Take My Hand

At the start of the spring term, everyone had gotten used to Tate's presence. It was like she had always been there. Their new schedule postulated their first class as Muggle Studies, the newly required course (originally an elective), as first thing after breakfast, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. They had it with the Slytherins. The professor, interestingly enough, was a Muggle herself. She was an ambassador in Britain - one of the very few Muggles aware of the existence of the magical community. For thirty years she had helped to orchestrate and maintain peace between the two communities, as well as keeping the secrecy of the magical one. Dumbledore had thought her to be a very wise choice, although the Ministry of Magic disagreed loudly.

The Gryffindors filed into class and took their seats. Their new professor, Professor Hess, welcomed them in. She was a tiny, bubbly woman with very curly blond hair. When they had all taken their seats, she introduced herself, and went over the important rules with the class: no skipping, no making fun of anyone, no cheating, no discrimination.

"So," she said cheerfully, "How many of you come from strictly Muggle families?" Dean, Hermione, and Tate put their hands in the air. Hisses and sneers came from the Slytherins. Professor Hess, however, looked positively delighted.

"Wonderful!" she chirped, clapping her hands, "Some muggle insight from students will be greatly beneficial to the class!" Someone hissed the word "mudblood", but Professor Hess did not hear it.

"Who can tell me the basic differences between magical people and muggles?" As always, Hermione's hand shot in the air. Professor Hess nodded to her.

"Magical people live much longer than muggles, at the very least three times as long as the muggle expected life span. Muggles outnumber the global magic community ten thousand to one. Muggles also cannot see very many things that we can, as our minds are built and function much differently then theirs. The neurochemistry has several distinctions." Professor Hess beamed at her.

"Ten points to Gryffindor." Hermione glowed. "Muggles, as Ms. Granger so graciously told us, have very different neurological make-ups. Now, to many of you, this may sound as though muggles have some sort of intellectual defect. This is not the case at all. Muggle intelligence works on a sliding scale, as does the magical community. Some are highly intelligent, while some are complete dotters." Malfoy snorted and pointed at Neville, who turned pink and looked at the floor. Ron clenched his jaw in anger.

"Peaceful coexistence is only achievable so long as muggles are not aware of the existence of this other world." She swept her arm out in front of her. "Muggles can be extremely dangerous. They possess the power to destroy the entire earth." Several people snorted in disbelief. Hess paid no attention and kept on.

"Now, I'm not trying to say that muggles are the bane of humanity...but let's take a moment to reflect on their most recent past history. Can anyone name some of the recent tragedies?"

Hermione piped up. "World War I and II, the nuclear bomb attack on Hiroshima, the Great Depression, the Holocaust..."

Parvati spoke too. Although she was from a pureblood family, she made it a point to keep up with pressing muggle gossip, particularly of the royal kind (and most particularly, of Prince William). "The death of Princess Diana." Lavender nodded fiercely.

"Slavery," added Dean.

"Terrorism." Tate spoke to the floor, her arms crossed over her chest.

"This class is ridiculous," Pansy whined to Blaise, loud enough for Professor Hess to hear.

"I'm sorry, dear? What was that?" Professor Hess walked right over to Pansy. Pansy looked at her with defiance.

"I said that this class is ridiculous. Muggles are insignificant. Why should we care what they do? It's not like they're in any position to threaten us." The Slytherins began to nod their agreement.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Pansy." Tate said scathingly. Heads turned toward the back of the room, where Tate sat between Dean and Hermione. Her deep, powerful voice commanded the attention of the entire room.

"Power is nothing when you're facing a crowd of people that hate you. A crowd of scared Muggles could easily pose more of a threat than this Voldemort character I keep hearing people mention." An echo of whispers followed this statement. Pansy glared at Tate, her eyes flashing bright blue in fury. Professor Hess, however, was intrigued.

"You must be Ms. Blackeberry," she said, consulting her list. Tate nodded. "Do continue."

"One Muggle," Tate continued, "Could probably handle something as shocking as the discovery of a magical person, because a single person is smart, disciplined, and calm. People, however, are hysterical, stupid, and dangerous. They don't like anything that violates the norm. They want their perfect little society." Everyone was staring at her, many people were nodding. "No one believes what they see every day. And when they see something they don't understand, their first and only instinct is to panic. And when panic is in great numbers, it can lead to spectacularly disastrous results." The words rolled off of Tate's tongue as though she had rehearsed this speech a thousand times before. Professor Hess was nodding fervently.

"I couldn't have put it better, my dear. Has anyone here ever been caught doing something magical by a Muggle?" Tate, Harry, Ron, and Parvati put their hands in the air.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Well, I've mostly been caught doing magic I shouldn't by my aunt and uncle - I live with them during summer hols. And Ron and I were seen flying a car in second year." Professor Hess's brow furrowed.

"I remember that," she seethed, "That took weeks to sort out!" Harry went quite pale.

Professor Hess continued to twine on about the terrible consequences and ordeals that accompanied racism. Hermione had to admit, it was without a doubt the most engaging lesson she could ever recall having during her brief stint with Muggle Studies during her third year. Finally, a professor had decided to forego all the boring mechanics of muggle life, and directly address human nature. If the Slytherins couldn't be swayed by a class as involved and clear as this, then they truly must have been born without souls, Hermione thought to herself. She was very sorry when the class finally ended, and looked forward to it enthusiastically as she made her way to Charms, next to a silent Tate.

"Hogsmeade forms over here!" Professor Flitwick squeaked when Charms Class ended, as he teetered precariously on six books behind his desk. "The Hogsmeade trip is on Saturday, and if you have not turned in your form, you will not go!" Students piled their forms on his desk as they left. With a sense of pride, Harry placed his permission form, signed by his godfather Sirius, carefully on the top of the stack. Hermione grinned at him knowingly. He got the same swelling of happiness every time something in writing connected him to Snuffles. Hermione neatly placed her form on top of Harry's, and barely ducked in time to miss Ron's sweeping hand as he tossed his form haphazardly toward Flitwick's desk. He missed, of course, and the form floated to the floor.

"Blimey, mate," grinned Seamus, "No wonder you're not a Chaser."

Ron snorted. "Shut it, Finnigan. You've got Keeper envy." Seamus pulled a rude face, punched Ron in the shoulder, and scurried out of the room before Ron could get a long arm around his scrawny Irish neck. Dean and Tate swept by and tossed their own signed permission forms on the desk, then returned to their animated conversation about legendary rock groups of the early seventies. Harry eyed Tate's form suspiciously.

Marcus and Grainne Blackeberry

"Her mom's name is Grain?" Hermione glanced at him, confused, and read the form herself. Chuckling, she whacked Harry on the back of the head.

"You prat," she teased, "It's pronounced 'grahn-ya'. Trust you to screw up anything and everything Irish." Harry blushed as Ron laughed heartily. Hermione would never let him forget that, in second year, he had misspelled Seamus's name on his potions paper "Shaymus". Correction, no one would let him forget that. Harry shuddered at the memory, and quickly changed the subject.

"So, first spring trip to Hogsmeade," Harry said loudly as they exited the classroom, "Should be great fun."

"Yeah," grumbled Ron, "We've only got to a walk a mile through a frozen tundra."

"Oh, Ron," Hermione admonished, "It won't be all bad. Think of it as a Winter Wonderland."

"If you say anything like that again, ever, I will personally perform a severing charm on your vocal cords, are we clear?" Hermione glared at Ron.

"There is nothing wrong, Mr. Weasley, with trying to look on the bright side. It's not my fault if your glass is always empty."

"That's it!" shouted Ron, throwing up his hands, "I am tired of this proverbial glass!" He seized Hermione's shoulders and shook her. "There is no glass! There never was!" Hermione laughed now, and roughly shoved him away.

"And you are ruining my fun!"

*** *** ***

Early Saturday morning, Hermione awoke to Tate shaking her gently. "C'mon Hermione, wake up. Time to go shopping, get up!" Hermione rolled over, exhausted from a night of ridiculous wakefulness. She flailed an arm in Tate's direction, connected with something, and rolled over, satisfied.

