Intersections

Chapter 8: Gifts

"Wow," Hermione breathed, "it's so beautiful." She set the miniature model of the solar system on the table, leaning in to observe the tiny, glittering moons hanging around each of the planets underneath the glass dome. "I wonder why Daniel didn't buy it for himself," she said curiously, glancing at her parents, who were looking at the model with wonder. "He's more interested in astronomy than I am." She picked up Daniel's card amidst the torn wrapping paper surrounding her and opened it.

Dear Hermione,

Happy Christmas! I know this gift seems more appropriate for me than for you, but I wanted to give you something by which you could remember me. It's fragile, so don't shake it! I hope that you are well and that by this time, we've contacted each other - if not, ring me soon!

Your friend always,

Daniel

Hermione smiled slightly. The disparity between her friends' behavior while they visited and the loving memories she had from London still niggled at her brain if she thought about it, but the gifts from Daniel and Richard more than made up for it. She surveyed the coffee table with a warm and wistful smile. Cecilia had given her an album full of photographs and funny quotes from her times at Witsford; Matthew, a beautiful leather-bound book titled Numerology and Ancient Mathematics; Richard, a box of very expensive Belgian chocolate; and lying upstairs in her room was a white gold necklace with a pearl in its center from her parents. Hermione had been surprised; her parents had never given her jewelry and she'd never taken an interest in it, but they'd said that they wanted they'd wanted to show their only daughter that she was "as precious and unique as a pearl," which made Hermione want to simultaneously hug them tightly and groan in embarrassment. She'd done both, of course, and offered profuse thanks that made her mother's cheeks blush quite red.

"Well," said Hermione's father, raising the mug Hermione had given him and which was now filled with hot cocoa, "I say that this is a very happy Christmas for our new home." He looped an arm about his wife's shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled and looked up from the book she had been reading - a gilt edition of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations, another gift from Hermione.

"Our new home," Hermione whispered, and she quickly turned her back to her father and began to collect the scraps of ribbon and paper that littered the floor. She couldn't really fathom leaving her parents behind the next day, even though she knew it was necessary. She'd packed her suitcase the day before, leaving only a little room for any Christmas gifts she couldn't bear to part with. That would be all of them, she thought ruefully, as she binned the papers and ribbons. "I'm going to take my gifts up to my room," she announced, turning to her parents.

"I'll help," her mother said with a warm smile.

Hermione bent down and picked up the astronomical model with some difficulty, watching as her mother quickly stacked the other gifts and nodded. They walked upstairs to Hermione's room, where a suitcase full of clothing lay in the corner. Hermione's mother looked at it, frowned slightly, and set the gifts on the desk.

"I'll be downstairs," she said quickly, leaving Hermione to stare at her retreating back with some puzzlement.

Biting her lip, Hermione carefully wrapped the glass model with some old T-shirts at the bottom of the suitcase, setting the photo album underneath it. She looked at the clothes with a sigh. Underclothes, a few T-shirts, jumpers, jeans, and slacks...she wished she could pack more clothes, especially since she didn't know if she would be coming back to her house before the seasons changed. She'd just have to make do until then. It wouldn't be warm for a long while yet.

She bit into one of the chocolates and opened her book, a warm, tingly feeling of content spreading throughout her body as she began to learn about ancient and mystical mathematics.

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Harry stared at the ceiling glumly, listening to the sounds of the Dursleys unwrapping Christmas gifts downstairs. He'd never received a legitimate Christmas gift in all of the fourteen years that he had lived under their roof, so he didn't expect to receive any now. At least they didn't make him serve breakfast this year or invite Aunt Marge over. When Harry was eight, Uncle Vernon's sister had given him a box of dog biscuits for Christmas, while Dudley had received a computerized robot. Harry, fuming, had been forced to sit through a whole week of her disparagement and Dudley's taunts about how Harry ought to be kept in the back garden. He'd finally had enough at the end of the week and called both of them liars, which had earned him two weeks of being locked in his cupboard. Harry scowled angrily at the memory. At least his aunt and uncle treated him decently now.

