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder with an apology note scrawled across it.

Finally, from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, came a pair of eyeglasses – which were, by all appearances, exact replicas of the pair Harry already owned.

“Shatterproof, see?” Arthur Weasley said brightly, rapping the frames against the wooden tabletop. “Those Muggles,” his eyes misted over fondly. “Outstripped once again by mere Muggle technology. Half the wizards alive today wouldn’t have the common sense to develop something like this.” Mrs. Weasley clucked her tongue disapprovingly as she re-entered the room, carrying a seven-tier birthday cake, the layers of which were balanced almost as precariously as the stories of the Burrow itself.

“Sing, sing!” Mrs. Weasley said, clapping her hands together eagerly. The Weasleys and Hermione broke into a raucous rendition of “Happy Birthday to you,” with Fred and George singing slowly and mournfully, Ginny bright and cheerfully, and Ron bold and enthusiastically. Only Hermione, sitting across the table from him, sang with any reservation whatsoever. Clearly, something was troubling her. He could see the flickering lights of seventeen candles mirrored in her eyes.

“--happy birthday, dear Harry! Happy birthday to you!”

He drew a deep breath and blew out the candles in a single breath.

He should have wished for peace, or pardon, or prosperity; instead, he wished for love.

* * * * *

Dusk found Harry, Hermione, Lupin, Tonks, and the Weasleys lazing in the garden, having just polished off another of Mrs. Weasley’s delicious home-cooked meals.

“Hermione, would you be a dear and help us clean up? I think we’re about through for the evening,” Mrs. Weasley said, gathering up an armload of empty plates and silverware. “Ginny, you too.”

“Can’t we leave it for tomorrow?” the youngest Weasley groused, scooting closer to Harry and nuzzling her head against his chest.

“And let the gnomes muck around on my good china all night? I think not. Up you get.”

“I’ll help, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry offered, pulling away from Ginny’s unwelcome embrace.

“No, no, not you, Harry, dear. Ginny—”

“Mrs. Weasley, I’m sure we can manage on our own,” Hermione said swiftly, magicking up a stack of teacups and starting for the house. Reluctantly, Harry sank back down onto the bench and Ginny reclaimed him once more.

“Did you like the peppermint humbugs, Harry?” she asked, reclining against him and gazing up at the starry sky.  

“It wasn’t bad,” he said. He didn’t say that he found her proximity unnerving.

“I told Mum I thought you’d like it.”

“Er, thanks. That was thoughtful,” he said dispiritedly.

From inside the house, Harry heard a shrill scream and a crash of shattering porcelain. He broke away from Ginny at once and jogged to the doorway. Mrs. Weasley was standing by the window clutching her heart, while Hermione kneeled on the floor over the broken china, holding a letter in her shaking hands.

“What happened?” he asked, dropping to his knees beside her, unmindful of the shards pricking his skin.

“It’s terrible,” she whispered. She wiped away her tears and read from what Harry now realized was a clipping from The Evening Prophet:

This evening, Azkaban suffered major break-out, the second mass escape within the last two years.

The island fortress, thought to be insecure since the departure of the Azkaban guards, was once considered inescapable. Barely four years ago, one Sirius Black, accused of murdering a street-full of Muggles and Peter Pettigrew escaped. (The Daily Prophet would like to note, for purposes of clarification only, that Black was posthumously found innocent on all counts.)

The Ministry of Magic declined to comment –

Hermione’s voice trembled as she read about the crimes the escapees were accused of - Muggle torture, murder, and acts of outright terrorism. Harry busied his hands picking up pieces of shattered cups and saucers, but worked so absentmindedly that he didn’t even notice when Arthur Weasley came inside and swept the broken china away with a flick of his wand.

Outside, he could hear the jovial conversations shifting to utterances of terror as the news spread. Ron ran inside, a frantic expression on his freckled face, and announced that the Order would be convening at “headquarters” immediately and that Lupin and Tonks had just Disapparated.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged solemn glances and made to depart themselves. Harry, however, did not heed their goodbyes. Only one thought coursed through his mind – he needed to get out.