"Go 'way...too tired...your fault...leave me 'lone!" Tate snorted, very annoyed.

"Last chance to get up, Hermione."

Hermione debated foggily for a minute. Necessity took over. "Fuck off!"

Tate gasped dramatically, trying to cover her smile. Never once during the constant hours they spent together, whether they were sleeping, eating, studying - not once during her entire tenure at Hogwarts (granted, this had only been about four weeks) had she had Hermione use that particular word. .She must really be serious. This could turn ugly, if I'm not careful. Rubbing her eye (where Hermione had so thoughtfully smacked her), she chewed her lip thoughtfully, and decided on a no-fail antic her father used to pull. She rose from Hermione's bed, and backed up to the door.

"This is...really your last chance this time!" she shouted threateningly, "No turning back! You've got till three to get your worthless ass out of bed." Hermione pulled a pillow over her head. "One!" Tate gave her a generous five second gap between numbers. "Two!" Hermione raised her hand from the underneath the scarlet duvet, and gave her the finger. Tate shrieked in indignation. "THREE!"

Tate sprinted towards Hermione's bed and took a running jump. She landed precisely where she'd aimed. Right on top of Hermione. Hermione lay still for a moment, and then came alive - writhing and lashing out madly, like an angry shark caught in a trap. Tate rolled off her quickly, and threw open the curtains, letting in the pleasant morning sunshine.

"Fine, FINE!" screeched Hermione, "I'm bloody up! See?" Tate smiled arrogantly, causing Hermione to scowl furiously at her. "It's your fault I'm so knackered," Hermione continued to seethe, "You kept me up all night with your ridiculous nightmares. I can't even begin to recount all the different things you said! I put a silencing charm on your bed curtains, and...somehow...you even managed to shout through that! I finally had to put a silencing charm on you!" Tate rolled her eyes.

"Don't I know it," she grumbled, "I couldn't figure out for the longest time why no one was paying attention to me when I spoke to them at breakfast."

Hermione sniffed loudly. "Good. It's the least you deserve." Groaning in annoyance one final time for good measure, Hermione hauled herself out of bed, to the showers. Tate watched Hermione's huffy exit, and muttered to herself as she descended the cold stone stairwell to the common room. Hermione's comments concerning her nightmares bothered her greatly.

I've been working so hard on keeping those under control, Tate mentally berated herself. Obviously not hard enough. She was so lost in her thoughts that, as she pushed open the door separating the girl's dormitory from the common room, she barely noticed as she stepped right into Lavender, knocking the poor girl over. "Sorry, Lav," she said mechanically, reaching down to pull Lavender to her feet.

"No problem, Bigfoot," hissed Lavender, giggling evilly at her own joke. Tate sighed, steadying her already fraying temper.

"You get one, today. Just one. And I'm being generous. Call me that again, and you will sorely miss your own height, Shorty, cause I'll make sure you're no less than eight feet tall when you walk back into this room." Lavender glared at her in playful competition. She had begun calling Tate 'bigfoot' at the start of spring term, mostly because Tate towered at least a foot above Lavender (who stood at a ridiculously tiny 4'11 - on good days, 5'0), and she had been completely relentless at keeping it up. Tate had made it abundantly clear that no one else would be permitted to call her that name as she completely detested it. Harry made the mistake of referring to her as 'bigfoot' once in the heat of an argument. She had risen from her chair, in complete fury, and hexed him with an interesting, yet annoying charm that only Hermione knew of. She herself had been furious with Harry for resorting to petty insults when he could not come up with a decent retort, and had refused to perform the counter-curse on his feet (both of which, had become club feet).

*** *** ***

Ginny skipped excitedly down the snow-covered path that led to Hogsmeade, one gloved hand linked around Tate's arm.

"Good lord, Ginny, where's the fire?" Tate asked affably. Ginny giggled gleefully. The school sanctioned trips to Hogsmeade were among her favorite events of all time. She was nearly bursting at the seams with excitement - Callypso's Cutting Edge (so called for it's claim to be on the 'cutting edge' of fashion) was having it's annual holiday sale. Armed with her generous allowance (money had been much less tight since Fred and George had unveiled Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley), Ginny planned to make a killing at the highly anticipated sale. Tate shivered slightly.

"Heaven's, Tate, you've been here for nearly a month, and you're still not used to the cold?" Tate shook her head, and drew her cloak around her more tightly. Ginny pointed to a large glade of trees. "Just beyond that is Hogsmeade. We'll be there in no time." The two girls strode along, the frigid wind turning their cheeks and nose pink.

When they finally came in sight of Hogsmeade, Tate gasped in amazement. The tiny village reminded her of the beautiful snow globes her father would bring back from Switzerland and Belgium. It was like a scene straight out of a dream. She slowed her step, taking in the cosmic beauty of a town that reflected something she had only seen in her wildest dreams. She drew in a deep breath, savoring the cold fresh air, and quickened her pace to keep up with Ginny, who was nearly sprinting in her anxiousness to reach Callypso's before Lavender and Parvati.

Harry watched Tate with suspicion nearly all the time now. Furtively, he glanced toward her as she took in the view of Hogsmeade for the first time. Noting her incredulous expression, Harry debated whether or not she was feigning. But, if she was, she was a damned good actor.

*** *** ***

Once in Callypso's, Ginny nearly dove into the rack marked "Holiday Spree". Practically trembling in exhilaration, she squealed in delight when she came across a trendy little green halter top, dusted with glitter. Tate, rifling through clothes on the opposite side of the rack, came across a rather conservative black jumper.

"Um, Ginny?"

"Mmhm?" Ginny peered at her over the rack (luckily, she and Tate were close enough in height that she didn't have to stand on her tiptoes).

"Which coin is the galleon? It's the gold one, right?" Ginny nodded, and stretched out her hand. Tate handed her the top, and Ginny glanced at the price tag.

"Ooh, this is a rip off, this is. Sixteen galleons for this? The store manager must be mad!"

"So, that's expensive? I wonder how much that comes to in dollars."

Ginny shrugged. "Don't know. I've never needed to change money before." She smiled wistfully. "My dad would know. He positively adores muggle knick-knacks. Actually, Fred and George might know as well. They know lots of useful muggle tricks."

"Your family sounds so interesting," Tate mused, "I can't tell you how many times I've heard of Fred and George in passing. Never met them myself, of course, but everyone seems to know them."

Ginny laughed. "Well, they would, wouldn't they? Fred and George terrorized Hogwarts with their pranks. I'm to meet them at the Gallant Knight half past three. Would you like to come?" Tate nodded, and fished something out of the rack.

"Dude, this is so you. Try this on." She tossed Ginny a pair of garish vinyl trousers adorned with ripped denim and silk. Ginny grimaced at the ridiculous concoction.

"This ought to be burned." Tate cracked up, and nodded her agreement.

After Ginny had selected a meager three quarters of what was displayed on the racks (at least half the trousers and skirts, and most of the halter tops), she slipped into one of the dressing rooms and began trying on the multitudes of jaunty clothes she had chosen. She pulled a crimson silk top over her head, and wiggled into a skin tight, black velvet skirt. She threw open the curtain and stepped out to appraise her selection. She briefly evaluated her outfit, and tossed the skirt in the 'must have' pile, and returned the shirt to the rack. Back in her dressing room, she chose a pinstriped white shirt and paired it with a scandalously short, pleated, black miniskirt. Sweeping out of the dressing room, she spun around, admiring the adorable combination. Tate exited her own dressing room, wearing the black jumper she had selected earlier. Ginny glanced at her and immediately decided it was far too conservative for a teenage girl. She sent Tate back into her own dressing room and refused to allow her out until Tate had put on something more age-appropriate.

"Age appropriate?" Tate huffed, "You can't even call these clothes! They don't have enough fabric!" She looked despairingly at the array of clothing that nearly filled Ginny's dressing room.

"Nonsense," Ginny said briskly, "They're the height of fashion."

"For who, streetwalkers?"

"Oh, go on, you!"