He looked at the suitcase lying in the middle of the floor. He had packed all of the new clothing his aunt had bought him, as well as some notebooks and pens he figured he would need to take notes. He didn't have any personal effects to speak of except for his glasses; he'd packed one Hogwarts letter just in case he needed it, but everything else in his room consisted of papers and notes from his lessons, and he wouldn't need all of those to learn magic.

Someone rapped on the door, and Harry groaned, turning his face to the wall. "Go away, Dudley, I don't care about the fifty gifts you got for Christmas. Leave me alone." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his aunt come in, her lips pressed into a tight frown.

"It's polite to open the door when someone knocks," she sniffed. "Sit up, boy, I won't have you sulking all day."

Harry scowled sullenly and sat up, shooting a puzzled glance at the box and photograph album Aunt Petunia was carrying under her arm. "What's that?" he asked.

"Don't ask questions," she snapped instantly, and then she took a deep breath. "They're photographs. You're to pick out the best ones and put them in the album. It's your gift for this year."

"My gift? Thanks, Aunt Petunia," Harry repeated sarcastically. Trust Aunt Petunia to turn even a Christmas gift into a chore. They were probably all photographs of her and Dudley and Uncle Vernon, anyway.

Aunt Petunia slammed the box down onto the floor. "Don't be so ungrateful, boy. I want this finished by dinnertime." She turned swiftly on her heel and walked out of the room, pursing her lips as if she had just sucked on a particularly sour lemon.

Harry sighed and sat down on the floor, opening the box and pulling out a handful of photographs roughly. They felt surprisingly old, and Harry relaxed his grip, looking curiously at the yellowing photograph of two little girls at a swing set. "Lily and Petunia, play park, 1967," read the neat handwriting on the back. Harry felt his breath catch in his throat and rapidly shuffled through the other photos. His mum appeared in all of them, a bright and mischievous smile lighting up her green eyes as red hair framed her face at varying lengths.

"Lily and Petunia on Halloween, 1965." Harry grinned at the sight of his aunt and mother dressed up as little angels. Petunia was scowling, but Lily was grinning, triumphantly holding up a feather-covered rod with a star at the end. Harry reached for another batch of photographs, his eyes widening as he saw Lily holding a magical wand against a backdrop of snow, a red-and-gold scarf nearly covering her delighted smile. "Lily in her first year at Hogwarts, December 1971," Harry read with reverence. He flipped through a couple more, stopping at one which contained a pale, dark-haired boy with a reluctant smile standing in front of the swing set. Harry turned the photograph over curiously. "Lily with her friend Severus, 1968," he read, and he leaned in closer to look at the boy. The photograph was slightly blurry, but Harry could make out a rather large nose and stringy hair and what looked like yellow teeth. The boy looked - sickly. Harry wondered if Aunt Petunia knew more about this Severus.

The photographs became scarcer as Lily became older; there were only a few of her as a teenager, and they were all similar to the one he had seen from 1971. Harry caught a glimpse of his grandparents; his grandfather had been thin and tall, with blond hair and twinkling blue eyes that reminded Harry of Dumbledore, while his grandmother had strawberry blonde hair and warm brown eyes that reminded Harry distantly of Hermione. "The Evans family in 1976," Harry read, looking at his mother and her parents and sister. Lily looked to be around fifteen or sixteen years old, and she was beaming as Petunia glared sullenly at the camera. Harry smirked. Aunt Petunia didn't look much different now.

Finally, Harry came to the very end of the stack and pulled out two pictures that took his breath away. In the first, his mother and father stood holding hands, glowing with happiness and holding up their hands to show the two gold wedding bands on their intertwined fingers. Lily looked radiant in a white and gold robe with scarlet lining, her auburn hair falling down in waves and her green eyes sparkling with joy, while James, dressed in scarlet and gold robes that fell to his feet, looked slightly flabbergasted as he grinned. Underneath the black round spectacles that looked identical to Harry's own, Harry could make out hazel eyes filled with laughter and love.