I’ll just slip out, he reasoned. No one will notice for hours, what with all this mayhem, and by then I’ll be far away. Harry left Hermione in Ron’s care and hurtled up the stairs to fetch his wand and Invisibility Cloak.

Within moments, he was ready to leave. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window as he barreled back down the stairs, taking in his flushed face, tousled hair, and the look of furious determination in his eyes. I’m a danger to all of them if I stay here.

“HARRY!”

Lost in his thoughts, he had stumbled straight into Ginny. She was standing in the stairwell still wearing one of the birthday hats and a frown.

“I’ll be back in a bit, Ginny,” he said as casually as possible, trying to sidestep her.

“Don’t be a fool, Harry! I know what you’re up to,” she positioned herself squarely in front of him, and at that moment, she reminded him strongly of Mrs. Weasley. “Running away again? Being noble again?”

“Ginny…”

“Don’t ‘Ginny’ me!” she said, positively fuming.

“You don’t understand!”

“What isn’t to understand, Harry?!”

“Look – I’m not like everyone else. I’m a danger to you! Anywhere I go becomes a – a target!”

Ginny glowered at him, “Don’t be stupid. We want you here.”

Harry sighed heavily and slumped against the wall. “I can’t stay here. And what do you mean, ‘being noble again’?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean!” And Harry was pretty sure that he did know. “Why can’t we see each other anymore, Harry? We danced at the wedding, Harry. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it too.”

“I told you in June, if Voldemort finds out, you’re doomed.”

“And as I told you in June – what if I don’t care?”

“Ginny – listen to me – date Dean, date someone safe.”

“Do you want me to date Dean?” Ginny demanded.

“I want you to date someone safe. I just – I just want you to be happy.”

“If you want me to be happy, then it’s all settled,” she pronounced. She strode boldly to his side, hooked her arm through his, and marched him forcefully back to the kitchen, where the bad news was still breaking.

* * * * * *

“Apparation tests in Hogsmeade, Thursday after next,” Arthur Weasley said, sorting through the morning mail on the seventh of August.

Harry perked up a bit. Ron, on the other hand, turned a sickly shade of puce and abruptly shoved his plate of pancakes aside.

“Come on, Ron,” said Hermione soothingly. It was the first time she’d said anything to him directly in days; he’d been avoiding her since the kiss – not that she could blame him. She’d inadvertently fought off his advances, fled the scene, and then been spotted dancing with his best mate…the prognosis wasn’t good. “You’ll do fine. You would have passed last time, if it hadn’t been for that pesky eyebrow.”

Ginny snickered and Hermione shot her a withering look.

“Ah, what I wouldn’t have given to have seen that,” Ginny whispered in an undertone. Harry laughed softly, imagining a single red eyebrow floating in the air in front of the Three Broomsticks.

“Now Ronald, Apparation tests are nothing to be worried about,” Mrs. Weasley pushed his plate back towards him.

“I remember the day of my test,” Mr. Weasley smiled reminiscently. “Frightfully cold and windy, it was. Second week of February –”

“When will Bill and Fleur be back?” Hermione asked hastily, trying to change the subject to something that wouldn’t make Ron blanch.

“Week after next,” Mrs. Weasley said, a shadow passing over her face. “I wish they were honeymooning a bit closer to home, just in case, you know…”

“Come on, Molly – they’re kids! Besides, Egypt is as safe as Dover these days.”

“Yeah,” Ron interjected, “at least there aren’t droves of Azkaban escapees in Egypt, at least, not any we know of–” Mrs. Weasley silenced him with a glare.

If Mr. Weasley had intended to console his wife with this proclamation, he failed miserably. She edged nervously over to the Weasley family clock and noted that all the hands were still pointing towards Mortal Peril. Wearily, she turned back to the rest of the Weasley family, and Harry and Hermione, pretending that the conversation about Bill and Fleur’s travel plans had never taken place. “Just as well,” she said diffidently. “We might be able to give Diagon Alley a miss, and pick up your school things in Hogsmeade instead.”

