Facing Backwards

Chapter Eleven--Inspiration

The next morning, when his head had stopped throbbing and his stomach had settled, if only somewhat, Harry walked the now-empty Pensieve down up to the Headmaster's office. When he had given the password ("pit viper"), he ascended the stairs and found himself at the door with the griffin knocker.

He was about to knock when the door swung open. Snape stood there in a black dressing gown, a black night cap perched dispiritedly on his head. "Ah, professor," he said. "I was just talking to Albus about you. Come in."

As Harry entered the room, he was shocked to see how much it had changed from his own days. The windows were shuttered, plunging the room in a dismal gloom, broken only by the glow of the rather-bluer-than-natural embers in the fireplace. Where Professor Dumbledore's collection of spindly silvery doodads had delighted, the tables now were laden with heavy stone mortars, a bubbling cauldron, and several jars containing things whose nature Harry chose not to speculate on.

The portrait of Albus Dumbledore over the desk was gazing sadly down--this portrait reminded Harry of the conversation he had had with the late headmaster in that very room at the end of his fifth year. "Good morning, Harry," said the portrait, with that same ineffable sadness that Harry winced to remember.

"Good morning, professor."

Snape sat below the portrait and laced his fingers thoughtfully. "Brought me a present, have you?"

Harry placed the Pensieve on the black, oaken desk. "Just returning it, sir. Professor Longbottom had something she wanted to show me."

"I'm sure she did," leered the headmaster. Before Harry could even begin to formulate a response, Snape peered down into the stone bowl. "Didn't leave anything in there for me?"

"You've already sifted through my most memorable humiliations. Sir." Harry could feel his face growing red. He felt sixteen all over again, and it wasn't a good feeling.

"As you have mine," said Snape, an icy smile bowing his lips.

"True." Harry held the headmaster's black gaze for a moment. "Well, thank you for letting us use..."

"My pleasure. Professor. I abhor the thing, except as a defense against Legilemency. But then," he gave Harry the cold smile again, "you already know that."

"Yes, sir."

"It seems to me that a life spent reexamining the past is a life as surely wasted as one spent gazing into that damned mirror Albus was so fond of. Are you going to spend your remaining years pathetically clutching at memories of your glory days?"

"No, sir," Harry said, with a firmness that surprised both Snape and Harry himself. "I can't say that I have the time--or the inclination, for that matter."

A narrow eyebrow arched in visual counterpoint to the older man's thin smile. "I cannot tell you how... relieved I am to hear that. Professor."

"Is that what you and Professor Dumbledore were discussing?" Harry blurted.

Now the headmaster's smile became broader--always a bad sign. "No, Mr. Potter. It was not. We were discussing the current state of your home life."

Harry glanced up at the portrait, which merely pursed its lips and shook its head.

"Not that Albus would ever be so indiscrete as to give me details, mind you, but his portrait in your house has been giving him reports that have him... well, concerned." Snape peered up almost warmly at the portrait behind him. "More portraits of him scattered among wizarding homes than the rest of this lot put together. Quite useful." And the former spy favored Harry with a vulpine grin.

"Yes," said Harry, at a loss for words. "Thank you." And with another glance up at Dumbledore's downcast face, he left the office.

* * *

At lunch, Ginny and Neville sat next to him with matching looks of keen expectation. Luna seemed more other-where than ever, and Ron waited on her like the expectant father he was.

In the hall, the previous day's excitement still held. Alithea Weasley had washed her face, but still appeared as battle-scarred and lovely as she had the evening before. Circe Taylor had to fight to keep from being placed back up on the table by her friends--by most of her friends.

Sidi and young Harry were sitting together--Harry still sporting a plaster on his forehead--oblivious to the world. From the buzz of conversation, Harry was able to ascertain that they were as much a topic of conversation as the already legendary Quidditch match. Many of the girls seemed to have decided that Harry's stunt was the most romantic thing they'd ever seen and were deeply envious. Some of the boys agreed, but many wanted to murder Harry Weasley for raising the girls' expectations. "She'll expect me to get myself actually killed before she'll look at me," one Slytherin fifth-year boy was saying to another.

"Disgusting," said Nott as he strode out of the room.