"Haha, just kidding around, don't flip out." Tate discarded her jumper, and grabbed a top at random. She tried to pull it over her head only to discover that the shirt didn't work that way. It was meant to cover the chest, leaving the most of the stomach and all of the back exposed. Swearing to herself, she fumbled with the collar clasp and flimsy little strings. Shoving aside the curtain, she came out to face her tormentor. The one and only fashion fanatic, Ginny Weasley.

"Ooh!" shrieked Ginny, "It's perfect!" Tate peered at her reflection. The top was a pretty iridescent ivory hue, embroidered with lilies of metallic silver and gold threads. It came only to her waistline, where the fabric drew together in a triangular fashion, stopping at her navel.

"I can't wear this!" protested Tate, "You can see too much!"

"Rubbish," insisted Ginny, "You will buy that, if I have anything to say about it!"

Tate smiled, but very weakly. "Ginny," she said sadly, "Look." She turned around, and Ginny's eyes fell upon the purple angular scar she had seen the night of the Yule Ball. "See why I can't wear this?"

Ginny's face softened. Without hesitation, she grasped the hem of the pinstriped shirt and drew it up. A long, sickle shaped scar ran from her ribcage to her hip. Tate's mouth opened, slightly. "It doesn't stop me from wearing things like that," said Ginny, "Don't let it stop you." Tate stared a moment longer. Her mind was running at a hundred miles an hour.

How could you have been so stupid? As if you were the only one to ever bear a scar. Grow up, Tate, geez! She shook her head briefly, silencing her furious conscience. She broke into a wide grin.

"Alright then. I'll buy it." Ginny smiled in satisfaction.

*** *** ***

Harry stood at the bar in the Gallant Knight, waiting patiently for the rather intimidating barkeep, who happened to be a massive ogre, to mix the two martinis he had ordered. Gazing languidly around the dimly lit pub, he noticed Susan Bones and Justin Fitch-Fletchley in deep conversation at one the tables.

Wonder when they got together, he mused to himself. Justin looked up and saw him. Harry waved at him, smiling. Justin grinned, and gave him a quick salute before turning back to Susan. Harry's gaze lingered momentarily on Susan. Once a chubby, redheaded imp, the girl had truly blossomed into a beautiful young lady. She radiated poise, and even Harry himself was not immune to her charms.

Good for Justin. Justin deserved as much. He was kind and intelligent. Since second year, after he was de-petrified, he had apologized to Harry so sincerely, that Harry had been thoroughly moved. In his mind, Justin was a great guy. His thoughts were interrupted by the ogre, who prodded Harry in the shoulder with a greenish finger the size of a German sausage, anxious for his pay. Harry gave him two galleons, and left one on the counter as tip. Seizing the martinis, he carefully made his way back to the corner table, where Hermione waited.

"Here you are, love," he said as he handed one of the crystalline glasses to her.

"Thank you." She accepted her drink, and placed it on the table. "So, exactly where did you hear about this place?" Harry laughed and shrugged in the annoyingly innocent manner only he could pull off. Hermione pursed her lips and stared at him, but he refused to budge. It was a highly kept secret, shared only among the worthy, as Fred and George had stipulated when they decided to share the wondrous secret with Ron and Harry. Hermione sighed, and delicately swirled her martini with the tiny swizzle stick. She lifted the swizzle stick to her mouth and gently seized of the olives skewered on it with her lips. Harry blushed furiously, and grinned at her.

"It drives me crazy when you do that."

"I can't imagine why," she smiled, "It's just an olive."

"And hopefully, you never will. It's one of those...things you girls do. You don't even realize you're doing it, but let me tell you...it drives us mad." Hermione giggled, and sipped her drink.

"So...I saw you staring at Tate today." Harry lifted his face toward hers and saw disapproval in her eyes. "Do you realize that, since Christmas, she's completely avoided you? I've no doubt she thinks you hate her. I still can't believe you tripped her with that footstool stunt. That was so unlike you." Harry shrugged, and became very interested in his martini. "Harry! Honestly, the least you could do is pay attention to me."

"Why, though?" inquired Harry, "It's not a big deal. It was just a joke!"

"It is a big deal, Harry!" Harry looked at her sarcastically. "Ok, maybe it's not a life-threatening deal, but go on, Harry. She's new, and confused, and homesick. And she's never been anything but nice to you, and you treat her as though she were a ticking time bomb!"

"Look," Harry said, rather sharply, "I don't dislike her." Hermione narrowed her eyes in disbelief. "I don't! Now really, I don't know why...she's just not my cup of tea." Hermione eyed him suspiciously.

"If you think that there really is something dark about her, Harry, then you need to tell me."

Harry swirled the crystalline glass. "For one thing, it's completely abnormal for a person to have so many scars."

"I hardly think you are in any position to judge anyone on scars, Harry," Hermione said snappishly and looked pointedly at the conspicuous lightening bolt emblazoned on his forehead. Harry rolled his eyes at her.

"That's different and you know it," he said. "She looks like a soldier ought to look, fresh out of battle. I know you've noticed too. You don't get scars like that from pure clumsiness." He sighed and took a great gulp of his drink. "It's just not normal."

"None of us are normal, Harry. It's right daft of you to go judging her on a few scars," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"That is not the point!" He slapped the table in emphasis, causing Hermione to jump slightly. "There aren't just a few! Every time I look closely at her, there's a new scar I haven't noticed before. Have you seen her hands! They're bloody covered with them! It's like she rubbed them on a cheese grater!" Hermione raised an eyebrow, realizing that, in all likelihood, broken glass had probably caused the extensive injuries. Discounting, of course, the long scar across her palm. "Now, I've never seen her legs, but what's betting there's more on them? And don't tell me you haven't noticed the one on her wrist! She's been suicidal before, which means she's totally unstable. And her other hand too! What the bloody hell happened there, right across her palm? They've all got to be self inflicted. That's the only explanation there is."

"Oh, so she stabbed herself in the back, did she?" Hermione declined to comment on the palm scar, as she knew that had been...in a very odd way...self-inflicted.

Harry faltered for a moment. "No...but...now see here, people don't just stab other people for fun! I'm betting someone was scared of her. Maybe she's a vampire."

"Oh, of course she must be!" exclaimed Hermione, "That would explain so many things! Like why she has a reflection, adores the sun, keeps her nails short, and wears an earring shaped like a cross!"

"Oh, bloody well give over. There's something else. I know there is."

"You're wrong, Harry," seethed Hermione, "I'll not go into details. But you are so very wrong." Harry glared at her.

"Then tell me why, Hermione!"

"I can't," she said simply, her eyes never leaving his. "I promised her that I wouldn't, and I intend to keep that promise." Harry snorted, and waved a hand.

"How do you know she's not lying?"

"I just know." Hermione was defiant. For some reason, although she could certainly see why Tate unsettled a lot of people (Harry was not the only one who had expressed discomfort about the newest Gryffindor), she knew in her bones that Tate was not evil in anyway. But for some reason, she couldn't put it into words. "You'll just have to trust me."

Harry sighed deeply, and stared at his hands. "There's no way you'll elaborate on that?"

Hermione shook her head. Harry noted the adamant gleam in her eyes, and succumbed. "Fine. I'll trust you. But I'm still going to be suspicious. I can't help that."

Hermione's shoulders sagged in defeat. She understood what Harry meant. Sometimes, people just repelled, and for no reason at all. She decided to abandon the subject.

"I'll be right back," she said, and stood abruptly. She brushed past Harry quickly, and made her way to the bar.

"Two shots of vodka, please," Hermione smiled sensuously at the offensive looking ogre, who colored deeply, his face turning a shade of forest green, and sprang off to do her bidding. He seized a large bottle of Magical Skyy, and lumbered back toward Hermione. He placed four shot glasses on the counter.

"Wait, but I only ordered two," Hermione protested. The ogre turned his greenish-gray face up to hers and leered at her.

"You did, indeed," he thundered, making Hermione jump back a bit, "But you're the first pretty girl to come in here today. So I must insist you share a shot with me." Hermione smiled widely, hoping her disdain was well concealed. Fortunately for her, the ogre did not notice. He deftly poured four shots, and gently gripped one of the delicate shot glasses between two massive digits, and pushed the other towards Hermione. She accepted it, graciously.

