Come Find Me, Hermione

Sip Your Soup and Thank Your Helpful Elf!

The roof of St Mungos had to be charmed invisible as a main emergency exit from London’s most over-crowded hospital. The front entrance reserved for incoming patients. It was a black night, the air crisp and cutting.

Hermione gulped at a mug (Slytherin House Crest painfully visible on both sides of the porcelain) of hot, lemon, honey tea as she and Longbottom handed out mushroom soup in weak, paper, water cups from the hospital lobby. (She’d been retained for emergency employment-seeing as she was already privy to the series of crimes, convolutedly involved in the current act of terrorism, and able-bodied enough to charm a trash bag.)

She and Neville alternatively offered up cups and charmed trash bags to take the soggy vessels back and motioned witches and wizards into lines for their Ministry-issued emergency brooms—or complementary house-elf side Apparitions.

Poor Mossmedow was likely to be over-run with owls asking for the recipe. No one quite wished to believe thanking their house-elves could be the only cure—so much as a mouthful of mysterious, goblin-made, hearty soup. The Ministry had paid Mossmedow in Galleons, not just credit, for the recipe. Hagrid was brewing up cauldrons full to dispense and owl to every witch and wizard’s home, via compensated house-elves who were instructed not to leave until they had been thanked. Much to each, and every elf’s horror.

A shivering, frightened retinue of house-elves from Hogwarts kitchens had been hired for the job. Five of whom stood, wide-eyed and mortified, beside Hermione and Longbottom to be thanked as sneezing witches and wizards were funneled back out into London.

“Thank your helpful elf!” Longbottom bellowed. “Sip your soup and thank your helpful elf!” Unbothered by the cold, he smiled crookedly—blissfully (to Hermione’s vantage) unaware of the long stares people shot up and up and up his six-foot-four frame of muscle. He’d truly grown into himself.

Hermione elbowed his nearest rib—the lowest one she could reach. “Stop saying helpful elf! What if those letters get leaked to the press!”

“What if they do? High time some of these wizards thought a bit more about their elves, isn’t it?” Longbottom grinned holding out a cup of soup to a sneezing Shacklebolt.

Hermione didn’t disagree—neither did she want the paper to make up ridiculous stories about house-elves being responsible for the Floo plague the way they had been blamed for mishandling wizard’s coins at the Gringott’s heist. Which was why she planned to take a trip to Faux Floo and Floo-Pow on her second Saturday morning—despite her and Theo having promised not to use the Time Turners on weekends anymore.

Theo would understand. And he needn’t join her. She simply had no other free time available to investigate.

“Ahh,” sniffle, “Much better. Soup could be warmer.” Minister Shacklebolt sniffed. His retinue sneezed their agreement.

“Sorry—“ Hermione had tried to warm the soup. But the cups were already so soggy she feared burning her hands.

“I hear thanks are in order, Ms Granger. You and young Malfoy make a formidable team.”

“Oh—“

“I’m sure we can continue to count on you. And I’ve got the best of the best on this stalker business.”

“That isn’t—“

“I know you must be used to fans, but we will be taking this particular fan very seriously.”

“Right,” Hermione replied dryly, rocking under the Minister's fatherly pat to her shoulder and stern eye.

“Ahh, Longbottom! Glad you’re out here keeping an eye on our Golden Girl. Do see she gets safely home”

“If I could—“ Hermione cleared her throat unsure how to go about distancing herself from Malfoy in Schaklebolt’s esteem.

“—yes Hermione—another time. I’m sure Harry can fill you in. I better get home before the Mrs sends out the Dementors to collect me. Ahaha, bad joke, bad joke, ahh—here’s my ride!” Shacklebolt bulldozed over Hermione and hopped into his carriage—retinue in tow like children on leads at a theme park.

“Sip your soup and thank your helpful elf!” Longbottom hollered jovially.

Put out, Hermione turned on the growing crowd of witches and wizards building up behind Shacklebolt’s dallying. Charming her voice to carry she snapped orders across the rooftop. “Please join the lines in an orderly fashion! Ministry-issued emergency brooms to your right, house-elf Apparition on your left!”

Robert Threep and his Great Aunt appeared from behind two weedy tall wizards. Threep downed his soup with a grimace, thanked the shy elf to Hermione’s left, and then heated the soup for Aunt Isley.

“Tastes like goblin mushrooms.”

“Oh, I like that.” Great Aunt Isley said while blowing her nose.