"I think it's sweet," Harry heard Tom Studdiford say. He couldn't think just what they were referring to until he looked back over to his daughter and godson and realized, from the way their shoulders were pressed together--they were both looking resolutely Not At Each Other--that they were holding hands beneath the table.

Harry smiled and finished his meal.

* * *

That afternoon, Harry wandered down toward the gamekeeper's cabin, just to get outside. The pumpkin patch was gone, and the paddock seemed to have been expanded, but Harry still found himself expecting to hear Fang howling a welcome from inside.

Just as he was about to wander on, the door opened, and out walked Ginny, Angelina, and Fred, who was looking much the worse for wear.

"We're headed off," Angelina said. "Wanted to know if Grubbly-Plank needed a shipment of Nifflers."

"Got a gross of 'em in only last week," Fred said, his eyes almost the color of his hair. "More than even we could use..."

Harry walked with them and Ginny to the gate, enduring yet another round of their thanks before they cleared the grounds and Apparated back to their home in East Anglia.

He and Ginny walked back in silence for a moment before she said, "Fred said you performed an Act of Rescission in the pub last night."

"Yes," Harry said. "I don't want anyone owing me anything."

"Harry," Ginny said, her hand sliding into his, "a life debt isn't something to be tossed away lightly..."

"I know," he said.

She stopped and looked at him. "I... 'You and yours.' Harry, you know that you excused my debt to you as well. The debt I've owed you since you saved me from Tom Riddle..."

He squeezed her hand, hard. He felt more comfortable looking away from her, and so his gaze wandered up the hill to where some Thestrals were watching a raven bate the Whomping Willow. "I knew it. That's what made me do it. Something Hermione had said made me think what a silly thing it was that you should still be bound to me for something that happened when we were children."

"Harry, I don't..." Ginny said, and stopped. She didn't say another word until they were in the entrance hall. Students wandered past them out into the sunshine. She leaned in to whisper in his ear, "Fine. I no longer owe you my life. Now I can just ask you to make a baby with me, and there's no problem at all."

And with that, she wandered down toward the kitchens and the Hufflepuff warrens.

* * *

The Minister for Magic's pending appearance was announced two days later by the arrival in Harry's last class before lunch of a very familiar, heart-shaped face.

"Tonks!" Harry exclaimed as the head of his wife's security detail appeared through the doorway, just as the last of the Gryffindor second-years wandered out.

"Wotcher, Harry!" said the pink-haired witch. She continued to wear this retrograde hairstyle so that the other members of her squad could spot her easily in a crowd.

"Good to see you, you're looking great." She was. The scar on her right cheek gave her a dashing, dangerous look; Harry knew that she could have made it disappear if she so chose, but that she rarely did these days. Some wizards liked to wear their Orders of Merlin on their chests, while others showed their experience in ways both more subtle and more imposing. "How's Charlie?"

Tonks gave a laugh. "How would I know? One of these days, one of us is going to convince the other to tag along. In the mean time, it's the odd weekend and occasional holidays."

"Well," Harry said, "I heard an Auror always gets her man"

"And I always heard you should watch your back with a man who likes to wear dragon-hide trousers," Tonks snorted.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Tonks's expressive face suddenly hardened. "Well, it's like this..."

"Our boss?" Harry said.

"Uh, yeah. Hermione wanted me... Well... Bugger, Harry, this is embarrassing as hell..." Tonks closed the door with a flick of her wand, locked it and put an Imperturbable Charm on it. Constant vigilance, Harry mused. "Look, Harry, I'm responsible for the security of the Minister's accommodations, see? And when I asked her where she'd be staying while she was up here, she said she supposed she'd be staying in Remus's digs with you, but, er..." She squinted at him. "But she said I should ask you... if she was, er, welcome."

"She... what?"

Tonks ran a half-gloved hand through her fuchsia hair. "Merlin, Harry, I don't know what the hell's going on between the two of you, but... Bloody hell."

Harry gazed at his friend, and then shook his head. "Yeah, bloody hell." Then he took a deep breath. "Of course she's welcome here. Of course."

Tonks seemed relieved. "Great. I'll just make sure it's secure...." And with a stumble that knocked two chairs over, she sprinted up the stairs.