"To your health," roared the ogre. Hermione threw back the shot, and grimaced at the fiery taste. However, it was a fair trade, as the tingling sensation of warmth spread through her veins. She grinned at the barkeep, and left him a generous tip. She returned to the table, and handed Harry a shot glass. He looked up at her in surprise, and grinned.

"Always surprising me, you are," he whispered breathlessly.

"That's me. Ms. Unpredictable. You never know what I've got up my sleeve," she giggled, pulling what she hoped looked like a mysterious face.

"To Ms. Unpredictable," echoed Harry, and they toasted each other.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, Hermione was distracted as the pub door opened, sending a shard of brilliant white light splicing through the dim, tawdry atmosphere. Four people entered the pub. Once the door had closed, Hermione could make out the faces. Fred and George Weasley had just entered the bar, Tate and Ginny, who each carried several shopping bags, trailing behind them. Fred caught sight of Hermione and Harry, and waved to them. He held up a hand and mouthed that he would be there in a moment.

After the four newcomers had ordered, Fred and George made their way over toward Harry and Hermione, while Tate and Ginny secured a table on the other side of the establishment.

"How's it hanging, Harry?" grinned Fred, as he slapped a hand down on Harry's shoulder. "Short, shriveled, and always to the left, as always?"

Harry shook his head laughing. "Trust you to embarrass the lady," he said chivalrously, gesturing toward Hermione.

"Oh, give over," chirped George, "She loves it. Don't ya, Hermione?" He grinned and leaned over to give her a squeeze.

"Of course I do, George," Hermione giggled. Her gaze fell on Ginny and Tate. "What're they doing, all the way over there?" Fred grinned evilly.

"Well, being perfect gentleman, we advised them to get a table over there so that we could privately invite Harry here to join our traveling sex show." George nodded eagerly.

"Imagine the headlines," he beamed, "Harry Potter, a flock of sheep, and a bag of ice, today only at 3 pm. Six galleons for admission." Harry choked on his drink and laughed uproariously.

"I think six is asking a bit much," said Hermione.

"You're crazy. Performing sheep are hard to come by." Hermione laughed, and excused herself to go say hi to Ginny. Taking her glass, she quickly crossed the floor, and settled herself at the table Ginny and Tate occupied. As she took a seat with her two friends, Ron arrived at the door and wandered over to the table Fred, George, and Harry occupied.

"Hello ladies," she said congenially. Tate and Ginny grinned at her. "Gone shopping, have you?"

"Oh yes," Ginny gushed, "I can't believe you didn't come!"

Tate grinned. "I'll have to agree on that, 'Mione." Hermione pursed her lips at the use of her most hated nickname. Tate arched a mischievous eyebrow. "Anyways, 'Mione, they had the most incredible clothes though. I don't believe I've seen such things at Neiman Marcus before."

"Oh, go on, you!" Ginny interjected, "You've mentioned this Neiman Marcus at least six times today! When will you realize that no one cares! Neiman Marcus does not exist here!"

"Good lord, I know!" said Tate, smiling slightly. "Want a drink, Gin?" Ginny nodded. "Hermione?" Hermione raised her own half full martini, and shook her head. Tate stood, and made for the bar.

"Did you show her Zonko's Joke Shop, then?" Ginny shook her head.

"It was completely mobbed. Not an inch of breathing space in the entire shop. Plus, she started chatting it up with Malfoy, and that called for immediate evacuation." Ginny shivered slightly, and Hermione concurred with a nod. Tate had been very good about keeping her friendship with Malfoy concealed from her Gryffindor friends, as she was aware that it was unsettling to most people. But every once in a while, friendly banter couldn't be avoided, and it tended to grate on certain people's nerves. Most especially, Harry, who always seemed to be in the general vicinity whenever such run ins occurred.

"Let me see what you've got in that bag there, Ginny. Anything naughty?" Ginny snorted, and handed Hermione one of the many shopping bags piled behind her seat. Hermione shuffled about in the bag, and drew out a gossamer camisole, embroidered with glass beads.

"Not bad, this."

"Not bad? That there is perfection!"

"You overdo yourself, Ginny. I stand corrected." Hermione glanced pointedly at the tiny top in her hand. "Perfection if you like after hours activities. I imagine this will look exceptionally lovely...on Seamus's floor!" Ginny cracked up scandalously, and placed a delicate hand over her mouth. A fleeting image stole through her mind. The gossamer camisole, tossed in a heap next to a luxuriant feather bed. In the bed, she lay stretched out under a sheet, her long limbs wrapped around the muscled Adonis next to her. But when she turned to face her lover, his hair was not sandy blonde, but of a silky white blonde texture. She shivered involuntarily, and was shocked at herself for such a fantasy. She staunchly ignored the white hot shocks that invaded her blood. Tate reappeared and looked curiously at Ginny, bearing two martini glasses filled with a pink liquid.

"Sorry that took so damned long," she said gruffly, gently placing the drinks on the round, stained table. "He didn't know how to make a cosmopolitan. I had to walk him through it." Ginny abandoned her mental scolding of herself, and examined the cocktail in front of her.

"A cosmopolitan?"

Tate nodded, and settled herself into her own chair, still eyeing Ginny with an amused smirk. "It's a kind of martini. Let's see how Mr. Ogre measures up." She swirled her cocktail with her swizzle stick, on which maraschino cherries were speared. Tentatively, she took a sip, as Ginny and Hermione looked on.

"Hello, I'm drunk!" gasped Tate. "It's almost all alcohol!"

"Oh, smashing!" gushed Ginny, and seized her drink, taking a generous sip. She grimaced slightly. "Wow, that's strong. But it's very, very good! I approve." Tate grinned, and saluted her.

"Do tell me, Ginny, if you're of a right mind, where you got the scar on your stomach?" Ginny looked up in mid-sip. She nodded airily, with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Oh, that," she began, "Was a mere circumstance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time." Tate's brow furrowed in confusion - Ginny's statement could mean so many different things. However, she did not have to wonder, because Ginny continued. "It happened was when I was about eight. My father and I were traveling to Romania, to visit Charlie. Mum and the boys were already there, but I stayed back with Dad while he took care of some business to keep him company. On the way to Romania, we were more or less stranded at this one particular train station in Switzerland. We missed our connection, because Dad just had to see what was in this manky muggle curio shop. Anyways, I got Appendicitis. There were no mediwizards anywhere nearby, and Dad had no idea whereabouts the Magical Embassy would be located. Long story short, I ended up in a muggle hospital, and they fixed me up their way."

"Wow," said Tate, "That sucks." Ginny shrugged.

"No big deal, really. I would've died if we hadn't of gone there." Hermione sighed and nodded. Sometimes, muggles were the only answer. "OK, your turn. Explain the scar on your back...and the one on your chest. Oh yes, and don't leave out the hands!" Ginny giggled girlishly and, to Hermione's great surprise, so did Tate.

"It's battle scar sharing time, is it?" Ginny laughed harder, snorting into her drink. "Alright then. The one on my back and chest, those are knife wounds." Ginny paused for a moment, but nodded, her eyes trained on Tate. "As for my hands, they're a veritable roadmap." She laughed at her own joke, and placed her hands palm down on the table. The multitudes of tiny white scars covering her knuckles and many of her long fingers stood out stark white as she purposefully tensed her hands. "All these little ones are from when I was...oh god, I think about six? I can't really remember." Hermione searched her face for some sign of pain of darkness, but there was none. Her expression was almost light. "Anyways," Tate continued, "My great grandmother used to live next to us. When she died, my father told me I could use the windows as target practice with my slingshot, since the house was going to be torn down anyways. So I did. I shattered all the windows, and then I went into the house to gather up my ball bearings -" She was interrupted by Ginny and Hermione, who both erupted in laughter.

"Your what?!" gasped Hermione, between guffaws. Ginny was slapping a hand on the table. Tate looked confused for a moment, then put together her last sentence and realized how it must've sounded.

"Oh shut up, you two! Ball bearings are what you use as ammunition!" Ginny was laughing so hard, she nearly fell out of her chair.

