Illusions of Perfection

Putting down the same quill nearly a week later, I sigh loudly enough to break the silence. Not being one to set aside difficult tasks, I had thus far managed to throw many thwarted attempts at a letter into the fire over the past week. The decision to transfer the thoughts from my head into a visible reality had been inevitable. It had, however, taken me a number of months to even get to the stage where I could consider sitting down upon the brown leather-backed chair, (a chair that distinctly reminded me of the one in the staff room at Hogwarts, where the intended recipient of my letter would probably now be sitting,) and compose my thoughts into a coherent form.

After I had Apparated out of Hogwarts, my days had been spent inside a single room, (in a bed and breakfast,) in one of the many faceless and indistinguishable seaside resorts. When I had finally managed to open the curtains and let the sunlight in, I had then rented a little flat with the money I had saved while working.

That flat had been where my summer months had been spent so differently from my previous one, where days had been plump and bursting with long conversations, and with as much happiness crammed inside them as was possible. Impromptu visits to the beach near our house had been taken, when the benevolent sun spread its rays and chased the clouds away. My favourite days, though, had been the simple ones spent in our garden, where a good book turned the sky to night with the flick of the pages.

This year, however, all I had wanted to do was escape from myself, because that happiness had been extinguished so rapidly. My lonely residence had been small, consisting of four rooms with a shared terrace garden that opened out onto a sometimes-windy, Welsh seafront. A view which had been my almost constant companion for many hours over the following days and weeks, something that had allowed me to unreservedly wallow in my sorrow, and regurgitate that fateful day repeatedly.

Wales hadn't been a completely conscious destination, but for some reason that seafront had appeared in my mind as a refuge. Until I had arrived in that particular village on its north coast, I hadn't understood the underlying reason for taking myself there. When I had been younger, and my parents' dental practise was still in it's fledgling years, holidays had consisted of cheap and simple family time spent in our own country. One such week I had enjoyed more than all the others was in my eighth year, spent in the very same town I had fled to this past summer. Looking back, I remember that holiday being one of my happiest and most memorable, mainly because my parents had been unreservedly contented as well. There had only been a small amount of money in the family budget for paid entertainment, and meals out. For me this had been a bonus, because it meant we spent time together without distractions.

I had rejoiced in the dinners we had eaten on the neatly laid table that rocked on the flag stone floor of the kitchen, rejoiced that my Dad still thought he could convince me to eat my potatoes by informing me that the centre was laden with white chocolate. A quite disgusting thought in reality, much like the battered Mars Bars that he bought from 'The Oceanic', a fish and chip shop on the corner of the street that gave shelter to our holiday cottage. My dad had delighted in the coarse texture of the coating that was smoothed by the rich filling of nougat and chocolate. My Mom, and in turn myself, gave him a reassuring smile and discreetly disposed of his offering in the nearby bin. Luckily, he was none the wiser, and even now, he fondly recalls our first family battered-chocolate-bar experience. To this day, I have never had the heart to dissuade him from the notion that we hadn't actually liked the oxymoron of two opposing food groups.

Nestled near the village, we had found little shallows, whose margins were protected by the smooth-skinned rocks that with every outgoing tide kept a reserve of water and became the home for small sea creatures and, sometimes, fish. Armed with our small nets and buckets, we had mercilessly set out to recover those animals the sea had misplaced. Our first and second foray had been uneventful, but still enjoyable. The third, however, had been much more exciting for some of us. My Dad hadn't noticed the still-slimy rocks, and perhaps he had also over-anticipated his aptitude for balancing. The result had been an undesired trip, at least for him, into the cold and brine-based home of the starfish and crabs. Both Mom's and my own laughter had followed him along the half-mile of beach and subsequent pebble pathway to the car. We had found countless opportunities to remind him of the incident over the proceeding days of our holiday. Over the following years it had become a legend in our small family and the source of much laughter at my parents' frequent dinner parties.

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My dad had fallen in the rock pool; it was very funny, although I don't think that he sees it like that. My mom is laughing her socks off as we listen to his grumbling while making the long trip back to the car.

"If you had to walk in these jeans, little miss, you wouldn't be giggling like that. Come here, you rascal!" my dad shouted as he started to chase me along the path.

This only caused me to laugh louder and soon we found ourselves worn out, wet and back at the small car park, whose only other occupant was a lonely wooden rowing boat that had seen better days.

"We didn't bring a change of clothes, did we? I suppose the car seats will have to get as wet as me then. Hermione, come on, stop messing with that stick and get in the car; some of us want to go home and get dry," my Dad said. He always knows the exact tone of voice that would make me follow his instructions.

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Even now, in my mind's eye, I can conjure up the squelch of his boots as we made our way along the gravel track. How he had flapped his arms wildly like a mad goose when he had ran after me along the pathway. Water had trickled down his nose and added to the copious amounts already sitting on his thick woollen jumper and blue jeans. I also remember with affection the grin he was attempting to stop from creating a deep fissure in his face.

We had, for that short period, been, more than any other time, what I believed a real family should be; surrounded with warmth, laughter, and a good dollop of hugs and kisses. Of course, now I'm older, reality has explained to me that perfection is a bubble that is continuously being burst, no matter how hard you try to keep it away from sharp objects. The thread on my particular pin had revolved around my obsession with attaining a perfect relationship, and an idyllic family life. The latter, being something, which, I had started to create secretly since that week in Wales. Looking back a few years later, the storybook and television translations of home, love, and intimacy had seemed for a short while a reality that was achievable.