Bloody hell.

* * *

At lunch, the hall was abuzz once again, this time discussing the appearance of a squad of Aurors on the school grounds that morning, and the imminent-though-oh-so-secret arrival of the Minister for Magic and a foreign visitor. As Harry walked towards the staircase to prepare for his next class, he saw, through the front door, a knot of witches and wizards making their way up toward the castle, including a short wizard in brightly colored robes, Percy, in his unrelenting black and his fly-away red hair, and Hermione, in her ceremonial green hat.

Sprinting up the stairs, he found himself asking what he was running from. The answer, he decided, wasn't so much Hermione as the thought of having to be around Hermione in public before they'd had a chance to talk. And, he realized, the odds of being able to talk with her were nil.

As he reached the top of the staircase, Tonks passed him heading down. "Tonks!" he called.

The Auror looked at him.

"Tell Hermione, 'Absolutely.' Do you understand?"

She nodded, smiled, and began to scan the entrance hall, her professional attitude falling over her like a mask.

Harry was distracted through the afternoon, but managed his lecture on turning an enemy's magic back on him well enough.

With only a few minutes left in his class with the Hufflepuff third-years, he heard the door open, and looked up to see Professor Snape, looking supremely dyspeptic, flanked by a stony-faced Hermione and the bright-clad gentleman, whom Harry supposed to Undersecretary Eaglerock. Percy's highly disapproving face hovered above the American's rainbow-hued skullcap.

"Pardon the interruption," said Snape, though he said it as though he were actually pronouncing a particularly nasty curse.

"That's, uh, perfectly all right, headmaster," Harry said.

"This is Defense against the Dark Arts," Snape growled, moving to scoot the other members of the party on to the next room.

"Wait!" said the American, beaming. All of his fellow travelers groaned. "I know you!" he said pointing at Harry, striding into the room. "You're... you're Harry Potter!"

Nonplussed, Harry looked at his wide-eyed students and said, "Uh, yes, yes, I am..."

"But," the small, bronze-skinned man said, "where's your scar?"

"Scar?" Harry was out of the habit of having people react to him this way. "Well, it...."

"Oh, that's okay," the man said, turning and smiling at the class. "Hi, kids! Sorry to interrupt... I have a daughter just a little younger than you guys... Anyway, could you sign an autograph, Harry? For my daughter?" With a grin, he pulled a notebook out from under his wildly geometric robes, which were covered with purple lighting bolts and red thunderbirds. "Man, you kids are lucky. My daughter's a huge fan of this guy." He hooked his thumb at Harry.

Not knowing what to say, he hazarded a look to his wife. She had her pursed-lipped, embarrassed-to-the-point-of-impatience look on. "Apparently," she said, "some American wizard wrote a rather... fanciful and entertaining account of the defeat of Voldemort. It's terribly popular."

"Of course," Eaglerock continued as Harry, stunned, signed the notebook, "this lovely lady here is the hero. Huge with the young witches, the Hermione Granger books. The boys like 'em too, but most of 'em won't admit it, ya know? Still, it's great. Knowing someone who's put up with adversity and discrimination can rise to fame and power, even in a place like this."

As he handed the signed book back to the American, Harry saw Hermione's face go blank in a way that told him all too clearly how humiliated she was. Beside her, Percy was turning red and Snape a rather dangerous shade of grey.

"Hey!" Eaglerock said with the enthusiasm that seemed to be his natural state "You two are married aren't you?" When Harry and Hermione both spluttered indistinctly, the Undersecretary for Magical Education went on. "Cool! That's great! Will I see you at the reception later? Great!"

And before Harry had a chance to respond, the diminutive American strode out of the room, pulling most of the party in his wake. When the dust had settled, Hermione and Tonks were the only visitors remaining. "Well, children, uh, Professor," said Hermione, favoring him with a nervous smile, while avoiding meeting his eyes, "thank you for allowing us into your classroom."

"Thank you," Harry said. "Minister."

The students giggled, and Hermione waved to them as she left the room.