"Oh, sure they are, you ruddy whore!" shrieked Hermione. Tate dipped her fingers in her drink, and flecked the pinkish liquid at Hermione, who squealed as the droplet struck her in the face and rewarded Tate with kick under the table. Tate began to laugh merrily, and Hermione sensed a distinct difference in the aura that usually surrounded Tate. Some of the intense guarding that was always staunchly hovering about the strange girl, slipped away. Absentmindedly, Hermione patted her hand, and Tate grinned at her, her eyes looking remarkably lighter.

"Anyways, so continue with your ball bearings," giggled Ginny.

"Ah, yes. So I went in the house to get them, and I'm digging around in the broken glass, right. And mind you, she had this huge picture window, so I'm messing about in that particular pile, when..." she faltered for a moment, and eyed her two companions suspiciously. They silenced immediately, expecting her to reveal some new horror.

"Don't laugh," she said, seriously. Hermione cast a sobering glance in her direction.

"My great grandma had this really old furnace, and things could get in it and hide, you know? So, I'm digging around in this huge pile of glass, and I hear this scratching noise in the furnace, right. So I turn around to look, and...this fucking squirrel comes screeching out of the furnace and jumps right on my leg!" Her face began to twitch, as if she were holding back a howl of laughter.

"So, I panicked! I was six! I fell in the glass, and started pulling my way through it, and the whole time this crazy squirrel is trying to nest in my overalls. Needless to say, that cursed squirrel left me marked." She indicated her hands, and flipped them over where more of the tiny white slashes covered her palms, although they were more or less overshadowed by the larger slash on her right palm. Ginny and Hermione stared at her for a long moment, before infectious laughter overtook them. Ginny threw her head back in glee, and their laughter reached a crescendo that caused the entire bar to look in their direction. Harry, Fred, George, and Ron, who had just recently arrived, looked over at their female comrades in confusion.

"Girls. God's oddest creatures."

*** *** ***

Hermione sighed, exhaustedly, and put her book down on the table in front of her. It was her copy of The Blessed Few. She regarded it with slight irritation.

Thanks, darling Tate, but if I had wanted a book about Wizard brain and body composition and function, I've got Wizarding Anatomy and Physiology lined up for next year. The dusty, ancient book practically breathed with a promise of mysterious secrets, and here she was, a hundred pages in, still reading about immensely complex brain cells and networks, and the nerves that corresponded to them. She longed for a table of contents that might possibly explain where this book was going, but there was none. She just knew that it couldn't possibly be just another biology oriented book - Tate wouldn't have given her something like that. There was something else to the pages in it, there just had to be. She could feel it. The book itself was entirely handwritten, complete with scratch-outs and extensive grammatical errors. Many of the pages were splattered in different colored stains, and - although it added to the mysterious nature of the book - the lack of neatness rather bothered Hermione. She regarded the book in an angry fashion.

Well, I can't let you win that way, can I? The second I stop reading, you'll get interesting.

With renewed gusto, she seized the book and opened it rather roughly, to her marked spot. She began devouring the lines with a near ferocious manner - her eyes lanced scathingly over every line, as though she were trying to slice it open to see if it would bleed. Her ability to terrify the impulse known as boredom, and make that naughty little emotion slink back to the deep recesses of her mind, began to shine through. She began to lose herself in the pages. She barely acknowledged that Tate, who passed by as she did every night on her way to the back of the library (where she convened with Malfoy), had tossed a note toward her. Hermione imagined herself as a tiny, purple cell, skipping along the delicate matrices that interlocked all over the human brain, and the words flew by. Before she knew it, she was staring at an indentation, clearly a new paragraph - something she had not seen once since she opened the book for the first time, nearly an hour ago.

And now onto the blessed few...The handwriting seemed to perk up with this new sentence, as though the words in the previous pages had grown tired of repeating themselves and were excited at the prospect of something new...The telepaths. The telekinetics. The pyrokinetics. "Few" is a completely accurate description. As almost no research has been conducted concerning these baffling phenomena, no statistical estimate can be presented. At the time of this writing, November of 1968, there are 18 known telepaths in the world. Telekinesis, though it should be restricted to its' own, independent domain, always occurs in tandem with telepathy. While most wizards display brief telekinetic episodes during the development of their magic tendencies throughout childhood, these displays cannot be controlled, nor enhanced. To be a true telekinetic requires the extreme discipline and harnessing power of telepathy. To be one is to be the other. Pyrokinesis is a fascinating rarity (borderline nonexistent), and much more puzzling then the other two archetypes. For all three paradigms, which manifest simultaneously around the age of five, to be present in a single person is relatively unheard of (although there a handful of case studies spanning many centuries, most occurring in the early Middle Ages). It is most likely that individuals born bearing telepathy, telekinesis, and pyrokinesis die before their talents are recognized. Pyrokinesis will be discussed first.

A fly buzzed near Hermione's ear, and she swatted at it viciously, silently cursing the ridiculous insect for interrupting her concentration.

Most pyrokinetic individuals die before the age of seven, and this unfortunate reality is the reason as to why so few pyrokinetics exist. Pyrokinesis, loosely defined as the mental act of setting fire, is an extremely dangerous and powerful entity when left uninstructed. Like telepaths and telekinetics, pyrokinetics must be taught to strongly control their emotions. The slightest passionate outburst could cause spectacular results if the powers are not forced under control within the first few months of their emergence. The awesome power of pyrokinesis MUST be controlled at the first signs of manifestation. Inevitable death will follow, due to uncontrolled outbursts that will most certainly end in the death of the pyrokinetic, due to backfiring of their own powers. They will be incinerated in their own fires. The abilities possessed by the pyrokinetic individual are not limited to mental power - the pyrokinesis involves mutations in the proteins and bloodstream of said individual, causing physical manifestations to result. While no laboratory research has been conducted on any adolescent pyrokinetic, it is clear that the individual's body is composed of more than the usual elements (C, H, O, N, P, S). It is my belief that the biochemistry of the pyrokinetic expands to include another, highly reactive element that would serve to explain the extreme physical manifestations accompanying pyrokinesis. It had been argued that the element in question has either, a) not been discovered as of yet, or b) does not exist. Author chooses option c. The element in question is sodium (Na) in its pure form. Pure Na does not occur in nature - it is too reactive. But the presence of pure Na in the biochemistry of a pyrokinetic would fully explain the incendiary capabilities of the mind AND the extreme physical reactions that occur in pyrokinetics. The extent of the mental capabilities are divided, but incredibly powerful. Fire can be ignited, controlled, and/or extinguished at will. The quantity of fire that can be effectively controlled is nearly limitless. A historical sighting in the early sixth century documents one such pyrokinetic as controlling a blaze that spanned an entire forest. In the case of non-flammable solids and liquids, pyrokinetics can affect these as well, causing them to heat rapidly. The physical reactions include what is fondly known as a "defense mechanism". The pyrokinetic epidermis has the ability to skyrocket to scalding hot temperatures, believed to surpass the boiling point of water, while maintaining internal homeostasis. However, contrary to popular belief, pyrokinetics are not "fireproof". They will burn if you shoot them with a flamethrower, so don't try it.

In rapid succession, tiny alarms went off inside Hermione's head. She recalled her brief trip into Tate's memory...Tate's cellmate had seized her in a fit of rage, and her hands had been burned...the science classroom Tate and she had sat in had been set ablaze. Stunned, she shut her eyes tight, and concentrated on the vibrant purple and green shimmers that began to dance behind her lids. They swam, multiplied, and soon she was wrapped up in a vision of iridescent oscillations.

That'll do, she told herself. Opening her eyes, the world dissipated slowly as the shimmers melted away, bringing the library back into view. She stood, book in hand, and walked purposefully through the shelves, stopping when she heard the voice of whom she desired to speak with.

"Dude, I told you it's useless to go digging around in all those books. You will never find anything! And who cares anyways?" Hermione did not particularly want to interrupt any ongoing conversation, and decided to wait until silence hung between the two people at the table. Maybe that way, she wouldn't have to speak to Malfoy.

"No one does, I can promise you that! Least of all me."