My time spent with the Weasleys had added to the daydream and utopian idealism of family life. Arthur and Molly's marriage had seemed to exude so much more affection and understanding than my parents' example. It wasn't the magical aspect that was the only thing lacking from my own home life though. There seemed to be a permanent chill in the air ever since my parents lost my sister, Beatrice. From that day forward, they had concentrated all their efforts on building a successful business, rather than their previous desire of a happy family with three or four children spaced out across six or seven years.

On one of my last visits to see them, I had been left one night alone while they attended a social function, to which I had not been invited. I had not intended to snoop around my childhood home, but it had an almost alien quality to it that invited investigation. After an hour of misdirection and rummaging, I had found in a corner cupboard in the room reserved for Beatrice, a sequined shoebox. Secured by pink ribbon and a butterfly broach, inside had lain secrets that my eyes were not meant to see.

Any sentimentality my Mother had once held had been relinquished. With that change of direction, the rectangular box that echoed back to a time when she had ideas beyond dentistry, and the battle to be evermore successful had been left to stagnate, to remain alone in a room where time's graces hadn't appeared to pass.

I, of course, had known of Beatrice, but I had that night learnt about Benadict, or Isabella, and Holly who was going to have been our terrier dog. In that little square container had been a plan; written by my Mother, it was a list of all the things they had wanted in their lives. Now though, all these other wishes and hopes had been left to waste in that box. I discovered that it was never intended for me to be an only child. It seemed, however, that the loss of my little sister, whose eyes had never seen beyond the cocoon of the womb, had created a tear that would forever remain visibly patched. We had never, as a family, or individuals, discussed the repercussions that her passing had provoked. It seemed as if, as best as was humanly possible, all remains of Beatrice had been scraped away with the same precision that they routinely applied to the plaque on their patients' less-than-white teeth. All that was left was a reflective stone marker in the ground, and a few meaningful words cursively placed in a book, with little value, or relevance to anyone but those who paid for them to be there.

The tapping of hail on the window brings my thoughts forward. That day was when I had heard the owl rapping its beak on the glass whose frame sat above my kitchen sink, in that rather lonely summer residence by the sea. It welcomed a view that made me settle my gaze out of it's contemporary in the front room. The morning had signalled the last day of July, and after slowly realising why she was requesting to be let in, I had briefly considered bolting the window, and leaving the blinds in the closed position. For a while, it had seemed easier to allow myself the seeming luxury of letting the current wash me away from the magical world, and leave me to find another port to berth in. It suddenly seemed so much simpler than facing the situation I found myself in. A problem that was something akin to the aftermath of a head on collision with a very large brick wall, the wreckage was not limited to just the two of us. Piecing it back together would prove to be something that even now I wasn't positive I could achieve. One thing I'm certain about now though, is that I was lucky that the unexpected bird could fly better than I could, and that some aspects of my nature hadn't been completely dulled.

Common sense and my very strong streak of curiosity had drawn the trump card, and soon the moody barn owl was drinking from a chipped saucer that seemed as old as the building with which it had been rented. There had been a last minute cancellation, and I had been lucky enough to get a furnished flat in the peak summer season. The neat Victorian façade, had hidden high ceilings, and draughty rooms, whose windows I had been forced to charm against the sweeping sea air. Inside the post pouch was the situations vacant section from the Daily Prophet, along with the very obviously glowing advertisements that had inveigled themselves into the international section. I never did learn how it had come to pass that I received that particular issue, because none had found me previous to that day. The beaming announcements were the magical alternative to the edging and colours added to highlight sections in the Muggle papers I had been reading over the previous weeks.

Returning to the Muggle world wasn't something that would prove easy to undertake successfully, as the qualifications needed to attain a position in a mainstream school in my old world were something that I didn't have. Magical examination results were not meant, or made to be transferable to the outside world, and I had discovered that I would have to attend a University, gain a degree and something called a P.G.C.E to be able to continue in my current profession. I didn't want to spend the next four years trying to achieve them, and if I were being honest with myself, my previous inclination and passion for learning were things that had apparently gone absent without leave. If I were to sail my ship on that particular course, it would have been without any visible landmarks to assist my lack of compass and, would have been companioned alongside the high probability of jagged rocks, deadly sea monsters, and, with my current luck, probably the wrath of Poseidon himself.

No, it seemed the only solution was to take the opportunity the owl afforded and send my Magical Minutiae, or as my Mom would have stated my Curriculum Vitae out to the most appealing and appropriate candidates. As I browsed the salt-seasoned paper, my eyes had been drawn towards a small but rather well put together trailer. I say 'trailer' in the literal sense, as the teaching establishment had included a wizarding slide show alongside their main advert. They were similar to the moving photographs that I had first seen what now seemed so many years ago. The effect created could be compared to a promotional video, and that is the only way a non-magical person could comprehend this altogether different media presentation.