* * *

Dinner that evening was equally breathless. Jerzy Eaglerock--over the hors-d'oeuvres, Harry learned his grandparents had been, variously, a Japanese yamabushi, a Voodoo Queen, a Navajo Singer and one of the first women Kabbalists--wandered up and down the hall, back and forth along the Head Table, asking everyone questions in the same rapid-fire manner. Harry saw him quizzing Alithea, evidently fascinated with her fresh scars. He held a colloquy with a group of Slytherin and Ravenclaw first-years, apparently on the diet. He shot a series of questions at a startled Luna about her pregnancy leave, the level of healthcare she was receiving, and whether or not she were carrying twins. Hermione sat next to the place where he was supposed to have been, increasingly impassive.

The only time during the whole meal when she showed any emotion at all was when Sidi and Harry walked up, their hands touching back to back. Hermione leaned across the table to kiss both her daughter and her godson.

Professor Snape looked as if he might lose what little of his dinner he had managed to swallow.

When the meal was over, the faculty trailed behind the headmaster, who was striding mutely into the little reception room behind the Great Hall where, all those years ago, Harry had stood, first with his fellow first-years, waiting to be sorted, and later, with the other Tri-Wizard Champions. The room seemed much smaller, now.

Snape's resemblance to a particularly grotesque statue became more and more impressive as the diminutive Eaglerock nattered away. "Of course, we're able to live much more openly in the States. Utopian communities, communes... People won't even bat an eye if a group of weirdos and hippies moves in to town..."

Percy was muttering something under his breath, evidently for Hermione's benefit. While attempting at the least to appear to listen to the American wizard's droning monologue on comparative customs and mores, Harry watched her eyes stray to the middle Weasley brother, and saw her chewing on her cheeks--always a dangerous sign.

Sipping a glass of sparkling mead, Harry tried to catch his wife's eye, but even her skills of communication seemed to be overtaxed by the demands of her guest and Percy.

Deciding not to add to the difficulty, and praying that he would get the chance to talk to his wife soon, Harry meandered over to Ron and Luna. Sipping water, she was grimacing, rocking back and forth.

"How are you?" he asked, ignoring the pleading look from Ron that he not ask just that question.

"Not terribly well, actually," she said. "I've had terrible gas all day long..."

Harry looked at her, at her posture. "Your whole belly gets hard for a few minutes, hurts a little, then it goes away for a while before suddenly hitting you again?"

"Yes," Luna said, her usually airy tone rather edgier than normal. "Do you think it was the kippers?"

"The kippers?" Harry asked. "I didn't know..."

"Couldn't take it this morning," she hissed. "Wanted a real breakfast... Had kippers and bangers and eggs and fried tomatoes..."

"Uh, sorry, I missed breakfast, but no, Luna, I don't think it was the food." He looked at Ron, whose face was twisted in concern. "Have you talked to Professor Studdiford?"

"Just five minutes ago," Ron volunteered.

"No," Harry said, "I mean, have you talked to him about this feeling?"

Luna and Ron both shook their heads. Saying he'd be right back, Harry wandered over to Tom Studdiford and Nott (It seemed strange to think of him by just his last name when his partner went by two) who were chatting quietly but intently with the Longbottoms.

"Oh, good," said Nott, "perhaps she'll listen to sense if it comes from someone she actually likes."

Ginny flushed slightly and sputtered, "Nott, you know I like you, you're just being..."

"I think the word that pertains," Tom offered, "is naughty. Or knotty-with-a-k. Or just Nott-y"

Nott cast a slow, disgusted look over his lover that would have caused most students to run screaming. The Health and Healing professor laughed. "Potter," Nott said, "Flitwick has been making noise about retiring again, and I've been trying to convince this obstinate woman that she should offer her services as head of Ravenclaw House. The only other logical candidate is Lovegood, and even if she were able to stay in contact with objective reality for more than five minutes running, her present... condition would seem to make her a less than perfect candidate for the next few years."

"Ah," Ginny said. "If it comes to that, I, uh, may need to recuse myself for somewhat the same reason."

His face a picture of understated confusion, Nott stared from Ginny to her husband, who was grinning. "Oh, Merlin," he said finally, "another one."

Tom's mouth hung open. "Are you already?..."

"No!" Ginny said. "We're, uh..." She looked to her husband.