Tate snorted. "Right, so why are you looking in "A Name! My Kingdom for Name!" instead of doing the Arithmancy homework you've been bitching about all evening?"

"All evening? You've been here fifteen minutes!"

"Yah, but you whine like a mule. It counts as all evening." Draco was silent for a moment, and Hermione could mentally picture him composing himself.

"I am looking because I am being driven nutters by the mere fact that I cannot find it. Cor, I know it'll be in my father's bookcase - I think I may have even seen it before. I wish I could get back in there and get it."

"Well, you can wish in one hand and crap in the other, and see which gets filled first."

Draco laughed. "Has anyone ever told you that you have the manners of pig?"

"Has anyone ever told you that carrying a purse is unbecoming for a boy?"

Draco spluttered indignantly. "For the last time, it's not a purse! It's a Fendi shoulder bag! And it's better looking than your tattered rucksack, if you can even call it that." Hermione covered her mouth to suppress her giggles.

"Has anyone ever told you that you've got the manners of a pig," mocked Tate, in a high distorted voice. "Nancy."

"Bitch!"

"Ugly!"

"Whore!"

"Candy cane!"

"You're mad, you are. Candy cane? What the bloody hell kind of insult is that?"

"I was distracted. Hermione!" Hermione jumped at the sound of her name. "Come out from behind that shelf!" Flush spread guiltily through Hermione's chest and face, as she stepped out to face her friend. She nodded sharply to Draco, who had assumed his condescending sneer, and turned her gaze to Tate, who had her long legs propped up on the table, her chair leaning precariously backwards.

"Spying, are you Granger?" Malfoy fixed her with a penetrating stare.

"Quiet you," snapped Tate. "What've you got there?" Hermione tightened her grip around the book in her hands. Although she was extremely uncomfortable about sharing a table with a Malfoy, answers were her main priority in life. Behind Harry and Ron, of course. Quickly, she skirted around the edge of the table and took a seat next to Tate, placing the book in front of her.

"Find what you were looking for, did you?" Tate smiled at her. Hermione began to nod, then shook her head. She cast a quick glance at Malfoy, who was looking on with rapt attention. Suddenly, she felt unwilling to discuss the book in his presence. For all she knew, he might steal that damned thing. Instinctively, she placed a hand over the book, causing Malfoy to snort and assure her that he wanted nothing to do with her "ragged little diary". Tate smiled wryly at the description he offered for the book.

Ragged and little, is it? I'll bet his father would pay a fortune for this. She reached over, placed her hand on top of Hermione's, and slid the book across the table until it rested in front of herself. She removed her hand, and appeared to return her attention to the worksheet lying in her lap. Hermione slowly withdrew her own hand, and looked expectantly at Tate.

"So how far did you read till?"

"Oh, about two hundred pages, I believe. The first bit went rather slow, but he's finally getting specific." Tate smiled, her eyes roving over the worksheet in her lap.

"Excellent. Turn to page 437 for me, will you?" Without thinking, Hermione leaned forward, and flipped open the book to page four hundred and thirty seven.

"Are you sure that's page four hundred and thirty seven," asked Tate, without looking up.

"Of course I'm sure." Hermione was rather sharp now. She got the distinct feeling that she was being drawn into a cryptic little game, and she really didn't have the patience for it. Tate finally looked up from her worksheet, and locked eyes with Hermione.

"Oh yeah? How are you sure? There aren't any page numbers. Not one in the whole entire book." Malfoy snorted.

"I'd advise against proving Granger wrong, Tate. I've heard she breathes fire."

"Well then, I'd get a head start if I were you, Malfoy," Hermoine said scathingly, "Manky little ferrets burn awfully fast." He glared at her dangerously, but refrained from making any more snide comments. She returned her attention to Tate. "Of course there are page numbers. I saw them."

"Look again." Hermione scanned the open page. The number 437 was clearly emblazoned on the right hand corner of the page. She placed her finger on it, and looked disapprovingly at Tate, who smiled as she leaned forward and began leafing through the book. Every page she flipped to, with the exception of four hundred and thirty seven, was devoid of any number. Hermione was slightly confused.

"Coincidence," she said dismissively. Tate slammed the cover shut, making Hermione jump a bit.

"Do it again." Hermione shrugged, determined to prove her wrong, and shut her eyes as she lazily chose a random page near the front of the cover and flipped the book open.

"Cheater," whispered Tate, "You turned to the wrong page on purpose!"

"I did not!" Malfoy was chuckling superiorly.

"You so did!" Exasperated, Tate removed her reading glasses and gently massaged the bridge of her nose. "You need to try. Turn to page six hundred and forty three, and I dare you that you can't do it." Hermione furrowed her brow, glaring competitively at Tate, who put the edge of her glasses in her mouth and chewed, as though waiting to be proven right. Hermione turned her gaze toward the book, and the cogs and wheels in her brain began turning furiously as she took mental measurements. Without hesitation, she seized the book and opened it. There was no page number.

"Ha! I knew it!" Draco shouted gleefully, jumping up from his chair. The noise regulating fireflies began to glow. "Hermione Granger fails at something, I knew it was possible!" Hermione felt heated disgust build at the base of her skull. In moments like this, it was all she could do to keep from drawing her wand and hexing the smile right off his petulant face. She allowed herself to glare at him with lazy distaste, when Tate nudged her with a sandaled foot. Hermione glanced at her, and saw she was concealing a grin. Tate withdrew a quill from behind her ear, and placed the tip of the eagle feather on the open, left-hand page. Silently, she traced the tip down, between the rather sprawling, untidy penmanship. Hermione looked on as the quill stopped beneath the word 'six hundred and forty three'. Draco, oblivious to the discovery in his lunatic like laughter, excused himself to the restroom.

"Thought he'd never go away," Hermione muttered darkly.

"Ah, he's not so bad," Tate tread lightly, fully away that Hermione would never think anything less of him, "I can't believe you cheated and opened the wrong page."

"What? I didn't! It says page six hundred and forty three." Tate laughed and shook her head.

"I meant before, loser."

"So, do tell what this has to do with anything?" Hermione pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "Am I seer, because if that's what you are going to say, I must warn you that I hold no faith in Divination." Tate shook her head again.

"Divination? Who'd bother with that crap? You knew where that page was out of logic." A smile itched at Hermione's mouth. "Right?"

"Right. Take into account the weight of the book, separate it into categories. The leather bindings are made of fire salamander hide. See, you can tell by the red edging on the scales." She traced two fingers down the cover of the now closed book. "And the parchment is a particularly old kind - I'll venture lamb skin - and its probably more than 50 years old, considering the color. The ink carries weight as well, as does all the various spills. So, you've got a book that is six and a half inches by seven and three quarter inches, 3 inches tall. So, naturally, if I wanted to get to page B, I would start from the cover, A, and..." Her concentration broke as she looked up at Tate, who was regarding her with a very amused expression. "What? Have I got dirt on my face?"

"Yah." Hermione's hand instinctively flew to herself. "It says Hermione is a genius." Hermione giggled and ceased scrubbing at her nose. Tate sighed, and fiddled with her glasses. "Did you ever take math as a kid?"

"Of course I did."

"Did you take geometry and algebra and calculus?"

"I most certainly did not," Hermione said curtly, "I only attended muggle school until I was ten. You ought to know they don't teach those disciplines in secondary school!"

"Oh right. How careless of me. You must've studied them on your own."

"No, I never had time. Hogwarts does keep one busy." Tate looped an invisible rope around her neck and pretended to hang herself. Hermione snorted. "What's that all about?"

"It's cause your so damned thick!" Tate threw her hands over her face.

"Not at all," Hermione countered airily, "I'm very observant." Tate laughed hollowly into her palms. "Observant enough to know what you are." She tapped the book. Tate peered at Hermione over her hands.

"Good. Keep reading and maybe I'll take back that comment about you being thick." Hermione rolled her eyes.

"If you think for even a moment that I am a telepath or a telekinetic or a pyromaniac -"

"Pyrokinetic." Tate corrected tightly, through clenched teeth. Hermione sensed a great discomfort in Tate. She murmured an apology and continued.