* * * * *

Later in the afternoon, Harry and Ron were practicing their Quidditch skills for an audience comprised of Ginny and Luna Lovegood (who had wandered over quite accidentally and had found their antics to her interest), when a troubled Hermione arrived. She perched uneasily on the bottommost limb of one of the gnarled old trees and watched them with a frown on her face.

Wanting to know what was bothering her so, Harry purposefully missed the Quaffle when Ron tossed it in his direction and when Ron dived to fetch it from the boggy undergrowth, Harry pronounced himself “exhausted” and touched down on the ground.

“Harry, you will be going back to school, won’t you?” she asked.

“Dunno,” Harry said evenly. The matter had been weighing heavily on his mind since Dumbledore’s funeral, but he did not want to discuss with Hermione. Not now, anyway, not with Ginny and Luna so close at hand.

“Because I think you ought to consider it, Harry,” she said, speaking very fast as if to get it all said before Harry or Ron could cut her off. “I know it won’t be easy, but you need somewhere to call ‘home’ not matter what you do--”

“Let him be, Hermione,” said Ron, tugging off his sweaty shoes and socks and flexing his bare toes in the cool grass.

“—even if you don’t go to classes—”

“Even if I don’t go to classes?” Harry repeated, somewhat incredulously. “You really are desperate, aren’t you?”

Hermione wrung her hands anxiously. “I am, Harry, I really am. I hope you’ll think about it, before you just say you won’t go. You’ll need a base, Harry, no matter what you chose to do next year, and McGonagall will understand. I – I took the liberty of writing to her a few days and she said, if you wanted to come back – I mean to say, given the circumstances, she agrees it would be a good idea--”

Her eyes were brimming with tears and it was this uncharacteristic display of emotion from his normally cool and collected friend more than anything that made Harry relent.

“I’ll go,” he said, as Ginny smirked in approval, undoubtedly noting the various possibilities his return to Hogwarts presented, but his decision had naught to do with her. “We’ll all go back, I promise, Hermione.”

* * * * *

On Tuesday morning, four owls arrived bearing letters stamped with the Hogwarts crest. Harry’s owl deposited a thick envelope on his bed and when he upended the letter, a heavy metal badge clinked to the floor.

“Quidditch Captain again!” Ron said enviously, trying in vain to pry his Hogwarts letter free from his owl’s clenched beak.

“Take it,” Harry said indifferently, chucking the badge to Ron.

“But Harry, mate, I can’t take this!”

“Go ahead, I don’t want it.”

“Harry—” Ron’s voice trailed off. He turned the badge over in his hand, feeling the cool metal against his skin. “Blimey, Harry…”

From across the room came a deafening shriek – Ginny’s. Hermione was standing dazedly, with her Hogwarts letter in one hand and a gleaming golden Head Girl’s badge in the other. Harry knew, as he watched her gazing at the badge with a mixture of sadness and uncertainty that it was the realization of a dream – a dream that had come true too late. Slowly, she came to her senses and shoved the badge into her pocket, forbidding the others to speak of it.

With the promise of the Quidditch Captainship, Ron’s spirits improved significantly over the coming days. Their upcoming Apparation tests no longer seemed to faze him. He spent endless hours recounting his limited history as Gryffindor’s Keeper and daydreaming aloud about the Quidditch Cup.

“It’ll be ours again this year, Harry. Mark my words…” He gazed off into space, an absent smile lingering on his face.

Harry was happy to see Ron basking in the limelight for once, but Hermione reacted negatively towards his newfound glory, as though she thought that he too should downplay his accomplishments as she had.

“I think I’ll have Romilda Vane on the team this year,” Ron proclaimed on Thursday morning. 

“That tart who gave you a Love Potion last year?” Hermione asked acidly; Ginny cringed. 

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

Harry could immediately tell that “Yeah, sure, why not?” was not a good answer.

Hermione bristled. “I thought you’d grown up, Ronald Weasley! But unfortunately, I was wrong.”

“Had to happen sometime,” he jibed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hermione sprang to her feet and Crookshanks leapt from her arms with a hiss.

Ron looked bewildered. “Wrong,” he mumbled uneasily. “You had to be wrong sometime—”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed to cat-like slits and she stormed from the room, muttering what sounded like hexes under her breath.