Harry felt a deep, painful longing similar to the one he'd experienced when Dumbledore had mentioned Lily's sacrifice. He turned over the photograph. "Dear Petunia," he whispered, "I'm sorry you couldn't make it to James' and my wedding. I've sent you a photograph since you couldn't be there. Wishing you all the best, your sister, Lily." Harry's throat tightened, and his eyes feasted on the image of his parents before moving onto the next one.

In the second photograph, Lily and James beamed with joy and pride as a tiny baby Harry, wrapped in a blanket and held in Lily's arms, stared at the camera curiously. The baby Harry had no scar; Harry touched his forehead briefly, tracing the lightning bolt outline as he blinked rapidly and read the text on the back. "Dear Petunia, James and I had a baby named Harry. He's three months old now - I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner, but we've been hiding because of the war. Stay safe, Tuney, and congratulations on Dudley. Love, your sister, Lily." The bottom of the photograph was crumpled a bit, as if Aunt Petunia had held it too tightly; Harry tried to smooth it out fruitlessly, and looked at his baby-self with embarrassment and wonder. His parents looked happy but also exhausted; there were shadows under their eyes and a lingering fear within them. "Were they hiding from Voldemort?" Harry wondered briefly, and he knew the answer was yes.

Carefully, Harry picked the clearest photographs of Lily out of the pile, sliding them into the album with shaky hands as his chest and throat tightened involuntarily.

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Boxing Day dawned cloudy and gray, much like Hermione's mood as she took one last look at the house she'd barely lived in and placed her suitcase into the boot of the little blue car. Her parents' faces were pale and worried, and they had barely said a word to her since she had brought her suitcase downstairs after lunch. It was only then that they seemed to understand that she was quite serious about learning magic, quite serious about leaving everybody and everything behind...though Hermione didn't like to think about it like that. She knew that she was making the right choice, even if it wasn't the easiest one.

Harry was sitting on the front steps leafing through a book when Hermione and her parents pulled up to his house. He looked up, surprised, his face relaxing into a grin as he saw Hermione. "Hi," he said, slamming the photograph album shut as she sat down next to him.

"What's that?" she asked curiously. "A Christmas gift?"

Harry nodded. "The best one I've ever received." A look of horror passed over his face. "I didn't get you anything," he said quickly, his face flushing, "I -"

Hermione waved it off. "You did," she said with a smile, "by letting me come with you." She bit her lip and looked toward her parents, who were hovering uncertainly on the pavement.

"Let's wait over there," Harry offered, and she shot him a grateful glance just as a small, dark green car that looked like it belonged more in the 1950's than the 1990's parked rather closely behind the Grangers'. Shacklebolt, formerly known as Mr. Rowle, stepped out of the car wearing a nicely tailored suit, and he was closely followed by a thin, balding red-haired wizard with lots of freckles and glasses who was wearing an odd combination of pinstriped pants and a sweater. They walked toward Hermione's parents, holding out their hands in greeting.

"Hello," said Shacklebolt in his deep, calming voice, "you must be Mr. and Mrs. Granger. My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt. I served as the maths teacher at Stonewall for some time."

"I'm Arthur Weasley," said the other wizard, shaking Hermione's father's hand enthusiastically, "the kids will be staying at my house. I've got a son and daughter just about their age." He looked around the street, stopping to stare at Hermione's and Harry's suitcases on the pavement. "Fascinating," he said in earnest, and he began to play with the handlebars of the suitcase. "Really quite fascinating, these contraptions. How do they work?"

"Shall we?" Shacklebolt asked, laying a restraining hand on Arthur Weasley's shoulder as Mrs. Granger looked at him apprehensively. Shacklebolt lifted Hermione's and Harry's suitcases and put them in the boot of the car. Hermione could see a driver dressed in a green suit waiting furtively.

"Now wait just a minute," Hermione's father protested. "We've got some questions that need to be answered before we let Hermione leave so quickly."