"There's simply no possible way that I am any of those things. They're distinctly marked at birth. I am not. And they're well tracked. Once their powers emerge, they're immediately appointed personal instructors. And that is by law. There have never been any exceptions."

"Wow, you remember a lot." Tate narrowed her eyes at Hermione, searching her expression. She quickly broke off and leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head.

"There's more in that book. That's what I'm so cryptically trying to allude to." Hermione interjected with a loud HA! And informed Tate that her allusions were as plain as day. "Whatever dude, keep reading." She nudged the book toward Hermione with her foot. Hermione looked up, just in time to see Draco Malfoy glide out of the shadowy corridor. She jumped, startled, and he looked pleased with himself.

"Still hanging around, Granger? What will the two forgotten musketeers do without you?" Hermione lifted her chin, and diverted her line of vision to the shelf behind him. Tate, however, grinned, and placed her feet on the edge of the table, leaning her chair back on two legs as far as safety would permit.

"And now, a word from our sponsor." She burped, very loudly. Draco started to laugh, but quickly covered it, reminding himself that he didn't particularly want Granger to think he had any sort of humour at all. It might tarnish the reputation he had worked so hard for.

Tate watched him curiously, a knowing look in her eye.

"C'mon," she weedled, "You know you want to match that. I can see it in your eyes...go on."

Draco smirked at her, and shook his head. "Draco does not belch. It would be uncivil."

Hermione abruptly pushed her chair back and stood.

"As much as I'd love to witness a burping contest between you two, I think I'll take a rain check." She gently picked up her book, and bade goodnight to them.

She slipped into the small corridor between shelves and made for her desk, her steps quick and light. She cradled the book gently, now very appeased with it due to the fact it obviously had more important information to offer her. Grinning almost giddily, she hugged the book to her chest. The only sounds to be heard were the soft rustling of pages, and the delicate lilting melodies books seemed to call out to her as she passed.

A massive, thundering belch split the white noise of the library, followed by muffled laughter. Hermione rolled her eyes, as she approached her table. She reopened to her bookmark, and began to read. She got no further than the third line when yet another magnificently loud burp reverberated off the walls. The firefly sensors began to buzz angrily and shine green. Hermione heard Madame Pince come flying out of her office, grumbling to herself. Apparently though, a mere two burps per person were not enough to satiate the ludicrous hunger of the machismo contest brewing between Tate and Draco. Four more booming burps echoed throughout the library, followed by a bright blue flash, before Madame Pince decided to call in reinforcements. The old woman dashed behind her reception desk and rang a huge golden bell to summon the library brownies for assistance. Hermione chuckled to herself as the padding of tiny feet spread in all directions. Tate and Draco were in for it now.

Serves them right. She returned her attention to her book.

Now I will address the widely controversial lineage of telepathy. Allow me to shatter any former beliefs you, the reader, may have had concerning telepathy and telekinesis. They are most likely nonsense. A telepath does not read minds. That is an ability that no mortal may possess. Additionally, there is no mind to mind communication of any kind. Telepaths are not clairvoyant. We have Seers to do that dirty work for us.

Hermione smiled at the light tone the author had taken on. It seemed that he had become much more comfortable with his writing - reading his words was almost like listening to a kind old man spin yards of fascinating tales. He spoke to the reader as a person, not a student.

Telepathy is not defined as any specific discipline, unlike its counterpart telekinesis. Telepathy is varied and uniquely structured, if you will. It is tailored to fit the individual it inhabits. In my own research studies concerning telepathy, I believe that it is safe to rule out genetics as a pre-disposing factor. In-depth personal research of genetic DNA has yielded no contradictory results - the structure of DNA and its respective purines and pyramidines remains the same in telepaths as it does in non-telepaths. However, DNA is still highly involved in the process - excepting that the DNA of the two parents is more or less inapplicable, once the child is conceived and its DNA is encoded. Therefore, heredity plays no role. My best guess at this point, and I must say it's rather brilliant - Hermione arched an eyebrow - is that mutations occur in utero. The unborn telepathic child's rapidly dividing cells slip up, make mistakes, and the body and mind of the child develop accordingly so. However, the 'mistakes' (usually involving the spontaneous breaking and rejoining of DNA molecules) cause the telepathic child's nervous system to develop at ten times the rate of non-telepathic children. This accelerated system (which most certainly does NOT involve physical growth - shame on you if you wondered this) does not slow once the telepathic child is born. Their minds will continue to operate in spectacular prowess throughout the course of their lives.

Hermione was suddenly aware of a tickling sensation on her shin. She froze. If there was something under the table, she hadn't heard it arrive, due to the incessant pattering of feet and fluttering of wings erupting from all over the library. Madame Pince was still storming about, searching for the doomed troublemakers. Something warm brushed against Hermione's leg now, and she kicked out, hard.

"Fuck! That hurt!" Hermione scooted her chair back loudly and peered under the table. Malfoy and Tate were huddled beneath it. Tate was on her back, holding her head and looking dazed. Draco was pointing at her and laughing.

"Oh really!" Draco's eyes grew wide as he saw Hermione, and he frantically began to shush her. She opened her mouth to speak, but Draco lunged toward her, seized the legs of her chair, and yanked it forward. Hermione gasped as the edge of the table caught her in the midsection, and kicked at him, but faint scuffling signaled that he had moved out of her range. Madame Pince came bustling into the lit area, looking quite frazzled.

"Ms. Granger, I trust that you are not responsible for the commotion." Hermione was appalled.

"Of course not, Madame Pince! I'm a prefect! I wouldn't go about setting bad examples." Madame Pince eyed her momentarily, for good measure, even though she had, in fact, never suspected Hermione.

"I hope your studies go well, dear." Madame Pince's dry, weathered face crinkled together in a weak smile. Hermione beamed back at her, trying vainly not to notice quite how much Madame Pince's skin reminded her of dead, crackling leaves. The old woman turned, and directed the small minion of brownies behind her. She looked, amusingly enough, like a massive choral director, gesturing wildly at a chorus of a hundred or so diminutive, excited children. The brownies, impossibly tiny (the tallest recorded brownie in history towered at an imposing twelve and a half inches), scattered in all directions, and Madame Pince continued her grumbling hunt for the offensive students. Hermione sniggered slightly - Madame Pince lived for that sort of thing - but was distracted when she heard a collective sigh from underneath the table. She kicked out again, and connected with something. Hopefully, it was Malfoy. But a muffled, masculine laugh assured her that it wasn't. She grimaced, as a sudden headache bloomed behind her eyes. She scooted her chair back, quietly this time, and peered under the table. Tate was sitting with her knees in the air, one hand clapped over her eye, the other propped at the elbow on her knee. With her good eye, she was looking reproachfully at Hermione. Draco was frantically trying to suppress his peals of glee.

"Not once do you kick her, but twice!" he gasped between choked laughter, "Twice! And both times, I imagine you were aiming for me! HA!" He covered his face, and guffawed into his palms. Tate cast a withering glare in his direction.

"As pleased as I am that one of us manages to find my pain funny, we still have yet to discuss the rather pressing issue of our escape from the library." Draco, shoulders still shaking, managed a shrug. "Thought so. Where are all the cunning Slytherin qualities you're always yammering on about?"

"You're looking right at them," Hermione cut in, "Apathy, impetuosity, and a complete lack of interest for anyone besides themselves."

Draco smirked arrogantly. "You forgot devishly good looking, remarkably intelligent, and 'radiates sex appeal to which all women find themselves helpless'."

"Oh right. I can't believe I left 'delusions of grandeur' out." She glared at him savagely, and he glared right back.

"If you've quite finished," Tate said shortly, "I think we should probably concentrate on getting out of here."

"We? What do you mean 'we'? This is your problem." Hermione sat up and scooted her chair back to the table with a little more force than intended, ignoring the stifled "I wasn't talking to you!" that came from under the table.