The New Canadian Academy of Magic and Sorcery, _masqueraded as a small addition to the landscape about thirty miles east of Edmonton, the provincial capital of Alberta, Canada. Although it was closer to the town of Fort Saskatchewan, somewhere you didn't want to have to get back to if you were inebriated, as a colleague and I had the misfortune to discover. It is something to note that until I had come to Canada, I hadn't had much experience of hard liquor, and to be honest I don't think it is something that is going to be a frequent occurrence.

Manassah Sanford was a wizard of indeterminable years; he was also the headmaster of the only magical educational facility in Canada, which meant he presided over a large number of pupils and staff. Interviewing with Professor Sanford was accomplished by Repli-Kate Communicator, which was much more comfortable, practical, and appealing than lodging your head in a grate for a long period of time. It was, however, outrageously more expensive, and when international rates were taken into consideration, I was glad to say that the connection expenses had not been billed to my Gringotts account.

The blending of faculty members was altogether different from those at Hogwarts, as there was a much stronger contingent of International magical professors and staff members. This could be attributed to many things: the size of the school, a more open and worldly curriculum and the fact that linguistics was taught as a separate subject. Prominent wizarding languages such as Marlin Elementum, and the Veneficus Lingua were taught alongside French, German, Japanese, and Italian, allowing for a more global and less insular environment than Hogwarts.

Working in Canada had opened my eyes to a much more expansive magical society than I had previously considered, and I had somewhat unwillingly realised that my regard for my old school wasn't necessarily echoed by everyone. Headmaster Sanford had indicated to me that my lack of languages, and the old-fashioned approach to teaching that was employed at Hogwarts, might well cause me difficulties in adapting to his work and learning ethics. In balance, though, he added that adherence to tradition wasn't always a bad thing, and the fact that he held Albus Dumbledore in high esteem meant that anyone who had him as a reference deserved a trial period at (name of school).

So that had been the turning point. The official documents sealing the temporary appointment had been witnessed on my arrival. After the initial trial period, a Canonicus Tabellue Proprius Positus (a legal document of permanent position that had to be administrated be the Notatrius, the legal scribe,) would be authorized. It would only be signed if the intention were on both sides that I should stay. On that first day, and still to this very hour, I cannot honestly say which way my state of mind will take me, or if it will even be my brain doing the deciding.

Glancing up at the maple leaf-shaped clock, I consider that Menassah's seeming modernity didn't completely lack the odd traditional or perhaps national reference. His occasional gentle humming of 'Oh, Canada' at inappropriate times was a rather moot point with many of the staff. Noticing the position of the timepiece's hands and the fact that the drumbeat inside my stomach was not lessening by evasion, I decided to stop my wool-gathering and take a much-needed trip to the staff kitchens.

As a new resident and probationary professor, my apartments lacked the luxury of an adjoining kitchen, something that only the longstanding staff members were afforded. So, I had to either eat with the pupils and other faculty members, who like myself lacked cooking facilities, or take the now more frequent occurrence of an after hours excursion to eat whatever was left over from the evening meal. Moving away from my desk, I retrieve my wand, and head towards the door of the chamber that I have lived in for the past few months. I realised that it was nearing the time to firmly decide if my life was to turn towards this brave new land permanently. The headmaster had indicated that apart from my tendency to sometimes close myself off from others and retreat to my chambers, he had no complaints about my professional abilities. He belatedly added that I had adapted much quicker than he had anticipated, and that the only thing left to decide was whether I myself wished to stay on his staff, or return to the position he knew was still open for me at Hogwarts.

I don't know how well acquainted he was with my situation, or my reasons for landing at his school, but he seemed to know more than I had told him. Being a diplomatic man, however, he had mastered the fine art of negotiation and applied wisdom. He usually seemed to know what needed to be left unspoken. I briefly wondered if this was a requirement for being a Headmaster; Albus Dumbledore always appeared to know much more than he ever disclosed, and most of the time, apart from being annoyingly enigmatic, was relatively tactful.

My quarters here weren't anywhere near as splendid as those I had inhabited in my tenure as Head Girl, or as cosy and intimately loving as my last apartment at Hogwarts. I had however, tried to stamp my presence upon its cold, monumental, stone walls and thin, arched windows. With the fire flaming as it did now, it at least felt warm. I haven't got many highly personal possessions, as I prefer to have people as friends rather than objects, but I do have a few special items that would cause me injury to part with. Sentimentality, to some measure it seems, does get the better of all of us, and I was no exception; it may well be that, along with memories, these trifles were all I had left of my former existence.

Aside from the obvious photo albums and letters that help me hold those recollections close, was the graduation present my parents had gifted me: a traditionally produced and hand-woven throw from South America.

Apparently these textiles all tell a story that only a few people can now still decipher, a number that is depleting as the years are drawn along. Sadly, the only thing my parents forgot was a translation of the cloth. I comforted myself with the possibility that perhaps they wanted to provoke my curiosity, or in their simple way tell me that we don't have to know everything about a thing to appreciate it. If I were being brutally honest, I would say that they never really considered that the whole beauty lay inside its threads. I could never fully appreciate it just for its aesthetic qualities; I needed to know what lay hidden within its weave. That, I believe, stands as a testament to how they now know so little about my personality, my insecurities, or me. Maybe I was just over-analysing a gift that was not really meant to mean anything; it wouldn't be the first time my complete and almost medically precise dissections had left me emotionally wounded. Sometimes an object just is, existing without any alternative motivations or secret agendas.