Threep then suggested Hermione take Monday off whilst wiping his fevered face with a handkerchief. “I expect the entire Ministry will be shut down. And you look as though you could sleep for a year, my dear.”

Hermione’s scowl ripened. She had no intention of skipping work and she very much doubted anyone else would either—including Threep himself.

“Aunt Isley,” Threep turned to his reclusive aunt. “I say, Aunt Isley! This is my  . . . Hrm this is the Granger girl I’ve been speaking of.”

“Oh,” Great Aunt Isley’s droopy eyelids parted a sliver. Her thin penciled eyebrows rose with little effect on the general droopage of her face. ”I see.”

Hermione doubted that too.

“Well, get some rest. Have you no hat my dear? It’s terribly cold out here.”

“Thank you Mr Threep. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Hrmm.” Threep gave her a disapproving eye that twinkled mildly. “Yes, I rather think I will.” He shook his head.

“Was that the Granger child?” Aunt Isley asked loudly as they joined the line of Apparitions.

Next, a blurry-eyed troop of puffs tromped out onto the roof. The M&M’s noses shone red and a mess of wet handkerchiefs stuck out from pockets and sleeves. Their parents—scattered in a herding circle behind, looked pressed and hollow-eyed.

“Ms GACHOO!” Bax Brown bellowed into his hands.

“Ms Granger—ACHOOO!”

“It’s Ms-ACHOO!”

“Lucy it’s ACHOO!” Will pointed at Hermione.

“Is it tru-ACHOO!!” Lucy began and had several more false starts with her query before she sat down on the rooftop, face wet with tears.

Hermione completely sympathized.

“Thank your helpful elf lads and lasses, and you might finish those sentences this year.” Neville grinned down at the sniffling children.

A chorus of thank-YACHOOs followed.

“Soup?” Hermione began passing out soggy—congealed mushroom soup cups. “What are all of you doing out of Hogwarts?” Hermione asked, curious.

“Friendsgiving gone wrong,” Finn sniffled miserably.

“Friendsgiving? Like Thanksgiving? I thought you were Scottish, Finn.” Hermione looked them over in confusion.

“I am!” Finn grinned sheepishly.

“We’ve been watching Friends on the Muggle Telly. It was research for our Muggle studies project,” Lucy huffed.

“We were supposed to use Hagrid’s kitchen,” Cressida glared at Bax.

“I had to deep fry a turkey!” he protested. “I needed an actual stove!”

“So we took the Floo to Silverbrook’s home.” Lucy rolled her eyes.

“And all got the Floo flu,” Hermione sighed.

The M&Ms nodded miserably.

“Would you settle a debate for us, Ms Granger?” Ellie piped up.

“And what’s that, Ms Baker?” Hermione asked cautiously.

“Is sweet potato casserole a dessert or a dinner item?”

“I certainly don’t want marshmallows in my gravy.” Will made a disgusted face.

“What’s wrong with it? It all ends up in your stomach anyway,” Bax shouted.

“It’s disgusting,” Ellie’s face pinched.

“I’m afraid it is a dinner item.” Hermione bore the sad news.

“Disgusting,” Ellie repeated.

“Who hates marshmallows?” Bax complained.

“Well, good luck with your studies. Appariting line to your left!” Hermione yawned.

“Thank you, Ms Granger!” The M&Ms shouted and jostled past.

Hermione was beginning to feel a lot like the host to an ill-favored relative’s funeral. She didn’t wish to be here. She had been called upon (outside of work hours, mind you) to be available to everyone she’d ever known being funneled through her soup line.

A general feeling of resentment rose within her sleep-deprived mind, especially when the Malfoys stepped up to sneer over her soggy soup cups. Like two elegant swans in a stream of ducks, the couple glided. Cane and heels clicked in unison.

Poised and put upon, the couple elegantly conveyed an air of being generally ill-used simply by being so out of place. (Though they had only been asked to do the bare minimum of what everyone else need do.)

To Hermione’s judgment, if the Minister himself submitted to standing in line, the Malfoys must be content to do so as well. There were no private entrances to pivot esteemed hospital guests through, and so there was no sparing the Malfoys from dealing with the masses.

That being said, the Malfoys still had their limit. Most certainly they had never been called upon to engage with soggy soup cups—and today’s trials would not change that standard.

“Mr Longbottom,” Narcissa smiled warmly. “No, I don’t think we’ll require soup. Draco, as you know, is an attentive boy. He sorted out the cure for this Floo Powder problem, did you know? He’s always been clever. But I’m afraid we had to come this way to reach the Apparition lines as the rest of the hospital has been so heavily warded.”