Hermione felt her face flush, and she looked down at the pavement in embarrassment. "Sorry," she whispered to Harry.

"Don't be sorry," he said in a low voice. "You're lucky to have parents who care so much about you."

"Oh - I didn't mean -"

"It's all right," Harry said shortly, and he looked back at his house briefly. "I don't think my aunt is very pleased with what's going on," he said, rolling his eyes. "She's worried about what the neighbors are going to say."

Hermione looked up and down the street and found many ugly women's faces plastered against the windows, watching Hermione's parents interrogate the wizards with avid interest. She let out a noise of disgust. "Don't they have anything better to do?"

"No," said Harry, shrugging nonchalantly and casting a sweet smile across the garden at his aunt, who was watching from her window with a very sour look.

Hermione glared fiercely at the window of Number 5; the woman there retreated with an equally nasty glare. "Hmph," Hermione said with some amount of satisfaction.

"What if she gets hurt when she's - casting spells or, or - is there a hospital nearby?" Hermione's mother was asking.

"Ma'am," Shacklebolt answered, "I assure you that should your daughter receive any injuries, we have the means of immediately contacting and bringing a healer to Mr. Weasley's home."

Mrs. Granger did not seem appeased. "What kind of injuries might she receive?"

"Minor cuts and bruises," Mr. Weasley cut in, "nothing my wife can't fix up. We've plenty of experience in minor magical accidents thanks to our twins, Fred and George. They like to experiment with things, and sometimes - well - they can cause a bit of trouble, but everything turns out well in the end."

Hermione's parents looked even more anxious now than they did before. "Experiment?" Mr. Granger asked, his brow furrowing. "Experiment with what?"

"Sweets, mostly," Mr. Weasley answered sagely, "and potions and charms. They want to start their own joke shop one day, so they've been working on developing sweets that - well, give you green hair for a day, for example. It's harmless, I assure you."

"Harmless," Mrs. Granger repeated doubtfully, and she turned to look at her daughter with a rather pleading look on her face. "Hermione, dear...I'm worried for your safety. Are you certain that you want to go?"

"Absolutely, Mum," Hermione answered firmly. "I'll be fine. I promise."

"Oh, well, I don't know..."

"Mum," Hermione said, exasperated, and she looked toward her father, who was also staring at the wizards dubiously. "Dad. I'm going to do this whether you like it or not. I have to." She crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared at her parents resolutely.

After a minute had passed in the battle of wills, Hermione's parents relented. Her father came forward and embraced her tightly. "Be safe, Hermione," he said, and she held onto him a minute more before hugging her mother in the same way.

"I'll miss you," her mother said, tears glimmering in her eyes. "Be safe, and write often. She will be able to write, won't she?" Mrs. Granger asked sternly, looking at Shacklebolt and Mr. Weasley with a firm glare.

"Yes, of course," Shacklebolt answered with a reassuring smile.

"Our village has a Muggle post office," Mr. Weasley exclaimed, "so you'll get your letter in the box just like normal. And I have a fellytone that she can use to ring you up."

"A telephone," Kingsley corrected calmly.

"Muggle?" Hermione mouthed at Harry, who shrugged with a bewildered look. Her parents didn't seem to be confused, though, and they merely looked at her with a worried smile.

"I love you Mum, Dad," Hermione said. "I'll come back, and I'll write often. I promise."

Hermione's parents nodded.

"Harry, do you want to say goodbye to your relatives?" Mr. Weasley asked, as Harry opened the car door.

Harry paused and glanced toward the house. "Er...I said goodbye to them already," he said quickly, averting his eyes. "They're, er, they understand."

"All right," said Mr. Weasley, though he sounded a little bit dubious. "Well - we'll be off then," he said, and he shook Hermione's parents hands once more. Hermione sent them a smile, and then followed Harry inside the car, which looked much larger outside than inside. Mr. Weasley got in next to her, while Shacklebolt took the front passenger seat. "Ready to go?" Mr. Weasley asked excitedly. "Cars are ingenious, aren't they? I don't know how Muggles create these things. They're brilliant!"