A small number of other gifts and items occupied the room with me, but the one that had the most sentimental value was the first Christmas present that Remus had given me. I hadn't really considered him to be someone who gave indiscriminately or without due consideration, but that year his gift had displayed to me his own, often camouflaged, talent for sentimentality. It had embarrassingly brought tears to my eyes then, and even occasionally did now when I was in a particularly maudlin mood, something that over the past few weeks had been occurring much more frequently than before. The night I had run away, I hadn't had the mental resources to pack much in the way of personal belongings.

Mainly collecting a few items of clothing, essentials like a little money, my Muggle credit card (something I always kept in case of emergency's, when I wouldn't get the chance to exchange money), legal documents, passports and all the practical things I would need. It seemed even when I was in emotional turmoil, my mind had the attributes of a heat seeking missile where necessities were concerned. Then, just as I took my wand to perform the reducing spell, my heart had for a moment stopped me; it told me to walk over to the bookshelf and liberate my photo album. It didn't fall silent then, however, it told me to return to the bedroom, where so much passion and pleasure had been given life, and transplant that Christmas gift from its home and place it in my closed but still unlocked case. That final action seemed to sear itself onto the underside of my eyelids, appearing every time I closed my eyes. It was just one of the many reasons why my sleep was now so disturbed and disrupted.

A very different form of daytime disturbance was now making her way down the corridor towards me.

"Hello Hermione. Your stomach finally got the better of you, hmm?" Came a booming voice that not unwelcomely started me out of my reverie.

Wilhemina Westenbrook was a lively seventy-year-old, whose native land was America, but, as she had said the first time we were introduced, she couldn't stand those stuck-up, snobs at the Salem Institute. The Salem Institute snobs had forced her away from her homeland, and happily she took up residence here, where she began teaching nearly thirty years ago. Wilhemina tended to take most people under her rather large arms; if she were of a very different frame you could say they were akin to angel's wings. Mina, as she preferred to be called, however, was as far from the stereotypical angel as you could get. Unless of course, you had a fondness for middle-aged cherubs with feathery top lips.

Mina reminded me a little of a larger and older version of Mrs Weasley. If you were being kind, she exuded motherly concern and warmth, but if you weren't, she was just a big old gossip. Whichever frame of mind you were inclined towards, her perfume always had an unerring allegiance towards roses and was always worn in excessive amounts. The fragrance was the product of her own cauldron, and the resulting effect was a persisting aroma that permeated her chambers, and leaked down the stairwell into the adjoining office like Muggle potpourri, something my mom had a passion for, and I had a strong aversion to. It had always meant she was having important people around, people whom she wanted to impress, though why dried up bits of flowers should do that, I don't really know. I had been forced to attend for the eating part of the evenings, polite conversation was always exchanged, and feigned interest was offered in the fiction that was my private boarding school. My parent's story included a prestigious, highly exclusive, and very expensive boarding school.

They hadn't always been so preoccupied with appearances, but events had steered them not too gently down that path, and it had led to the breakdown of intimacy between us. Mina, however, seemed oblivious to the different effects her perfume had on her two nearest neighbours. Angelo De Luca and Jaegar Bauer had very opposing opinions on the odour that wafted around her rooms, and seemed to seep into their adjoining ones. Angelo was housed to the left of Mina and Jaegar took the right flank. While Wilhemina herself let it be widely known that she enjoyed the fact that she was sandwiched between two such attractive men, they did not employ the same viewpoint. Jaegar was, as his name suggests, a hunter. He was a tall, charismatic, and strong-minded German who, while not having the fine features of Angelo, could still attract women as well as any veela could men. There was an aura about him that was indefinable, but it was raw, immediate and obviously effective. The problem for them, but obviously not for him, was that he knew his prey well, and just how to play them until they sung like a bird performing its dying swansong. It is said that a birds sweetest song is the last melody it performs before it dies, thankfully I can't carry a tune at the best of times, let alone when I'm about to die!

With Angelo, it was his features rather than personality that made women fall over themselves to date him. It was, however, all in vain because Angelo didn't exactly regard women in quite the same way as his colleague. One of the truest phrases I have ever heard is that there are a higher percentage of attractive men in Italy than almost any other country. I could attest to that fact from my holidays spent in that land of olive groves, lemon trees and a rather attractive waiter called Carlo. In all honesty, Angelo didn't deviate from this statement in any discernable way. Italian Stallion he might well be, but his preference wasn't for mares; he enjoyed femininity. You could say he embraced it. Some who were not as tolerant as others said he embraced it just a little too much." Each to their own" is the stance I have always taken in these matters. His particular direction of fancy in the short time I had known him was aggressively towards Jaegar, a fact he announced to me fairly regularly in the many times we came across each other in the kitchens.

What were their conflicting judgments on the homemade Rose Essence Perfume? Well Angelo loved it, and Professor Bauer could be heard to mutter, after a particularly pungent episode, statements like: "Does she actually think any man wants to have the cloying smell of roses under his nose?" or "One day I'm going to destroy all the rose bushes. Just because I teach High Magical Arts doesn't mean I can't brew a simple poison." Several that were much more common, however, were, 'Dumme Weib' and 'Rosen, denkt sie sich bloss dabei?