Hermione knew she was scowling. (In her defense, it had been a very long day and a longer night—and she had spent the majority of it sneezing into Narcissa’s darling, clever boy’s chest.)

Lucius’ haughty gaze settled squarely on Hermione’s sour little face. His eyebrows rose. His sneer grew calculated, and his lips parted as though a thought had just brushed the still waters of his glacial mind.

Hermione grit her teeth. She wasn’t about to offer him soup when Narcissa had so expediently declined. She didn’t owe the man who’d been happy to see her murdered politeness. And, she rather thought he could find his own way to the very obvious line for Apparition.

“My son tells me you’ve been given an interesting book.” Lucious leaned casually upon his cane, snake mouth facing Hermione. It felt like a threat. Mostly because Hermione had always suspected the cane to contain an unregistered wand.

Hermione gazed coolly back. She would have to talk with darling, clever Draco about sharing Ministry business with his Death Eater Daddy.

Lucious’ sneer defrosted into a self-satisfied smile at whatever he gleaned from her face. “Well, I suppose you have learned something in school. Books are dangerous for young girls. It’s for the best you’ve entrusted it to Draco. He’s always had a way with runes.”

The soup cups exploded.

She wasn’t proud of it.

But her loss of self-control was worth seeing Lucius Malfoy slimed in cold mushroom.

Narcissa sighed, sent Hermione an alarmingly sympathetic smile, and began to dab gray mushroom from her husband’s robes with a silk handkerchief.

“Oh noooo,” Neville said without an ounce of sincerity. “Everyone’s magic’s been on the fritz tonight—what with the Floo flue.”

Lucius wiped up the mess with the ferocity of a soldier swiping blood from his face. His sneer was back. His cheeks flushed with remarkable color given his otherwise shed-snake-skin complexion.

“Apparition lines are to the left.” Hermione scowled back at him—determining that mushroom soup in the face could impair his general sense of direction.

“Mr Longbottom,” Mr Malfoy gave Neville a respectable nod, cool eyes brushing over Hermione as though she—like the soup in hand—did not exist. “Come along, darling.”

“Goodnight Mr Longbottom, Hermione.” Narcissa nodded to each before swanning past and petting her husband’s flared ego.

Harry waded through the crowds next and Hermione could only feel relief that she wouldn’t need to answer questions about mushrooms, soup, or the weakness of paper water cups. His hair swirled in a right nest, glasses charmingly askew. “Mione, I know you’re terrifyingly competent and used to fixing your problems.”

Hermione nodded, not finding anything particular to disagree with but suspiciously positive he was winding her up for unpleasantness.

Harry drew her to one side allowing Neville to take over soup duty and line assignments. “But I really must insist you let me know if you get any more of these penpal letters, right?”

“No, I was going to hide them under my pillow, Harry.”

“Procedure?” Harry smiled wanly.

“Procedure.” Hermione nodded deflated.

It was early into the morning when Hermione bade the last wizard—dreadfully it happened to be Xenophilius Lovegood—many goodnights.

“Ahh . . . Hermione . . . Might you be available for a quote on the magical properties of this . . .hmm . . . soup?” He queried, peering down at her with watery blue eyes.

“I’m afraid not, Mr Lovegood.”

“Mushrooms though? My readers love a mushroom column,” he pressed, hopeful.

Hermione twitched. She was going on a mushroom ban after this. “You can make any soup inquiries of the gobliness, Mossmedow. I’m afraid I’m just here to take the trash.” Hermione beamed forcefully, prying the soggy cup from his fingers. “Have a good night now, Mr Lovegood.”

“Would you happen to have her address?” He wiped his palms across his sheep wool coat.

“I’m afraid not.” Hermione’s beam persisted. “But you have a good night now.”

“Could you speculate if they were button mushrooms? Oyster? Shiitake? Chanterelle? Chicken of the woods? Cremini? Portobello? Porcini? Wild or grown? Did they need to be picked at a special time?”

“I’ve not got the foggiest of ideas, nor any speculations on mushrooms. There are brooms or house-elves to see you home. I see you already look much better but a good night's sleep never hurt anyone!” Hermione yawned pointedly.

“It is the soup, isn’t it?” His watery eyes switched between Hermione and the house-elves cowering behind her.

“I wouldn’t care to speculate on anyone's health, Mr Lovegood. Especially not your readers. But I’m sure I’ll enjoy your column after I get a good night's sleep.”