“Man, if looks could kill…” Ron muttered. “She’s barking mad.”

Ginny cast Ron a disparaging look before getting up and exiting the room.

“All I said was I’d let Romilda Vane on the Quidditch team any day. What’s that matter to her? She knows I don’t like Romilda – not like that, anyway. She’s not bad-looking, though.”

“Talking like that is only going to make it worse, Ron.”

“Should I go look for Hermione?”

“If you want to take your Apparation test without the hassle of having to Apparate all your limbs along with you, sure, go find her.”

“Girls,” Ron said bemusedly, clearly remembering the canary incident all too clearly. He swung his legs up over the arm of the wingback chair and promptly drifted off to sleep.

* * * * *

“Boys! Ginny! Hermione!” Mrs. Weasley hollered up the stairs. “Time to go!”

Ron and Harry barreled down the stairs, Ron looking pale and nauseous once more. Ginny and Hermione were already waiting in the kitchen, having neglected their black witches’ robes in favor of sandals and Muggle sundresses.

“Oh!” Mrs. Weasley said fretfully. “We’re going to be late – if only you lot could Apparate already!” She ushered them over to the fireplace and tossed a handful of Floo Powder into the flames. “The grate at Scrivenshafts is open. You first, Ron, hurry up now!” Ron stepped into the flames – their green hue complimenting his green-about-the-gills complexion. “Scrivenshafts,” he muttered, and disappeared with a whoosh.

“Ginny – Harry, you next!”

Into the fire they went, as Mrs. Weasley and Hermione Disapparated; Floo Powder was a valuable commodity during wartime, or so he’d been told.

Harry toppled out of the fireplace and crashed into Ron, who promptly vomited the remnants of his breakfast all over the floor of Scrivenshafts. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ginny reached into her pocket and pulled out the orange end of a Puking Pastille. Ron swallowed it and slumped back against the wall, still looking very whey-faced.

Hermione sauntered in looking very smug. “Alright, Ronald?” she simpered, but she turned away without waiting for a reply. “Come on, Harry. The Apparation Testing Center is this way – Ronald doesn’t need to know the way, seeing as he’s already been there,” she added frostily.

She guided him down High Street. Behind them, Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were coaxing Ron along. “Remember dear,” Harry heard Mrs. Weasley say, “Determination, desertation, destination.”

“Mum!” said Ron weakly, “Not ‘desertation”! Deliberation!”

“That’s right, dear.” She patted his arm consolingly.

A tiny wisp of a man whom Harry recognized as Wilkie Twycross pattered out into the street as they approached and quickly escorted them into the Testing Center. He told them repeatedly how pleased he was that they had arrived unscathed. Evidently, few young witches and wizards wanted to risk taking their Apparation tests in the midst of a war.

“Why don’t you three mosey around? It’ll give the boys a chance to prepare for the test in peace,” Twycross suggested, but Mrs. Weasley fixed him with such a mutinous glare that he relented and allowed her to keep watch while Harry rehearsed the motions of Apparation and Ron tried to keep from vomiting.

“Go on ahead, girls. Stick together. Don’t wander too far—take these lists, for your schoolbooks and things and pick up extras for the boys. I know money’s tight, be frugal—” Mrs. Weasley sent a volley of unwanted advice after Hermione and Ginny as they hastened out the door and into the sunbathed streets of Hogsmeade.

* * * * * *

HERMIONE

The picturesque village looked worn-out and forlorn, the storefront displays depleted by wartime and the crowds thinned by rampant paranoia. Where three hundred owls had once stood at the ready in the Post Office, now only two dozen lined the shelves, looking peaky and underfed. The tiny bookstore nestled between Dervish and Banges and the closed Zonko’s Joke Shop stocked a despairingly limited supply of books, but Hermione and Ginny managed to find what they needed – three copies of Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration and one Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century (she was the only one continuing with History of Magic) and a copy of He Flew Like a Madman by Kennilworthy Whisp that she thought she might give to Ron for his birthday. Hermione snatched a few Dark Arts books from the shelves and shoved them across the counter to the nervous-looking clerk.