It's probably a good thing that Mina doesn't understand a word of German, because as Angelo had told me, that remark would probably hurt her often-sensitive feelings. This thought returns my attention to the not-too-svelte witch in front of me.

"You've caught me again Mina. I got distracted. You know how it is with all this marking for the end-of-term exams," I reply.

Unrealistically, I hoped this would keep her off the scent. Many would say she was akin to a dog with a bone in her ability to sniff out a bit of scandal or gossip. I say she reminds me of just a slightly more-scrupled Rita Skeeter on the trail of a burning hot story. Mina follows the adage 'where there's smoke, there's fire', which, in her terms translates to, 'I'll create the smoke and stoke the fire furiously myself.' It was, thankfully, mainly harmless and not as intentionally damaging, defamatory, or overtly malicious as little Miss Beetle's articles.

"That's a fib if ever I heard one," she answers. "More than likely it's your young man that you've been writing to." Adding insult to injury, she persisted in pushing the point. I felt like I was going to melt on the spot.

"I've been marking, Mina. I also wanted to get the reports written before the Christmas holidays," I replied.

"I still say it's better to speak face to face rather than owl to owl. Don't know why you don't want to see him either. I wouldn't mind having a handsome face like that to wake up to during my Christmas Vacation," she said with more than a slight smile.

Noticing the effect this remark had on the colour of my cheeks, she just chuckled and told me to hurry on down to the kitchens before I caught my death from cold, joking that she knew something that would warm me up to no end. I don't believe she was referring to the vegetable soup that I ate most nights, with bread still warm from their rest in the ovens, either. It didn't occur to me to wonder, until after I had heard her navy court shoes resonate around the corner, leaving only her sickly sweet perfume flittering around my nose, as to how she knew about Remus. Secondly, where exactly had she seen a picture of him? As far as I knew, the only one available within the walls of this establishment was in my private quarters.

While she did, on occasion, appear unexpectedly within my chambers with what can only be described as sometimes rather skeletal and dubious reasons, I had never considered that she would breech my privacy so unscrupulously. I mentally put that thought onto a shelf which was only a little below eye level, keeping it within easy reach and readily available for further consideration. I had other more pressing matters to examine at the moment. Hopefully there was some soup that would warm me as much as Wilhemina's remarks had so that my stomach could stop feeling like a herd of Blast-Ended Skrewitts were in rampaging residence, doing just as their name implied.

Thanking Slinky, the house-elf, I settled down on the high-backed chair that was perpetually warmed by its proximity to Enrica, the large 'ever-burning' stove. Apparently when the school administration had tried to modernise the kitchen equipment, making the house-elves' lives easier, they had protested and said they were quite happy as things were. So the one-hundred-year- old cantankerous oven stayed were she was, her spluttering and moaning pipes all part of the appeal. At least to the many house-elves, who didn't seem perturbed by her at all. Perhaps because she was the source of endless humour for them? I have discovered at my own expense that Canadian house-elves seem to like the idea of practical jokes.

I had come to the conclusion that, while the house-elves were slightly more forward here, they still protested at any mention of wages and freedom. The liberation of the house-elves had taken a backseat since the last year of the war. Dobby had seemed to miss the never-ending supply of socks though.

With current events as they were, I didn't feel the inclination to start any sort of campaign for creatures that, in their own words, had no personal desire to improve their situation. There were people, Remus being one of them, who held a deep-seated aspiration to affect change in not just their own lives, but for many who were the victims of prejudice and cruelty. Years of misunderstanding, misjudgement, and misdirection were only a few of the things that needed to be altered.

Just before leaving, I had been helping Remus to review the werewolf legislation and to evaluate the positions within it that needed to be changed. It had been the beginning of a plan to appeal a high majority of laws within many documents that, whether intentional or not, promoted bigotry and social exclusion.

Smiling to myself, my thoughts lead me back to Mina. I acknowledged that, while she meant well, she didn't really understand the situation. However much I had developed a liking for her, it was more like my relationship with overripe cheese: slightly too mature and smelly for everyday use. She would never be someone I would confide in; that was where she differed from Molly. Molly Weasley had experienced her own share of problems, heartbreak, and happiness, and she also nearly always gave good advice; if you could get past the side of her that wanted to mother you to death that is!

There were situations that I found my own mother had either been unable or unwilling to understand. That was how I had found myself turning to Molly more and more for the advice that was not forthcoming from my own mother. Over the past few years, it had been something that was a comfort to us both, as Molly no longer had Ginny to mother, and after her death I didn't have a female friend I felt at ease confiding in. I liked to think that Ginny herself would be glad of the fact we had turned to the other for support and consolation. When I remember my friend, I can't help but conjure up her first proper, full-blown exposure to the Muggle world.

"What exactly are these for? They look like something from Professor Snape's store-room."

"And what exactly was Ginny Weasley doing in Snape's private rooms? Is there something you want to discuss with me?" I replied, glancing across to see what she had in her hands.

Ginny had been allowed to come with me to visit my parents this summer, and I was glad of the respite it would give me from their constant questions about what I was going to do when I left Hogwarts. Voldemort was something that we hadn't really discussed. I should probably say hadn't been allowed too; the Latito-imperceptus Charm not only concealed, but also stopped the disclosure of information about the war, to the parents of magical children.