"What's a Muggle, sir?" Hermione asked, looking nervously at Mr. Weasley, who was staring at her as if she were a recently discovered species of animal in the zoo.

"A non-magical person," Shacklebolt answered briefly.

Harry was looking out the window with a confused expression on his face.

"What is it, Harry?" Hermione asked, nudging him gently.

"We're passing through traffic so quickly," he said, "I don't think we're following any of the laws, but we haven't crashed yet. We just went through a red light - look!"

Hermione twisted around and looked out the back window. The roads all around them were gridlocked, but they seemed to be flying through them rather quickly without any problems. "Is this magic?" she asked Mr. Weasley, who beamed and nodded.

"A few modifications to the car," he told her, "nothing fancy, you know, just a way to make it faster."

"How did you do it?" asked Hermione.

"Er - well -" Mr. Weasley averted his gaze, the tips of his ears turning red. "It's a bit of a Ministry secret, I'm afraid. Very advanced. Classified." The driver up front let out a suspicious cough.

Hermione looked at him for a moment more, frowning, and turned back to Harry, who was grinning now from ear-to-ear. "Wow," he said, "magic is brilliant."

"Wow," Hermione agreed, and she too smiled.

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Harry had never enjoyed a car ride before. Uncle Vernon was usually insulting him when he drove Harry to school, Dudley was always bullying him in the backseat, and Aunt Petunia preferred to ignore his existence until she made him unload the groceries. Now, sitting in a magical car and speeding through rush hour faster than a motorcycle fiend, he felt as if he were the king of the world - not, of course, that he would ever admit it.

They finally arrived on a dirt path, landing with a slight bump. "Out we get, then," Mr. Weasley said cheerfully, opening the door. Harry exited from the other side, his jaw dropping as he stared at the house in front of him.

A scattering of boots, an old rusted cauldron, and bits of scattered chicken feed lay in front of a very large, uneven house that looked like it would tip over faster than the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It looked like a farmhouse with several rooms added randomly to its top, which had to be held up by magic, because Harry knew that such a house couldn't exist otherwise. A sign in front declared it to be "the Burrow."

"Come on, Harry," said Hermione, pulling his suitcase toward him. Mr. Weasley was already at the front door, waiting. Shacklebolt cleared his throat from the car.

"It's amazing," Harry said in wonder, clutching his photo album to his chest.

"I know," she agreed excitedly, "I can't wait to learn how to do all of this. I'm so glad you let me come with you."

"You would've come whether I asked you to or not," Harry pointed out with a grin, and they followed Mr. Weasley past a sitting room to the back of the house, where a plump red-haired witch was standing at a stove and humming to herself as she swished her wand around. She looked up when they entered.

"Hello, dears," she said cheerfully, "I'm Mrs. Weasley, Arthur's wife." Mr. Weasley walked over and kissed her on the cheek. "How was it?" she asked.

"No trouble at all," Mr. Weasley answered. "The poor Muggles asked a rather lot of questions, but that was to be expected. I really must keep in touch with them - they have the most brilliant devices. You don't think they'll mind if I write to them, do you, Hermione?" He turned to Hermione with childish excitement.

"Of course not," said Hermione, sounding uncertain. Mr. Weasley beamed.

"The kids are outside playing Quidditch," said Mrs. Weasley, "but they should be back at any minute now. I told them to come inside before dark."

As if on cue, four redheaded, freckled teenagers burst in through the back door, their faces pink with cold. "Hey Mum, who're they?" asked a tall, gangly boy at the front of the group, looking at Harry and Hermione with some confusion.

"Mind your manners, Ron," Mrs. Weasley scolded, and the girl next to Ron smirked. Mrs. Weasley turned to Harry and Hermione with a smile. "Harry, Hermione, these are my children, Ron, Ginny, and the twins - Fred and George." Two stocky boys with identical faces pushed past their brother and sister, extending their hands.