"No, no, we're just beginning to look at it," Neville said, beaming, his eyes locked on Harry's.

"Yes, speaking of which," Harry said to Tom, "I think you have a patient in imminent need, Professor. She's in pre-labor."

"But she's not due for weeks," said Ginny.

Tom held up his hand. "You're sure?" he asked Harry.

"Well, as sure as I can be without your training," Harry said. "Hermione always started having the sorts of contractions she's describing a couple of days before she gave birth. But from the way she's behaving, it sounds like Luna might be pretty close; perhaps you should take a look."

"Of course," said the blond wizard, and strode across the room.

"He's been obscenely pleased to have a pregnant woman all to himself," Nott sighed. "This place has been blessedly untroubled with opportunities for him to practice his obstetric talents." Then the potions master pulled a face of the deepest revulsion. "Oh, I do hope she doesn't burst right here."

"Nott!" said Ginny, giving him a backhanded slap to the shoulder.

"You know," Harry said--more to the Longbottoms than to Nott--"Hermione managed just fine after Albie was born."

"Do you mean to compare the wrangling of several hundred of wizarding Britain's most devious, diabolical little monsters," Nott said haughtily, "to the minor matter of overseeing the Ministry of Magic?"

Neville pulled at his beard. "He has a point."

Ginny laughed, the full, rich laugh that always made Harry want to laugh along, whatever the joke. He was, however, preoccupied with watching his wife and Percy. Both peering off into space, they were holding what appeared to be a heated debate through clenched lips. Right, Harry thought, time to beard the lion. Neville, Ginny and Nott were deeply engaged in some obscure rehearsal of school politics. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk towards Hermione.

But before he could cross the room, the short, harlequinesque figure of Jerzy Eaglerock intercepted him. "Just had a nice talk with your wife, Harry. You have three kids? Me too. A twelve-year-old girl--she's the one that's such a fan of your wife and you--and nine-year-old twin boys, holy terrors, I gotta tell you. You know it's funny," he said, glancing over at Luna, who was swaying gently while Tom Studdiford ran his wand over her stomach, "It wasn't until I saw Ms. Weasley that I thought, Whoa! Where's all the pregnant girls?"

"I'm sorry, Mr., uh..." Harry said, losing Hermione behind a clump of teachers.

"Jerzy."

"Jerzy, yes, what pregnant girls?"

"Well," the small man said, clearly relishing the question, "the school I was the head of, Spirit Bay out in California, the girls there were very into the idea of engaging the Life Force as the most primal source of magic. And the boys were more than happy to help them engage, you know? So we always had a dozen girls or more very happily knocked up at any one time. Don't see that here! Of course, under the robes you all wear, it'd be hard to tell...."

As the man droned on and on, pointing out what he clearly felt were some of the more quaint and archaic aspects of British magical education ("No colleges or universities? What is this, the Middle Ages?") Harry kept trying and failing to make eye contact with his wife.

To his relief, he saw Tonks engage Percy in some conversation--about Charlie, probably--and drag him away from Hermione by something just short of main force. With a quick set of excuses, Harry palmed Eaglerock off on an unsuspecting, unforgiving Professor Snape. "Say, Severus, nice place you've got here!"

The headmaster looked more murderous than Harry had seen him in many, many years.

Harry sprinted through the crowd, spattering mead on several of the teachers' dress robes as he passed. When he reached Hermione, he was breathless; she looked very, very tired.

"Hermione, luv." Harry kissed her on the cheek. She flinched back. "We need to talk."

"I know," she said, her eyes scanning over his shoulder. "But I need you to wait."

"Hermione..." Harry realized that he was very close to losing his temper with her, something he very much did not want to do. He swallowed his exasperation. "What's going on, Hermione? What's going on with you and Percy? And why did you make that offer to Ginny, without even talking to me about it?"

Her eyes went wide. "I... Harry, do you trust me?"

He looked down into her golden brown eyes. He could see from this distance, just how close to dissolving she actually was. "Of course I do, Hermione. But..."

"Trust me, Harry." She put on a fixed smile. "Oh, here's Percy again, with Undersecretary Eaglerock."