There was a department in the Ministry of Magic devoted to Muggle parents, guardians, and friends. It included the protection of information, which was deemed sensitive, inflammatory, or dangerous. They were also in charge of pamphlet production for acclimatisation to the magical world. My own parents had received such offerings as 'So your child is a witch/wizard', or 'where and how to get those essential school supplies', and my favourite- 'How to keep the truth from friends, family and neighbours: our ten-point plan'. My parents had followed those ten little 'rules' to the letter; sometimes I think that they wish they didn't have to know themselves.

"No, nothing! Get your mind out of the gutter, Hermione," sighed Ginny in exasperation.

I looked pointedly at her and she sighed again, this time in defeat. "I was...sort of... borrowing some stuff from him," she said with obvious evasion.

"Borrowing stuff, from Snape?" I queried, not exactly believing her explanation.

Putting the offending object down, she turned away from her reflection and, smiling, she let the light that had been absent the last few months flicker in her eyes for a second. It was a grin I recognise well, from herself, her brothers, and sometimes Mr Weasley. Ginny had not been short-changed in regards to the joking gene; she just applied her not inconsiderable intellect well, and not as frequently as her twin brothers. George and Fred have had, on the occasions they discovered the true culprit behind the pranks they got detentions for, admitted begrudgingly, that she had often outsmarted them.

"This doesn't have anything to do with the incident at the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw Quidditch match would it?" I could see that my comment made it hard for her to keep control of the giggle that was emanating from her chest.

"It might have.... Oh, ok you probably guessed by now it was me. I needed some Abyssinian Shrivelfig, and Harry said he had seen some in Snape's store--he had to clean it out for his last detention." She was stopped when my pig-squeal shout interrupted her explanation.

"Harry told you?" I clarified unnecessarily.

"Well, all the pranks his dad took part in must have rubbed off on him more than we thought. Anyway, we used his cloak, and borrowed some from Professor Snape's private cupboard. I had a hard time getting around his alarms and wards though. But then, I expected a high level of paranoia from Snape. He didn't even miss the tiny amount we took; peeling it was the much harder part. Do you know how bad that thing smells?" At this point she giggled and brushed her hair behind her ear in a flurry of movement and continued with her explanation.

"It was alright until he realised what potion had been used on the Slytherin goalposts! The Alihosty was Harry's idea, and it was he who managed to smear the potion over the bludgers before the match. It took a while for it to sink in; that's why it didn't start as soon as they came out the box. "

To say I was shocked was a word that only loosely described the picture my face must have presented to Ginny.

"That was you and Harry! Fred and George got the blame for that! They had to do a month of detentions with Snape. Did they ever find out it was you and Harry?"

" Yeah, but they didn't say anything except that it was definitely up to their standards; they haven't tried to prank me again." She was obviously thinking of something funny because that sweet little giggle decided to show its face again.

"I don't think I will ever forget the look on Snape's face as the Slytherin goalposts shrank every time they tried to score a goal, and then, when the bludgers started wailing like babies; there was a dry eye in the stands. Lee Jordan's commentary was spot on that day; do you remember when he announced that Snape's face looked like he had been sucking a Weasley's 'shock me they're sour' lemon drop?"

I remember seeing McGonagall wryly smiling, which wasn't really all that surprising, given the friction between the two Heads of House over that particular sport. A second glance was needed to check if it was actually the stern face of the Muggle Studies Professor, I saw laughing so hard that it had caused Pomfrey to ask him if he was feeling all right.

Turning once more to the dressing table, she picked up the silver-coloured implement off the glass top and waved them in front of my face.

"So, what are these dangerous looking things?"

Giggling myself, I told her what they were, and what she was supposed to do with them.

"You mean I actually have to put that thing near my eye? I do value my sight quite highly you know, Hermione." Ginny's expression did nothing to betray the fact that she was regarding the article as if it were an item about to inflict serious pain on her person.

"They're eyelash curlers Ginny, not a medieval torture device."

"Well, they look highly suspicious to me!"

I decided the easiest thing would be to show her exactly how they worked. Heaven knows what she will say when she sees my hair tongs, or some of the clothes I intend on making her wear tonight!

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That week had been one that I will always regard with much affection. Ginny and I had never before, or after, laughed so much together over such silly things. Her discovery of many of the wacky, weird, and wonderful Muggle articles that I had taken for granted, until arriving full force in the magical world that first day on the train, had been a great experience for both of us. The best had to be the second day when we decided to go shopping for what she called 'Muggle camouflage', it makes me chuckle even when I am in one of my more despondent moods. Thoughts of that event, however, would have to wait until I was in the mood to sift through, and experience the bitter taste of those poignant memories. Her passing had changed Molly and me; after all, her only daughter had not been the only person she had lost. What it didn't mean, however, was that it would be the last we would see or hear of her. She had been known to pop up in the most unusual places.

Taking my last bite of bread, I hear a chuckle fill the air, it seems as if a photo has just appeared in front of my eyes. One that harkens back to my first attempts at baking bread. Which for some ridiculous reason, I had decided to cook the Muggle way.