“Yes, poor Luna, I must ply her with honey so she can sing for the Christmas choir. Poor thing’s been sneezing for hours.”

“Maybe you should go home and owl her.” Hermione’s smile began to crack.

Neville swung a heavy arm around her shoulders. “We’ve extra soup you could take home to study if you like, Mr Lovegood? I myself am taking some for my lunch tomorrow,” he offered.

“Oh! Thank you, Mr Longbottom. Could you spare some? I don’t suppose you can taste the difference? Is that a hint of Black Trumpet Mushroom?”

Neville got Mr Longbottomed and Hermione got Hermioned. She sighed at her toes—charming her shoes hot again for the twentieth time as Nevil turned Mr Lovegood back in towards the hospital. It was probably because Neville offered people more soup and Hermione couldn’t even goodnight a person after four AM.

Theo Says No . . . Sort of

"No."

Theo was not (in fact) so understanding of Hermione’s wish to use the Time-Turners to inspect Floo-Pow yesterday—before the Floo Powder epidemic.

“Your nose is getting fatter every time you stick it where it’s no business, Mione.” He glowered and pressed a second mug of lemon-honey-ginger tea on her abused throat.

He’d answered the door in silk briefs. His hair in a huff, his dignity on its toes having been woken by Longbottom’s roaring, flying, motorcycle and thunderous rap at the door before she could warn Neville that she had a key whilst debating how to explain why she had a key to Nott’s London flat—on her flimsy excuse that she wanted to make sure he wasn’t sneezing himself to death on the parlor floor.

“Do you know what time it is?” Nott pointed at his great, great, great, grandmother’s grandfather clock—which was striking close to five thirty in the morning. “It’s not midnight, is it?”

“I’m very happy you didn’t suffer the Floo flue, Theo.” She hugged a pop out of his back.

“Oh spare me,” Nott fussed plaintively. “I suffered a great deal. It took Tassel ages to find me convalesced on the floor.”

“And aren’t you glad I’ve insisted on thanking house-elves? You thanked her without even thinking about it, didn’t you?” Hermione smiled proudly and slung the couch throw over his shivering shoulders.

“Keep that condescending snake tongue behind thy teeth, witch. You will not be breaking and entering Floo-Pow!”

“Of course not! I’m going to knock on the front door.”

“She’s going to knock on the front door.” Theo rubbed a hand down his face.

“Then I’ll break in—if no one answers.”

“That’s my girl— I mean, you certainly will not! You aren’t using a Time-Turner after twelve!”

Hermione pouted, amused. She so rarely saw an out-of-sorts Theo. “You’re worried about Luna, aren’t you? According to Mr Lovegood, she survived and he’ll be owling her honey sticks to soothe her singing voice.”

Theo stared murderously at the ceiling.

“Why don’t you bring her some of your tea? Yours is much nicer than Malfoy’s, nothing too sour, nothing too sweet. You could nurse her back to health.”

Theo’s eyes lightened. “Malfoy made you tea?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Like he was showing me how to do it properly.”

Theo hummed to himself thoughtfully. “What did you do to deserve it?”

Hermione sniffed dismissively then brightened. “You could bring Lovegood scones! Take her to tea in one of your gardens.”

“It was just a sneezing flue.”

“Yes, I’m sure she’s fine. Probably out hunting wild mushrooms for her Father’s paper tonight. Throat too ravaged by sickness to properly cast a defensive spell.”

Theo hopped about to face her while clutching the throw tighter around his shoulders, eyes burning with outrage. “You’re trying to get rid of me. In my own flat!”

“Our flat.”

His sharp teeth worried his lower lip as he set himself to examining their Floo Powder once more. She’d agitated him into working. His experiment—paused for sleep, spanned the greater portion of the dining room table.

“When do you reckon they will come round to confiscate all our Floo Powder?” Hermione wondered aloud, trailing his over-hyper steps.

“By sunrise. We’ve put everything away the Aurors shouldn’t see, haven’t we?” He asked absently, knocking some powder into a glass vile.

“I’ll hide your tea before bed. What have you discovered?”

“Mmm, reflected moonlight, caught from a Mooncalf’s eye.”

“Didn’t you say house-elves were catching moonlight with Lovegood Halloween night?”

“I’ll hex your hair into pine needles if you involve Lovegood in this stalker business,” he warned.