"Minister. Harry." Percy's tone sounded as dry and humorless as ever, but his eyes were glazing slightly behind his horned-rim glasses, and he smelled rather of sherry and, yes, Harry thought he detected the sulfurous whiff of a bit of firewhiskey as well.

"Percy," Harry said. "Thank you for shepherding Mr. Eaglerock."

"Well," Percy said sourly, "can't have him wandering lost and alone on foreign shores." This was a dig at Hermione, who, Harry supposed, was somehow supposed to be joined to the American wizard's hip.

"Come on!" Eaglerock said, lifting an empty glass. "Ms. Granger's been stuck with me all day! And I've hardly been alone. This is quite a live crowd you've got here, Harry!"

"Well, you should thank Professor Snape. I'm only a substitute teacher."

"Yeah, for that werewolf. Nice to see a real attempt at diversity here. Now, I'm gonna go grab a refill. Talk amongst yourselves!" And he stomped noisily off.

For a moment, Percy, Harry and Hermione stared at each other, none of them willing to start any conversation. Percy finally gave in. Reaching out in most undiplomatic fashion and resting his arm around Hermione's waist, he began affecting a rather inept American accent, "You know, Harry, old pal, you should get jobs out of town more often. Had quite a nice time working very closely with this lovely lady the last couple of weeks."

Had Harry's attention been more on Percy's words than on Hermione's reaction, he would have punched the other wizard before noticing his wife's hand squeezing her wand to sawdust. "You know, Percy, old chap, if you don't get your hand off of my wife's body, she's going to hex your privates off, and I'm going to tattoo the sole of my shoe on your right buttock."

Percy's hand recoiled as if bitten. He stared at the two of them and spat, "Your wife, Harry, old chap, is a bitch."

"If you don't want to see my fangs and Harry's foot at close range, then, Percy, I'd sod off. Quick." Hermione's face was fury-white, her pupils vibrating. Her wand was clear of her robes and pointed at his heart. Tonks's pink head appeared from behind Professor Armstrong, her face battle-ready. Hermione shook her head, and Tonks nodded and stood down.

She took Harry's hand, and the two of them returned Percy's unsteady glare.

"And Percy?" Harry said, with a calmness that shocked him utterly, "I think it might be a good idea to look for work in the private sector."

With a crumpled sneer, Percy pulled himself to his full height. "Give the Undersecretary my regards," he said, turned on his heels, and walked stiffly out of the room.

Hermione's hand still clutched in his, Harry was about to turn to her and demand some answers when another shout rose over the hubbub in the room. "Ahhhhh! Bloody hell! Bollocks! Damn! Oh, damn!"

Not far from the door, Luna was standing--if it could be called standing--with her hands clutching Ron's shoulders. She was bent over at the waist and howling into his face. "Bastard! Ronald! You bloody bastard! YOU DID THIS TO ME!" Then she let out a string of truly inspired obscenities.

As Ron stood in white-faced shock, Luna shrieked into his chest, and the lower half of her pale yellow dress robes was flooded, stained a wet, light pink. Collapsing against her husband, Luna began to laugh. "Water broke! Ahahaha!"

Tom Studdiford conjured a table over from the wall, swept canapés and petit-fours off of the top and tried to help Luna up onto it, but she refused. "Right," he said, over Luna's hysterical giggles--the only other sound in the room--"Walk you up to the hospital wing, shall we?"

* * *

Once Ron and Tom had escorted Luna up to the infirmary, the reception broke up rather quickly. Professors Flitwick and Mundy looked shaken to the core, and the headmaster looked as if someone had slipped stinksap into his mead. Harry doubted any of them had ever had the honor of seeing a woman in labor.

Tonks gave orders that two of the younger Aurors escort Jerzy Eaglerock back down to his rooms in Hogsmeade. "Boy, for a quiet woman, she sure let loose!" he laughed as he strolled out the main doors. Shaking her head, Tonks followed, checking the perimeter of the building as was her habit.

"Must be terrible having a team of Aurors checking under your bed all of the time," Ginny said.

"Not when I'm at home," Hermione sighed. "Grimmauld Place is still more or less impenetrable, so we're left to ourselves there. But it does get rather old, yes."