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Delia Smith, the lady whose cookbooks the Muggle shop-assistant had sworn by, smiled at me from the front of her pristine cover. Which wasn't at all surprising, as I had only purchased her a few hours ago, and hadn't as yet been given any reason to curse her into oblivion. Mum was not what you would call a homemaker, and I can't say that it has ever really been something that until this point had appealed to me. And as such, cookery lessons were not one of the things I had learnt at her knee. Molly had attempted to instil the basic rudiments of cooking into Ginny and me one summer holiday, but I didn't really want to use baking enchantments if I could help it. I was trying to prove that I was more than my magical abilities. Although, I would definitely be the first to say that those particular charms were not my forte.

Trying to identify why exactly my cooker was knocking and shaking when all the added magical enhancements had been removed wasn't going to make me Brain of Britain, but it had piqued my curiosity. As I opened the oven door, a rather disgruntled face stared back at me.

"Well at least it doesn't matter to you that it was turned on," I remarked rather randomly, probably because of the shock of finding her there in the first place.

"Ginny what on earth are you doing in there?" were the words that followed that rather vague opening statement and the first sensible ones after the initial stunning effect of discovering her seemingly dismembered head in my electric oven.

"I don't think I've quite got the hang of this manifestation malarkey yet. Sirius says it takes a bit of getting used to. Not that he will be doing it any time soon, so I really don't think he can talk. Alright, Black, you can stop laughing now and bugger off." She now rather disjointedly detangled her head from the racks, and stretched her limbs much like Crookshanks did in front of the fire.

"Sirius is here?" I queried. Remus would love to speak with him, I thought.

"Yeah, he's lurking around just to annoy me, probably thinks he can get some dirt on me or something. Fat chance of that, I SAID FAT CHANCE OF THAT, now just piss off, before I tell Hermione about that incident with the Irish Wolfhound you swore me to secrecy about."

"Erm Ginny, how, I mean why, can he, why me?

"Not as articulate as usual, eh, Hermione?"

Well it isn't every day my dead friend's head decides my oven is a nice place for elevenses!

"Sorry about that, didn't mean to startle you. I was aiming for the worktop, but I must have messed up my lights or something."

Could she read my mind now as well?

"Yes, cool isn't it?"

That's not exactly how I would have described it; the idea of Ginny Weasley inside my brain was rather frightening. There are some things even a best friend shouldn't know. It didn't really bear thinking about.

Giggling wickedly, she takes the seat Remus routinely sits in to have his morning coffee, settles herself down into the cushions, and begins to look at the book that I'd been studying a moment ago. Her failed attempts at turning the page, which caused her great frustration, was, to me, highly amusing; the sight of her fingers passing through the paper as if it were water brought a wide smile to my face.

Finally giving up, she allows me to turn the page for her and begins to peruse the Delia Smith masterpiece. After about five minutes she very nonchalantly says, "Surprised me too. Never knew you had it in you. Who'd've thought it, innocent little Miss Granger doing something that even made my friend Sirius Black blush"

Oh my God, Ginny and Sirius on their own would have been bad enough, but the thought of what they get up to together makes me shudder mentally. And here I thought death was peace! The female in question had now, however, begun to read aloud from the open book resting on the table. Placing the flour, salt, and other instructed ingredients into the bowl, I wasn't really concentrating on how much flour was escaping the bag, and drifting upwards before being trapped in my hair.

"Next, knead for ten minutes, then place in a covered bowl and leave in a warm place for one hour."

All the weighing and stirring seemed a bit like potions to me. Although the image of Snape with his hands covered in flour, manipulating the dough, filled us both with horror, and conjured up yet another snigger.

I wasn't totally inept, but come on--how does one knead a lump of dough for ten minutes straight without some sort of electrical device? Despite the fact that it made my wrists ache, it was good for relieving tension, and as I pounded the offending mass on the lightly floured surface, I wondered why I had never tried this before.

"I think that if I were Snape, I would be very afraid-the man who survived the Death Eaters only to be now kneaded to death by Hermione Granger! What was that...? Oh, I think Sirius would prefer it if it were his head on that table "

I don't know why, if he were hanging around, Sirius couldn't just show himself instead of passing sly comments on to Ginny. I got my reply, once again to something I hadn't spoken aloud.

"He can't. You know, expose himself. Something, which he told me, is a great loss to all women, but I'm not so sure about that one myself! It's got something to do with the way he died, the fact he went through the veil. He doesn't get the option like I did. It was all explained to me, I get the choice: ' to haunt 'or 'not to haunt' that is the question."

I wonder if this is what schizophrenia feels like? Although the fact that Ginny was misquoting Shakespeare seemed more surreal than delusional.

"Is this mind reading thing all part of haunting? Because the thought of the Bloody Baron, Nearly Headless Nick, or, Merlin help us, Peeves, knowing our most intimate thoughts is kind of scary, not to mention very embarrassing!" I ask.

"I'm not quite sure how that bit of it works yet, I am kind of new to all of this. Its not like I have had much experience in dying you know."

The words sounded casual enough, but we had been almost like sisters when she was alive, and I know when she is hiding something from me. "And you know, the Hogwarts Ghosts never got into our heads, so I don't think it's like this for everyone." Smiling again, she continues.

"Look, don't worry, I'll be ok. Its not as if I have a deadline to work to, sorry bad joke. Sirius is helping me, but there are definitely things I'm not going to discuss with a man who thinks it is still cool to wear sunglasses inside." I think her comment must have provoked a reply from Sirius because she started to laugh again.