"Fred Weasley," said one of them, shaking hands with Harry, while his brother George did the same with Hermione. Fred leaned in conspiratorially. "Don't mind ickle Ronniekins, he's still a bit of a dolt at times."

"At times, dear brother?" asked George, grinning. "I disagree. More like all the time -"

"Especially since he became a prefect -"

"You know, Prefect Ron doesn't quite have the ring to it as Prefect Percy -"

"Shut it," interrupted Ron, the tips of his ears turning red like his father's. He extended his hand. "Ron Weasley."

Harry shook it. "Harry Potter," he said quietly.

Ron goggled at him, and the twins' jaws dropped. "Are you really?" asked Fred.

"Yes," said Harry, feeling color rise in his cheeks, his eyes dropping to the floor.

"Oh, great, I'm sure that made him feel very welcome," said Ginny sarcastically, and she extended her hand toward Hermione. "Ginny Weasley."

"Hermione Granger," said Hermione, sounding miffed.

""Hello, Hermione, Harry. Don't worry about my brothers, they're all prats," said Ginny with a smile.

"Gin-Gin, how you wound us!" Fred exclaimed, clutching his heart dramatically.

Ginny's eyes narrowed, and she whirled on her brother, her red hair flying about her face. "Take that back," she snapped.

"Take what back, Gin-Gin?" asked George, grinning.

Ginny's smile was dangerously sweet. "If you don't stop calling me Gin-Gin, I'll treat you to a month's worth of Bat-Bogey Hexes once we get back to school."

Both twins looked properly cowed at this, and they raised their hands in defeat. "She's a dangerous one, our sister," Fred whispered loudly, winking at Harry, and with a nod to Hermione, he and George bounded out of the kitchen, clattering up some stairs that Harry had yet to see.

"Those two," said Mrs. Weasley in an exasperated tone, though she was holding back a smile. "Ron, dear, Harry will be sharing your room, and Ginny, Hermione will be staying with you. Take them upstairs to put their stuff away and then come back down here to set the table."

"For dinner, Mum?" said Ginny, looking surprised. "It's not even five o'clock yet!"

"Yes, well, Dumbledore is coming to speak with us later, so we're to eat a little earlier today. Off to your room, now, go on," said Mrs. Weasley firmly.

Harry exchanged an anxious glance with Hermione and followed Ron up a rickety staircase past several floors with one or two rooms on them. They finally reached a small, cramped room at the top of the stairs, and Harry's eyes were assaulted by a garish orange that covered all of the walls as well as Ron's bed. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the color, and finally made out the images of people flying rapidly around on broomsticks, the backs of their orange robes bearing a symbol of two crossed C's. The pictures were moving as in Harry's dream. He chalked it up to magic and dropped his suitcase on the floor with a thud, shaking his sore arm while keeping a tight grip on the photo album with the other one.

"Chudley Cannons," said Ron proudly, pointing at the walls, "my favorite team."

"What do they play?" asked Harry, sitting down on the camp bed across from Ron's.

Ron stared at him. "Quidditch, of course."

"What's Quidditch?" Harry asked nervously, wondering if it was very important.

"Oh." Ron looked apologetic. "Sorry, I thought you knew." He gave Harry a speculative glance. "Been flying before?"

"Not really," said Harry, wondering if the flashback with his parents counted.

"I'll teach you," Ron offered, "then we can play Quidditch together. Me and Ginny and the twins play for the team at Hogwarts."

"All right," said Harry, still wondering what Quidditch was. He looked around the room, starting slightly when he saw a tank holding a frog on the windowsill. Books and cards lay in an untidy heap in the corner. Harry wondered if any of them contained information about magic and felt a sudden wave of jealousy swoop down upon him. If he had gone to Hogwarts when he was eleven, he'd know all about Quidditch and flying and spells. Ron was so lucky to grow up in a magical family.

"D'you want to put your stuff away?" Ron asked, eyeing Harry's suitcase curiously. "I think Mum's enlarged the wardrobe a bit for your clothes."