"Well," Neville mused, "at least it's Tonks." They all smiled. Then the four of them looked at each other, and began to mumble and shuffle their feet, almost in unison. "Come down to our place for a night cap, will you?" Neville suggested.

Harry shot an uncertain glance at his wife, but she nodded with such determination that all he could do was say, quietly, "Okay."

The women linked arms and led the way, whispering seriously at first; before they'd reached the stairs down to the Hufflepuff section of the castle, however, they seemed to be chattering away more like students than forty-year-old women. As they fell in step behind their wives, Harry asked Neville what news he'd gotten from Remus.

Neville sighed deeply. "Well," he said, "the experiment was what I would call a qualified success. I'd added a Mandrake distillate to the Wolfsbane Potion, you see, to try to block the transformation altogether. From what I've been able to ascertain--his owls were rather spotty there for a few days--while the change was diminished, it was not totally negated, and the discomfort was every bit as debilitating. So the benefits are not yet all we had hoped."

As they arrived at the Longbottoms' rooms, which were immediately next to the Hufflepuff dormitories, the girls let out a rather giggly squeal. "Do I want to know?" Harry asked.

"Not really," responded his wife. "Neville, we're going to pop in to the kitchens for a bit. They'll have an egg and some dishwashing soap..." And with that, and another burst of giggling, the two women strode off past the circular Hufflepuff door to the tapestry of fruit.

"Oh, no," groaned Harry, as Neville led him into his flat.

"What? What could they possibly want with an egg and some liquid soap?"

"Oh, Neville, you really don't..." Harry sighed. "It's an ovulation thing. And there's this... discharge, see? And it's usually the consistency of soap, but when a woman is, uh, ripe, it's like egg white and..."

"You know, Harry, you were right. I didn't want to know." He shuffled around the tiny flat, gathering up some small crystal goblets. "Can I interest you in some wine?" Neville asked. "I don't like distilled spirits much--not enough of the plant, you see."

"Wine sounds lovely," Harry said, looking about the room, then looking more closely at the glasses. "Those are from the Burrow."

"Yes, yes, well spotted," Neville laughed sadly. "We've got quite a lot of stuff from the family manse..." With the white glass bottle that he had just picked up, he indicated a clock in the corner--Molly's old clock.

"Lord," Harry said, peering at it. Charlie in bed--well, it's later in Romania, or wherever he is. Bill and the twins at home. Percy in transit. Ron in hospital--hope he hasn't passed out. Ginny in the kitchen. And Arthur and Molly in mortal peril.

Seeing where Harry was looking, Neville said, "We never had the heart to take their hands out, you see." He handed Harry an ice-rimed goblet. "Young witch up in Skye does wonderful things with frostgrapes," he said, and they drank a silent toast to the elder Weasleys.

"Listen, Neville," Harry began. "Did Ginny tell you about Hermione's letter?"

"Of course," Neville said, stroking his beard as he continued to look at the clock. "I was there when she opened it." He gave Harry a lopsided grin. "Rather serendipitous, don't you think? Great minds, and all that."

"Er, yes, Neville, but... I feel as if you've been operating under a, uh, misapprehension." When his friend's face remained blank, Harry went on, "You said my worst bit of judgment was not finding Ginny attractive. But I did find her attractive. I do find her attractive."

Neville chewed thoughtfully on his upper lip for a second. "And she's attracted to you. I know. She and I had a rather long talk the night after your heroics with her nephew. I can only imagine how terrifying the request I'm making--the offer Hermione is making--might be to you. I'm terrified myself." He ran two fingers over the face of the clock; Ginny's hand now read 'traveling.' "But Harry, if I can't trust you and Ginny, whom can I trust? I know you'll do the right thing. If... being with you can make her happy, then it's a risk I'm willing to take. I trust the two of you before I trust myself."

Though deeply touched, Harry realized he was feeling far from reassured. Indeed the panic seemed to be creeping into his throat. "Look, it might take more than just the once..."

"Oh!" said Neville. "I assumed that. Pollenization is never an easy business. And Ginny is her mother's daughter. I'm fairly certain she wants at least two."