"No, I'm not going to tell you what he said. Its called solidarity; we dead people have to stick together you know. I think you've tortured that dough long enough; you've gotta put it in a warm place now. Delia Smith says so."

I'll give her Delia Smith! She's very lucky this telepathy thing she's developed doesn't work both ways.

"Yeah, it's a shame, my heart bleeds for you. Well it would if I had one any more, and I suppose the blood would be a bit of a sticky point too--or perhaps not." It was nice to see she still had a sense of humour, even if it was at my expense.

One hour and thirty minutes, a lot of giggling and flour later.

The carefully greased and-lined loaf tins were now sitting on the middle tray of the oven, just five minutes away from being released from their maturing.

One hour forty- five minutes, hysterical laughter, and red cheeks later, two rather flat, and not entirely loaf-shaped, objects sat on the cooling rack. Not the result I was after. Still, looks weren't everything right?

"Hmm, Mom's never look like that, even when Fred and George slipped some weird variation of Polyjuice into the mixture when she wasn't looking."

I doubt Molly had ever been so silly as to try and cook with anything other than Melinda's Magi-mix and her enchanted accoutrements. Why on earth had I attempted this hair-brained scheme? I mean I could have just done it the easy way like any other witch would. Something in my nature was seemingly driving me to create the secret desires in my head, homely things that my mother had never done.

"You're not just any other witch Hermione, you're my best friend, and one of the cleverest people I know, but not everything can be learnt from inside the pages of a book. Certainly not this book anyway!"

If that was her attempt at consolation she wasn't doing a very good job.

"I'm not here to console you Hermione," she replied.

That reply was a little ambiguous, so I asked her what she meant by it.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," she said childishly.

Death didn't do anything for her maturity, I noticed.

"Well my work is done here, for now."

"You always find some way of getting out of the washing up. You helped me make this mess, so don't think you can use being dead as an excuse!" All my response provoked was a giggle, a wave, and one last comment.

"Sorry, I can't hang around. I'll pop in again though, soon. I've got to go and throw Sirius a few sticks. He can't seem to stop chasing his tail at the moment, and it's driving me demented. You'd think being dead would have slowed him down a little, but it seems to have made him worse. I think he's rubbing off on me though; Fred seemed quite shocked when I told him to bugger off the other day!" With a little flurry and a wink she disappeared.

Is this it? I wondered. Am I doomed to insanity now?

Looking around, I can't contain the frown that mars my face, or the teeth that grip my lower lip as my eyes roam around the room regarding the mess. Oh my God where did all that flour come from?

"So you started the redecorating then?" His voice held an amused edge that indicated to me that a smirk accompanied the remark.

"Well, you did say you liked a homely feel!" I quipped turning myself to face him.

Placing his bags on the floor below his now hanging coat I watched as he walked the short distance through the fallen clouds of flour towards me.

"It looks good on you," he teased. Those words escorted his hands as they traced the pattern of flour that dulled the usually glossy hair, brow, cheek and nose.

Instantly I noticed the savoury taste as my tongue moistened drying lips, my eyes in turn followed the intentions mirrored inhis own. Lips echoed the actions of his fingertips and I relaxed into this familiar sensation. I felt his hands pull me to him, as I acknowledged that the warmth I felt was no longer from the heat of the oven.

So sensitive to his touch, I recognise every single one of his fingers as they tickle the hair at my neck's nape, and my own digits as they shrug away the buttons that confines his form from me, all the while our eyes remain fastened on their opposites, anticipating the inevitable caress. It was a game we often played, seeing who would give in first; it had lead to some rather interesting and not unpleasant results.

My lips now find his as I decide to take the lead.

Pausing for breath, I manage, before total incoherency takes over, to mutter a few words.

"How about you come and see what I've got waiting for you in the bedroom?"

The waxing crescent of the moon made his skin glow, telling me that early evening had led inevitably to early morning. As I lay on my stomach with my hand under my chin, I remark upon the fact that I never realised baking could be so much fun.

"Why don't you try your hand at cookies tomorrow?"

His words found my ears at the same time that his hand found the hollow at the base of my back.

"You must know how much I like chocolate."

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Oh yes, I knew how much he liked chocolate, but he hadn't counted on my rather voracious appetite for the sweet delight either. Chocolate chips had never tasted so good! Finding that my cheeks were still warm, I decided to blame it on the soup. After all, a girl had a right to be allowed to use the luxury of denial now and then.

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"Denial is that what you women are calling it now. What a mess she's gotten herself into! Why doesn't she just get on with it and write that damn letter?"

Even the fact that he was dead hadn't made Sirius any less tactless. Then again, why should being dead change anything? He was a man after all!

"I think all that butt-sniffing you did as a dog has affected your brain. Remus is as much to blame as Hermione. Although, you're right; she does need to stop dallying and write that damn letter"

"Ginny Weasley I think that I'm having a bad influence on you."

"Well it's nice to know I get some perks out of dying!"

My remark causes him to burst into laughter and we walk off leaving Hermione to her soup. Perhaps I should pay her another visit soon. One thing is for sure though: Sirius is not going to let the butt-sniffing remark go without some sort of reprisal; I'd be wise to be on my guard.

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