"Oh - yeah," said Harry quickly, shaking himself out of his thoughts. He unzipped the suitcase and took out a stack of clothes, putting them in the wardrobe along the back wall, which like the car looked much bigger inside than outside.

"What are those?" Ron asked, pointing to the pens and papers left inside the suitcase.

Harry blinked. "Pens and paper. For notes."

"Oh," said Ron, nodding in understanding, "that must be the Muggle version of quill and parchment."

"Er, yeah," Harry answered awkwardly. That must be why the Hogwarts letters smelled like ink and calligraphy.

"Well - we should probably get downstairs," said Ron, heading toward the door, and then, he burst out, "Do you really - you know - have that scar? On your forehead?"

"Er -" Harry stared at him, taken aback. No one had ever wanted to see his scar before - he'd always thought it was the worst part of his face. "Yes...? I do?"

Ron looked as if he were about to say something, but he closed his mouth. "Let's go downstairs, mate," he said, grinning, "I'm starving."

Harry's stomach growled loudly, and he grinned back. "Me too."

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"It's from my friend Daniel," Hermione explained, as Ginny gazed at the glass-encased model of the solar system. "He loves astronomy and said he wanted to give me something to remember him by when I moved from London."

"London?" Ginny's head snapped up, her brown eyes searching Hermione's face.

Hermione nodded. "I went to an independent boarding school there, only, I was a day student, so I lived with my mum and dad. Then after the - the explosion," she swallowed with some difficulty, "we moved to Surrey and I met Harry at Stonewall."

A shadow passed across Ginny's face. "Did this explosion happen about a month ago?"

"Yes - how did you know?" Hermione's mind flashed to the awful day on the street, and then she remembered a later newscast about the Dark Mark being in the sky. "Oh -"

"It was a Death Eater attack," Ginny told her grimly. "My friend Colin - his dad was there. Colin was so shaken when he heard, couldn't decide whether or not to tell his parents what Death Eaters were."

Hermione nodded. "I was there, too," she said softly, her hand unconsciously rubbing the pearl that hung on a chain around her neck as she thought about her parents.

"Oh - I'm sorry." Ginny's face was full of apology. "So - where do you think he got the model?" She peered at the sparkling sun in the middle of the glass dome. "It looks almost exactly like something you can buy in Diagon Alley."

"What's Diagon Alley?" asked Hermione curiously.

"It's where we get everything for school," Ginny replied, shooting another searching look at Hermione, "it's in London. Only wizards and witches can see it, though Muggle-borns can also bring their parents in if they want."

"Maybe they sell a M-Muggle version of the model," said Hermione. "My friends certainly aren't wizards." Although they had disappeared rather quickly from the library...

Ginny shrugged. "I'll ask Dad. He works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office for the Ministry, so he should know."

"The Ministry?" asked Hermione with interest. "Ministry for what?"

"Ministry of Magic," Ginny answered, looking at Hermione oddly. "Do Muggles not have a Ministry?"

"We have a lot of Ministries," Hermione answered, "they're for different things. There's a Ministry of Defense, Ministry of Justice, Her Majesty's Treasury, Department of Health..."

"So there's not one big Ministry that holds it together?" Ginny asked.

"Well - yes - it's called Her Majesty's Government, though it's really run by the Prime Minister and not by the Queen. Who heads the magical government?" Hermione asked with interest.

"Minister of Magic," Ginny answered. "Currently it's this bloke named Fudge, though he's a right idiot most of the time. He keeps denying the Death Eater attacks in London, even though everyone sees the Dark Marks in the paper." She scowled and shook her head.

"Ginny!" Ron hollered from somewhere below them. "Mum wants you to come to come to the kitchen!"

"I'm coming, Ron!" Ginny yelled back, her eyes flashing in annoyance. "I swear, he's such a prat sometimes," she sighed, and she trudged out of the room, Hermione trailing behind her with a frown. Ron had merely asked Ginny to come to the kitchen...but then again, Hermione had never been one to understand sibling dynamics, no matter how hard she tried. There were just some things she couldn't learn from books, and familial interaction was one of them.