“Forty sickles,” he squeaked, his eyes widening as he took in the sinister titles.

We just need to know what we’re up against, Hermione wanted to reassure him, but before she could speak any words of comfort, he had hustled them out into the street and dead-bolted the door.

At the Apothecary, Hermione tossed an assortment of herbs and a head of Chinese Chomping Cabbage (all of which were selling at a premium) into their shopping bag, hoping they could make do with what was leftover from the previous school year. After coughing up a further thirty-seven Sickles, Hermione’s moneybag was considerably lighter. Mindful of the need to keep money always on hand, she was ready to put an end to their little shopping expedition when Ginny grabbed Hermione by the arm and pulled her across the cobbled lane.

“We still have time for Gladrags,” the younger girl exclaimed, with a gleeful expression on her face. “I’m in desperate need of new dress robes and Fred and George set a little money aside for me.”

“How about these?” Hermione asked, plucking at the sleeve of a gauzy gingham sundress.

“No, no. That would never do,” Ginny whirled around. “Something grander.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Something for a victory ball. Merlin knows once Harry’s done the good deed, there will be balls galore.”

“Yes,” said Hermione vaguely, watching Ginny glide from one rack of dresses to the next. A terrible realization was dawning on her: Ginny doesn’t understand – and Harry hasn’t bothered to tell her! She ran her hand over a gown made of crimson silk. It wasn’t that she hadn’t dreamt of a glorious day with no more Voldemort herself, but at least her daydreams were tempered by bitter reality.

“So, erm, how long do you think it’ll be until this, erm, victory?”

Ginny, who was sizing up one of the gowns in the mirror, smiled at Hermione’s reflection. “It’s one battle, isn’t it? I think I’ll try this one on – and this.” And, plucking two gowns off the rack, Ginny Weasley sequestered herself in the changing booth.

“I wish I could believe so readily.”

“Don’t you have any faith in him, Hermione?” Ginny asked, accusingly.

“Of course I do, but Gin, be honest with me—you don’t really believe it’ll be over just like that, d’you?”

“Stop being such a worrywart, Hermione,” Ginny said. “Alright, I’m coming out. How do I look?”

The drape swept aside and Ginny stepped out, draped in buttermilk-yellow taffeta.

“Simply sublime, no?” Ginny tendered, twirling around in a graceful pirouette and admiring the effect in the mirror.

“Yes,” Hermione murmured distractedly, her eyes drifting away to the window. Ron and Harry were galloping across the street, Ron waving a crisp Apparation certificate above his head like a battle flag. Ron threw open the door, leading the triumphant charge through the shop to where the girls stood waiting.  

“I passed! I passed!” Ron whooped. Harry was a little more subdued in his celebrations, though his face glowed with happiness. Ginny, still wearing the magnificent gown, hugged Harry, laughing cheerfully.

“Hermione?” Ron said hopefully, turning away from Harry and Ginny.

Hermione forced a smile.

“I’m really sorry, Hermione.”

At this, she laughed and the tension between them was broken – at least for the moment. “Are you even sure what you’re apologizing for, Ron?”

He shook his head cautiously, half-expecting her to explode in his face again, but she did not. Instead, she permitted him to sling an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close so that their feet weaved together as they walked out of the shop. Harry shuffled uncomfortably on the front stoop and Hermione could feel his eyes on them as they all waited for Ginny to pay for her gown so that they could be off.

“There’s nothing wrong with the dress, Mum,” Ginny said tetchily, emerging from Gladrags with her new dress draped over her arm, “Fred and George bought Ron dress robes and you that lovely hat. If they want something nice for me, I don’t see why you’d want to put your foot down.” 

“Step lively!” Mrs. Weasley said, clutching her tatty purse to her side and tossing suspicious glances over her shoulder at the few passers-by. “What they think they’re doing in Hogsmeade on a day like this – Merlin only knows—” she muttered darkly. With a final accusatory glare, she hooked her arm through Ginny’s and muttered, “The sooner we leave this place behind, the better.”

In the split second before they Disapparated, Hermione Granger glanced over Harry and Ginny, and Ron, and thought that she couldn’t agree more.

* * * * *

* * * * *