“There is no stalker,” Hermione sighed. Surely sending letters didn’t equate to stalking. “And what if she involves herself? I’m sure to involve her if I have to go ask her what happened that night because you won't tell me how you snogged her in the moonlight.”

Theo swallowed.

“Oh, my, Godric. You snogged Luna Lovegood?!”

Theo blushed.

“Are you dating?”

Theo’s ears reddened. “We didn’t snog.” He cleared his throat.

“Oh? Well, something good happened.”

Theo smiled—a shy ghost of contentment. “She shooed wrackspurts out of my ears—brushed my bangs off my forehead.” He mumbled, brushing at his forehead—eyes as awed as a mooncalf.

“She . . . brushed your hair out of the way.” Hermione tried to sound encouraging.

Theo’s eyes narrowed. “She left some lipstick on my collar . . .”

“Scandalous,” Hermione grinned.

“And I’ve been wanking off to it, vigorously,” he drawled.

Hermione made a face.

“Oh, you don’t want to hear about that, do you? I’ve been closeting up with that shirt for days, just wanking and wanking and—“

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry for prying!!” Hermione shrieked covering her ears.

Theo’s eyes danced, amused. “No, she just touched me.” His hand brushed his forehead. “Do you think people can be a Patronus? If I could cast one, it would probably be her.”

Hermione’s breath caught a little. It sounded so silly, a Patronus Luna scampering off to deliver messages. But she understood the desire. If she could choose to see someone’s face again . . .

Hermione cleared her throat, rolling a vile of moonlight between her fingers, “I think you should let me take over plan Lovegood, Theo.”

“What?” He balked.

“You clearly aren’t even making a wank bank of memories.”

“A wank bank! Merlin’s tits, what have I created?” Theo dragged his hands down his face.

“I was thinking—”

“Reflected moonlight.” Theo interrupted, turning to his experiments. “If I had to speculate—was used to tie thanking house-elves into the cure. Perhaps I should accompany you to Floo-Pow. I’d like to have a little chat with their house-elves.”

“I’m not helping you murder house-elves for making Luna sneeze, Theo.” Hermione crossed her arms.

Theo snorted, extracting a thin beam of moonlight into a glass ball. Twelve other orbs glowed softly with captured light just from their bag of powder alone.

“I only want to ask a few questions.” He lifted an orb. “Do you think I should make this a Christmas ornament for Luna?”

“That would be pretty. What else got mixed in? It can’t just be reflected moonlight and sneezewort.”

“Elf-magic.” Theo raked his fingers through his hair. “Bedtime. No time travel tonight.”

“Fine.” Hermione worried her lip. The house-elves would have no defense this time once the Aurors detected elf-magic.

“Goodnight.” Theo kissed her forehead. “I’ll clean up in the morning.” He waved at the messy dining room table, collected up his moonlight samples, and disappeared into his room. His voice drifted back down the hall. “If you’re going to break the rules, at least plan someplace to sleep.”

Hermione blinked after him. Too many people saw her at the Hospital, all night, taking their trash—including Ginny and Harry . . . where was her future self sleeping now?

An Illegal Book Collection

Hermione should have passed out as soon as her head touched her silk pillowcase. Instead, she blinked into the dark.

Her neck tingled as she remembered all the little touches and murmurs she’d been trying not to think about all evening. Malfoy’s lips in her hair, at her ear. Breath on her neck. The grip of his hand, his fingers curling, squeezing her thighs. The grip he had on the back of her neck. Brushing back her hair. The comfort of burying herself into his chest. It had been comfort then. It was fire now. A blush in the dark. She’d practically clawed at his shirt.

She knew what biting Draco Malfoy’s shirt tasted like—and he hadn’t stopped her. Hadn’t dropped her on the floor. Hadn’t let her feet touch the ground. He’d carried her around like a . . . like a princess or something.

All that comfort became a heat between her thighs that mortified and thrilled.

She pulled one of his handkerchiefs from her coat pocket thrown over the foot of her bed. Clean, cream silk with green monogrammed initials. She fell back across the covers. The smell of spring rain. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips. The silk of her pajamas too smooth across her skin.

She swallowed.

An odd dichotomy of images jumbled through her mind. Draco, rough and taunting, grinding into her hips—but that wasn’t all he was. His breath on her ear murmured with heady devotion. She could picture him too easily on his knees leaning over her.

No. No!

She would not be doing anything at all with these memories.

She lay, stiff as a dry board waiting to catch fire, trying to conjure up a different set of hands. A different mouth. Definitely not Ron’s. That had to be worse than even Malfoy.