Harry's head was buzzing, though he was not sure if was from the sugar in the wine and mead he'd been sipping at for hours, from the rather minimal amount of alcohol, or from sheer shock. "Neville, it's understood--these are to be your children, not mine. I don't care if they come out with messy black hair and green eyes--they're to be Longbottoms."

Two heavy tears rolled their way down either side of Neville's nose. Incapable of speech he threw his arms around Harry's neck.

At just that moment, the door opened and Hermione led Ginny back in by the hand. The red-headed witch was holding her free hand up over her face.

"What is it?" asked Harry.

Hermione exuded self-satisfaction. "She's ready. It's time."

"What," Harry spluttered, "now?"

"Now." Hermione gave her friend a quick kiss on the bright red cheek. Teary-eyed to match Neville, Ginny tottered over to her husband.

Harry crossed to his wife, speaking with quiet dread, "Hermione, I don't know..."

"I love you, Harry," she whispered in his ear, and Harry felt as if he had been submerged in a warm, long-awaited bath.

"I love you too."

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course."

"As I do you." Then she kissed him firmly and passionately and Harry realized that he hadn't kissed Hermione like this in longer than he could remember.

"Uh," said Neville, his interruption earning him a groan of disappointment from both Harry and Hermione. "Perhaps, Hermione, I could, you know, walk you up to Remus's... I mean, Harry's rooms?" Shifting uncertainly from foot to foot, he reminded Harry--as he had not done in years--of the awkward, shy boy Neville had been when they had first met.

Hermione squeezed Harry's hand, linked her arm in Neville's, and far too quickly, the two of them disappeared from the flat.

Ginny and Harry looked at each other, startled and hesitant. "Well," said Ginny.

"Well. Egg white." She nodded. "Listen, there are other ways we could do this..."

"I'm not a goose to be basted," Ginny said with disgust, walking slowly towards him. "Only Muggles would take the one bit of magic they can do on their own and muck it up."

They stood, staring at each other. Ginny's fingers began picking invisible specks of lint off of her velvet gown.

"Do you feel even vaguely ready to, you know, do this?" Harry asked, clutching his still-frigid wine glass in both hands.

Ginny peered at him, her lips thin and pale. She shook her head. "After watching Luna's performance tonight, I'm not sure the idea of giving birth appeals to me so much just at the moment."

"Oh, and you're missing the really terrifying part," Harry said, smiling grimly. Then he put down his wine and took a step toward her. "It is magical, though. More magical than any charm or potion. Quite amazing."

"Hmmm."

"Aside from that," he continued, taking her hand in his dry and trembling hand, "what about my animal magnetism?"

"Ah," she said, raising her other hand to run a finger across his forehead. "There is that."

"So," Harry offered, "shall we just stay down here for the next half hour, then go up and tell our spouses it was lovely?"

"No," Ginny said, smiling slightly now. "I think we should actually do this. This. While we have the opportunity. Before we frighten each other out of it."

Harry leaned forward and caught her upper lip between his, and suddenly the space between them seemed to have melted away and it felt as if they were passing air and blood and fire back and forth between them.

This time it was Ginny who pulled away. Her eyes gave a funny, sad twinkle.

"What?"

"I can taste Hermione's lipstick on you."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Harry moved to wipe his lips on his sleeve.

"It's all right," Ginny said, stopping his arm. "Just... strange." She turned, presenting him with back of her emerald dress robes. "Now, before I change my mind, Harry, undo me, will you?"

Fingers thick and uncertain, Harry detached eight hooks down the back, revealing her pale, freckled shoulders. "How'd you get in and out of this if Neville or I weren't here?" he asked giddily.

"What do you think men are for, Harry?" Letting the robes drop to her feet, Ginny turned to him, revealing the body Harry had been exploring in his mind for decades.

"Uh..."

"You don't have to answer that, Harry. I know what men are for."

Flush with fear and with desire, Harry stopped her as she reached for the button on his robes. "Ginny, I..."

"Mr. Potter," she said, plucking her wand from the table and twirling it between her fingers, "am I going to have to tie you up after all?"

Harry laughed, and that laugh seemed to dispel his anxiety and unleash his own desire. "No, Ginny," he said, quickly pulling off his own robes. "I don't think that will be necessary."

And then he leaned into her and kissed.