"And do be quiet while plotting your escape!" Tate giggled under the table, and playfully pinched Hermione's leg. Hermione kicked forth, and missed. Inside she tried to convince herself that she was seething, and yet there was a bouncy enthusiasm in the air. She half-smiled at the interesting predicament her two classmates now found themselves in, and began absentmindedly devising her own amusing ways of fleeing from such peril. However, not one seemed to match the audacity with which plans were being formed under the table.

"That's stupid," Tate protested, "We can't stun Madame Pince. Think of something less illegal, please."

"I can't," whined Draco, "All I can picture is the old bag on the ground, my foot in her chest, and a collective roar of gratitude from the whole of Hogwarts." Tate chuckled briefly, and then glared at him. "It's not all that bad, we'll just hide out here until the old crone gives up."

"It is all that bad!" she insisted. "However, it wouldn't be this bad if you hadn't insisted on screwing with that statue."

"I was improving it!" Tate looked at him incredulously.

"I hardly think that replacing an eight foot statue of Athena with a...a streaker qualifies as an improvement!"

"You're right," Draco conceded. "Improved is not grand enough. It was pure genius." He thought proudly of the new statue that aligned the path to the Restricted Section. It was sure to cause a riot. He had even been so thoughtful as to include a lightening shaped scar on the bronzed forehead of the offensive statue. Tate inclined her head slightly, and made to say something when Draco clamped a hand over her mouth. He pointed gingerly toward the darkened passageway. A brownie had come into shadowy view, and was gazing with interest at Hermione. Hermione took notice of the little creature when it decided to step forth, into the light. It was a very young boy brownie, with great brown eyes and a curious little hat on his head. His ears extended into points, and he grinned in excitement at Hermione.

"Hello there!" She smiled warmly at the little boy. His grin stretched even wider, and he scampered over and nimbly leapt up on the table to join her.

"Got any cookies?" He looked at her impishly, with bright, expectant eyes.

"Certainly," said Hermione. The boy skipped about in a joyful little dance, laughing gleefully. Hermione reached into her book bag and withdrew a cookie she had saved as a late night snack. She broke off a small piece and very gingerly held it out toward the minute little boy who was still dancing around the table. He clapped his hands in excitement, and accepted the massive piece of cookie she offered him. Standing at a mere six inches tall, he was an adorably precious sight to behold.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked her curiously.

"When? I've only talked to you since you arrived." Hermione felt a touch of concern.

"No," he mumbled, his mouth full of cookie, "Before you talked t'me. When'ya 'ad your 'ead under the table."

"Oh, that. Just talking to myself, that's all. Helps me learn." She smiled broadly at him, and he grinned back, cookie crumbs scattered across his face.

A female voice wafted into their area from behind the shelves. "Conall? Conall, where've you gotten off to?" The boy's pointed ears perked up.

"That'll be Mum," he told Hermione. Then he puffed out his chest, and raised his voice to a surprisingly loud shout. "Oi! Over here, mum!" A plump, harassed looking female brownie paced quickly into the lit area. Like her son, she leapt onto the table, though with less agility.

"Oi, me back ain't what it used to be!" she lilted, smiling at Hermione, "Seems to be giving me more an' more trouble, as of late. I've a right mind to think its to do with me wee anklebiters!" She clapped a motherly hand on her tiny son's shoulder. He blushed, and grinned up at his mother, his face shining in adoration.

"Mum, she's got cookies," he said, his voice hushed, so as not to alert the other nearby brownies who would, no doubt, want some too. His mother's eyes twinkled.

"Yeh don' mind if I have a wee bit, do'ya dear?"

"Oh, not at all, go on," Hermione swept a hand toward the cookie, and the expectant looking woman grinned as she knelt down beside the confection. Hermione grinned at the two brownies. It never ceased to amaze her that the simple creatures were always happy. Although she had little contact with them - they usually remained in Madame Pince's private quarters, though she couldn't imagine why - it was a widely accepted fact that brownies never bothered themselves with anything hateful, dull, or sullen.

"God praises yeh, love. He loves kind people, he does. Don't he, Conall?" She nudged her son, who nodded fervently. She crammed a sizable chunk of the cookie into her apron pocket, and patted it. "For the wee bairns." Then she broke off a piece for herself, and settled onto the table.

"What're yeh doin up so late, m'dear," she asked. Hermione shrugged.

"Bit of homework and studying." The woman smiled kindly.

"Ah, a smart one yeh are. No doubt abou' it." She popped another piece of the cookie into her mouth. "Me 'usband went out with the other brownies, looking about for that lot of troublemakers. Wee Conall here sneaked out the door when me back was turned!" Conall beamed at his own cleverness. "Always following his father, this one." She inclined her head toward the front of the library. "Can't imagine why they 'aven't caught the litt'l tossers yet. Yer ol' dad is fallin about on the job!" Her son looked scandalized.

"Course he 'asn't, mum! Dad's backin' the dirty rotters into a corner, righ' now, just you wait!" Conall began bouncing up and down in pleasure. A soft snort came from under the table, and Hermione instinctively kicked whoever was huddled closest to her legs. Conall's ears pricked up, and he snapped to attention. Peering furtively at the shelves surrounding the table, he reminded Hermione very much of a bloodhound following the scent of a rabbit. Hermione nudged someone - she prayed it was Tate - warningly with her foot. It wasn't Tate. Hermione winced as Draco brought his elbow down on her foot. Conall squealed with excitement, and leapt off the table.

"Dad!" he shouted, his voice magically resonating off the library walls, "Dad, c'mere, I've found 'em!" The speed with which the other brownies descended upon the scene was of a supernatural immediacy. Hermione shrieked in amazement and leapt out of her chair, clearing the way as hundreds of brownies swarmed under the table. They poured through the walkways, and sprang through shelves, and dove onto the tussle. Hermione backed up against the shelf, entranced at absurdity of the situation. It was almost like a cartoon. Hermione erupted in giggles and had to stuff a fist in her mouth to stifle them. A pale hand extended from underneath the table - Draco's - and managed to grip the edge of a hopelessly shallow groove on the floor. The knuckles turned white as the arm heaved, and Draco's face, red and shiny with exertion, appeared from under the table. He managed to pull his other arm free, and frantically scrabbled uselessly against the smooth, hardwood floor. His mouth drew into a shocked O of surprise just before tiny hands seized the edges of his cloak and he was yanked back out of sight.

This would be my cue to exit quietly...Accio. Hermione caught her bookbag out of the air, and waved her wand. The rest of her books flew in quick succession inside her bookbag. She spun on her heel and vacated the small study area, and not a moment too soon. Madame Pince was scurrying towards the ruckus as quickly as her orthopedic shoes would carry her. Hermione slipped into a particularly shadowy nook, concealing herself from view as Madame Pince lumbered past her. There was a look of pure exuberance on her leathery, vulture-like face. Hermione snickered to herself, and decided it was a safer bet to take the back exit. She ran lightly through the walkways, her bookbag weighing heavily on her shoulders. She decided to take a slight detour through the Muggle Studies section. Otherwise, she'd come hurtling out of the main walkway which usually meant she ended up skidding across the ridiculously slick marble floors. For such a smart girl, she tended to forget that important nugget of wisdom much more often than she remembered it.

Her slight detour sent her down remarkably narrow passageway - her bookbag caught the edges more than a few times, intensifying the dull ache in her shoulders. Just ahead she could see the gilded gates of the Restricted Section. She put on a slight burst of speed in her haste to escape the eerie narrow confines. And skidded on the slick marble right into a group of gawking first years. She took three of them down with her.

She apologized over and over again as the bewildered children left standing helped her up. She assisted in pulling a blonde girl with pigtails to her feet, and began brushing off the childrens' robes.

"What're you doing up so late, then?" Hermione inquired gently.

"Having a good laugh, that's for sure!" Hermione glanced at the dark-haired first year, whose attention was directed toward the statues that guarded the Restricted Section.

"Oh my..."

In place of the Greek goddess Athena's imposing statue, the statue of a man courageously stood guard at the entrance, between the bronze likenesses of Gullveig and Babd Catha. His bronzed arms were outstretched, in a body builder like pose, and his hands were clamped tightly around the edges of his trench coat. Otherwise, he was stark naked. A glowing silver lightening bolt was emblazoned directly on his forehead.