Deft pale hands and gleaming silver eyes. A tortured groan escaped her clenched teeth. She barely needed to touch herself. The sound of Malfoy’s voice in her memory was enough. Just a little friction and . . .

A rattle under her bed.

Had she almost . . . Godric.

There was one defense against these insidious Malfoy memories that could save her from self-loathing come sunrise.

Yanking up the bedframe’s skirt, Hermione dragged out her illegal book collection.

“At least Malfoy doesn’t know about you.” She grinned at the idea of Malfoy’s reaction to her book chest.

She’d like to hear what he had to say—remembered the hiss of his scorn. Scorn that didn’t sting like it should when he was worried for her. Worried by her.

You don’t even know who gave you that book, and you’re going to go home and hide it under your bed, aren’t you?

Don’t worry, Granger, I doubt you’d be able to come outside of a library!

Hermione did not cackle as she glanced around her bedroom walls. Perfectly legal books lined every square inch of wall space that wasn’t window or door—more were stacked on the floor . . . she had more than 1,000 books crammed in this room alone.

“Oh, Malfoy. You have no idea how right you are.”

She’d kept the French rune book in her other apartment because it wouldn’t play nice with this collection—volumes she had . . . borrowed . . . from various Death-Eater libraries that Harry and Ron raided and poorly stored in the Auror’s inventory (and which they had asked her to catalog back when she and Ron were still dating.)

Most of her illegal collection had both magical and physical chains keeping them closed. Hermione kept them quite comfortable in a big wooden chest with silk padding. But some nights the books got restless—rattling their chains. Each one had caught Hermione’s eye because they had seemed relevant to magical creature’s rights. Books about dark magic. Blood magic. The collection of poached ingredients from magical beings—including witches and wizards.

Hermione fished this book out now, cast the safety wards necessary to keep the book from getting a nip of her blood to oil its leather—hopefully not human—skin, and hunted for anything speculating the use of moonlight from a mooncalf’s eye. Yes, a little research before bed. Just the distraction she needed to keep from hating herself the next time she crossed Malfoy’s path.

The Magical Properties of Mooncalf Eyes. Not exactly what she wanted. She flipped to moonlight as an ingredient. Moonlight: Cold Moon, Beaver Moon, Black, Blood, Blue, Buck, First Quarter Moon, Flower, Full, Harvest, Hunter’s, Pink, Snow, Sturgeon, Supermoon, Waning Crescent, and there it was, Waning Gibbous. It had been a Waning Gibbous moon Halloween night. Between a full and a half moon, the waning moon is a time of release and introspection—lessons learned . . . Expressing gratitude.

It wasn’t exactly villainous sounding—until she considered the horror of sneezing herself to death. Or that the terrorist felt some form of kinship with her.

Hermione locked up the dangerous book and collected several ordinary ones from her shelves. Moonlight harvested on Halloween night could provide extra energy—though this wasn’t a full moon which only occurs every nineteen years on Halloween. The waning moon was all about restoration and reflection.

Hermione’s mind spun through the possibilities as sleep took her. Reflections in reflections, in reflections.

Morning

Hermione woke, blurry-eyed, cranky, and sexually frustrated thirty minutes to noon—but at least she didn’t hate herself morally.

Theo’s owl, Athena, brought in the morning papers as soon as Hermione took a seat at the now-cleaned dining room table. Athena’s constantly ruffled feathers looked more wild and windswept than usual—overburdened with newspapers.

A tray of fresh, still hot croissants popped into existence with a mug of thick, French coco—immediately brightening Hermione’s mood.

“Thank you Tassel!” Hermione called, though the elf herself made no appearance. Laying the papers out before her, Hermione fed Athena strips of croissant as she sipped and scoffed into her mug.

Headlines screamed up at her: Floo Powder Recall! The Floo Flue!, Contamination in the Floo!, A Shortage of Floo Powder in our Future?, The Five Best Ways to Get Around Town without a Floo! (And unsurprisingly, The Quibbler’s contribution) Marvelous Mushrooms: A Soupy Solution?

Grimly, Hermione snapped open the Daily Profit.

The Daily Profit

Floo Powder Recall! The Floo Flue!

By Rita Skeeter

“I’m leaving with or without you Theo!” Hermione yelled towards the hall. Brushing her teeth she passed his empty room. He’d already snuck out.

Rarely the last to leave, Hermione already felt herself setting out on the wrong foot as she took out her watch, waited till the clock ticked noon, and set time spinning back.